MCA HUT! Archive

It is hard to say whether our trip down the Little Indian Sioux River was a vacation or the field test from hell. As a result this year’s trip report is almost more a gear review than an account of a journey.

We always spend the first night before our trip in a bunkhouse near our entry point. This year that night was spent at Big Lake Wilderness Lodge. The Schneiders, who own the place, showed us amazing hospitality. They are refugees from IBM who have taken to the northwoods to run a family resort. Sharon was even kind enough to fix us a lovely breakfast on the morning of our put-in day.

On our first day we paddled four miles down the Little Indian Sioux. Along the way we encountered a family of otters who were less than happy to see us. They appeared to our left and right, herding us through their territory with a chorus of guttural clucking and hissing. When we reached Upper Pauness Lake, we searched for a vacant campsite. Of the four campsites on the lake, three were taken. The fourth was in a slightly swampier part of the lake. It had a big pine tree fallen across the latrine trail, but for the next two days it was home.

As the wind blew down Upper Pauness lake, I was filled with foreboding. This was our first big trip in the solo canoes and I was not confident in my ability to cope with a windy lake. I spent much of our time on Upper Pauness dreading the crossing. When the day came there were indeed waves to fight. I crossed the lake in a blind panic, but I kept the open side up, and that’s what really counts in canoeing.

Crossing the 40 rod portage into Lower Pauness lake was straightforward, and after Upper Pauness, it seemed a very vision of calm. We gathered water and then paddled to the foot of the 160 rod portage around Devil’s Cascade.

The Devil’s Cascade Portage began simply enough. I carried the wanigan and Morgan her Lowe Alpine Contour Pack. It is a grueling portage - slowly up and down and up again before descending steeply to the river. On the next carry Morgan took her canoe and I took my Lowe Alpine Contour Pack. I passed her on the trail as she had set the canoe down to rest. I waited for her at the other end of the portage trail. I was surprised when she came down the trail canoe-less. I saw that she was holding the yoke in her hand. Something didn’t look quite right about it. This was because she was holding a separate piece in each hand.

With white hot rage on her face, Morgan deposited the pieces before me. Slowly I began to comprehend what I was seeing. The walls of unbelief dissolved, and as the image on my retinas took root in my brain, I realized that one of the joints had broken on the yoke. We tried fixing it with duct tape, but didn’t trust it to survive the portages ahead. We had to rethink our itinerary. There was no way that we could do the rest of our trip as planned with Morgan’s yoke broken.

By this time we were too tired and discouraged to think well. Fortunately, there was a campsite at the top of the portage. We camped there that night and the next as we sorted out what to do next. We decided to base camp at Loon Lake rather than attempting our planned circuit through Heritage, Lynx and Shell lakes. So we paddled down from Devil’s Cascade to Loon.

Loon Lake was stunning and its name well deserved for a pair of loons did indeed live on the lake. The sky was overcast and grey much of the time, and we had a howling, growling storm that marked the change of season. Autumn colors and temperatures arrived almost immediately. The night after the storm, we were treated to a veritable concerto courtesy of the two loons. Like a pair of dueling flutes,they played counterpoint to each other and to their own echoes weaving a tapestry of sound that surpassed a Bach toccatta in majesty.

During our paddling forays from this campsite, we discovered a campsite with a sand beach and Morgan showed me the problem with my J-stroke. I had been taking too long a stroke, such that my blade was half out of the water during the corrective portion of the stroke. I was amazed at how much more influence my corrections had when I did the stroke properly.

In the evening after we landed at loon lake, we sat back and watched the weather, broke out the brownies and the twelve year old scotch. Nothing can quite describe the feeling of gazing out on a wilderness lake while sipping a smoky old scotch, clearing the palate periodically with an intense fudge brownie from the outback oven.

So often it happens that on a wilderness trip we are tried, sorely tried to the very ends of our patience, to the limits of our bodies. It is then, only when we are rump-sore, arm-sore, tired and hungry, when each stroke of the paddle seems an inexorable, sysiphian torment that the moment comes. It can be a rainbow in the heavens, or a moose stepping out to feed among the lily-pads, or a pair of loons filling the air with a wild fugue, but it is always there, the turning point. The tiredness remains, of course, but instead of intolerable fatigue, it is now quiet contentment. The little aches and pains, the minor anoyances fade in prominence. We suddenly are reminded that we are not all that important and we remember simply to be. This is the visit from the sabbath-queen, who reminds us that we are not for the world nor is the world for us. Rather we are all travelers together - us, the moose, the loons - all gathered under a single sky to share the joys and sorrows of life. It is only after we have paddled through many miles of the bitter that we are given a taste of the sweet, for only then can we truly understand it.

It was with great reluctance that we tore up stakes from our Loon Lake Campsite on Saturday, but trying to paddle out in a single day didn’t seem feasible. We paddled upriver to Devil’s Cascade. We successfully carried over, albeit not without much grunting and swearing. As we were carrying over we watched with joy as the campsite across Lower Pauness lake became vacated. We paddled across the lake and set up camp for the night. Morgan fixed a dinner of freeze-dried Beef Burgundy and mocha mousse pie. After dinner I drew more water through our clogging water filter. By this time it was taking 20min per quart.

The next day was Sunday, our take-out day. It had been a tough trip, with bad weather, equipment failures, and an injury or two. But we were sad to be leaving. As we were paddling out of Lower Pauness Lake, the sun made an attempt to best the clouds, shedding warm light for a moment on the cattails and wild rice.

Morgan paddled up the river, singing. What voyageur tune she sang I did not know. So I paddled closer to her - she was chanting "throbbing hunks of cow" to the tune of "The Farmer in the Dell." And when we had our traditional aprés trip meal at the Chocolate Moose, beef was ordered all around.

We spent our last night in Ely at the Holiday Inn Sunspree Resort, where we enjoyed the luxury of an in-room whirlpool and a king-size bed. Monday morning dawned bright and clear and beautiful. We had a full breakfast at Northern Grounds and visited Music Outfitters, a truly interesting music shop in Ely before taking a leisurely drive down 169 through Grand Rapids and home.