1999
Eight Days In the Life of an Itinerant Oars-Woman
by Jessamine Steinworth
I glanced out the window to view an expanse of fog blanketing the hills near my home, and a quick look at the clock revealed the time as just after 5:30 am. Giddy as a child on Christmas morning, I quickly prepared for one of two upcoming trips to the Boundary Waters and staggered into my tiny red car, anxious for the adventure to begin.
Reminiscent of the days when we would awaken at sunrise to row on the tranquil waters of the River Cam, my friend Emily and I began our four-day journey which, like our time studying in England together, would provide memories to last a lifetime.
Emily and I traveled north along Interstate 35, stopping for hot coffee and gooey doughnuts at Tobies, and proceeded to the ranger station in Tofte. After reviewing the rules and regulations of the Boundary Waters, we made our way to CoHo Café, where we feasted upon gourmet pizza and began our last stretch of the drive.
Just when I thought I would not withstand another mile along the twisting gravel roads of the Sawbill Trail, we came upon our entry point, and quickly untied the canoe from atop the tiny red car. After some quick "before" pictures, we began paddling along Hog Creek in excited anticipation of the journey ahead.
To no avail, I attempted to take note of the twists and turns in the creek, since in merely one week, I would be making the same voyage with my family. After paddling nearly two hours, Emily and I found ourselves winding our way out of the creek, and selected an east-facing campsite on the northern end of Perent Lake. We set up camp and enjoyed salmon and baked potatoes for dinner before picking up our books, reading a few passages, and settling in for bed, content with our day's accomplishments.
The next morning came later than the first, and after rising at 8:30, we broke camp and began our portages into Isabella Lake. Our gear was quickly returned to the proper packs, exactly as my father had instructed, and we had only the remnants of his "bear pack system" remaining in the tree. The device, a plastic popcorn container attached to a rope, was stuck on a high branch dangling well out of our reach. Emily and I, both recent college graduates, put our brainstorming skills to work, and through a process of trial and error, failed in retrieving the entire rope. One of our less successful attempts, however, provided the day's comic relief as Emily, perched atop my shoulders, hopelessly flailed a canoe paddle toward the entanglement.
After "cutting our losses," Emily and I attacked the first of eight portages with gusto. After wading back in the water, however, Emily glanced down and discovered a gigantic leech attached to her foot. Rather than travelling back 61 rods to retrieve our salt, she had me rip the leech off of her foot. Blood that wouldn't subside for over an hour began to gush from the wound, as Emily attempted to convince me that there were no leeches in her hometown of Bolivar, Missouri. Despite our first setback, we continued along the route, feeling at times as if we were in a Powerbar commercial, climbing over rocks and branches, carrying our gear to our destination for the day, a campsite near Isabella Lake.
We stopped briefly at the end of a 33-rod portage, devoured Rye Crisps with humus, then continued along, slapping and scratching ourselves as we met an increasing number of mosquitoes at each portage. Nearly six hours after we broke camp, Emily and I stumbled upon a campsite which appeared to be suitable for our needs. After debating the falling direction of a tree noticeably affected by the July 4th storm, we set up the tent and strategized about a line of defense against the billions of mosquitoes who had decided to join us on our fine adventure.
One would think that three layers of clothing and two forms of bug spray would be sufficient armor against the pesky insects; however, they had it in for the two 22-year-old girls attempting to experience the outdoors in peace.
Alas, we were forced to roast our hot-dogs while eight to ten bugs swarmed around our exposed skin (the few inches of it that remained uncovered) while the more ingenious monsters managed to penetrate our clothing. Already exhausted from our excursion, Emily and I headed for the tent just before sunset. Realizing that we were to make the same excursion back to Perent Lake in the morning, we found ourselves nearly delirious and completely incoherent. Our eyelids could barely pry themselves open as the campsite grew dark, and by 9:00, we were both asleep.
The next morning came earlier than expected, and Emily and I took turns asking for "Ten more minutes of sleep!" At 11:30, we finally forced ourselves outside of the tent, only to be confronted with our pesky enemies looming just outside. They hadn't forgotten our whereabouts, and with their encouragement, we quickly broke camp, thanking our lucky stars that this morning there was no need for Emily to perch upon my shoulders flailing a canoe paddle. The bear pack, although not exactly hanging from regulation height, came down without a hitch.
Singing a compilation of Garth Brooks ballads, cheesy British love tunes, and songs we learned throughout the summer as counselors at a camp for children with terminal illnesses, we made the voyage back to Perent Lake in less than three and a half hours. Other than a slightly sprained ankle on one of the final portages, we remained unscathed in our day's journey.
Together we mapped out not only our day's itinerary, but also a plan for the next chapter in our lives as well. Emily and I both plan on attending graduate school; she in biomedical ethics, I in law. Excited about her upcoming trip to visit her boyfriend, Tim in Australia, Emily devised a plan to convince her parents of the merit of her journey. However, under pressure from our families to devise a plan for the interim year, we discussed plans to move to Chicago and began brainstorming options for employment which would afford Emily the opportunity to visit her boyfriend Tim during his semester abroad in Australia.
Faced with a more immediate challenge, however, Emily and I sat perched on the shore of Perent Lake pondering our home for the evening. We decided that with the wind at our back, we would paddle to a campsite located at the south end of the lake. Our strategy proved sufficient until we entered the large expanse of water outside of the bay and found the wind to be whipping from every direction. Afraid of capsizing, we quickly paddled across the turbulent waters, with a force reminiscent of our experience rowing in "The Bumps", an exhilarating race at Cambridge University. After maneuvering around a peninsula, we found shelter from the waves and followed the shoreline to our destination. Delighted by the absence of bugs, we set up camp, enjoyed dinner, and took to our respective novels. A bit shaken by our experiences upon the blustery waters, we decided to wake up no later than 7:30 the next morning in order to secure calm waters for our paddle to Hog Creek. As we zipped up our sleeping bags, careful not to snag the layers of fleece insulating us from the chill of the evening, we envisioned our last day together in the Boundary Waters and reminisced about our adventures thus far.
My wristwatch alarm sounded bright and early, signaling our departure and impending paddle back to the car. A quick morning trip to the latrine revealed a thin layer of frost covering the seat, confirming my suspicions that it was colder than I had anticipated. After consulting my thermometer, I acknowledged the fact that it was less than forty degrees, although I couldn't muster up the stamina to investigate the exact temperature. After packing up our gear, we began the cold voyage through the rising fog to Hog Creek, disillusioned by our knowledge of the terrain.
Although both maps showed only one adjoining creek in the tangle of bends, our travels upstream indicated otherwise; after taking our chances with two questionable turns, we came upon a beaver dam which was entirely unfamiliar. Paranoid and convinced we had taken a wrong turn, we doubled back, only to be met by another canoe with a snarling dog perched in the bow. The couple in the other boat informed us that they had just taken a wrong turn, and that surely, the way we came must be the way back to the entry point. A bit pensive, we let them take the lead and after maneuvering over the beaver dam and then finding familiar terrain, we concluded that low water levels must have been the source of our confusion.
Upon completion of the day's only portage we arrived back at the entry point and loaded up the car. As neither of us had showered in four days, we debated the merit of stopping in any type of eating establishment, for fear of our stench. Reminiscent of times sleeping on trains and traveling for days throughout Europe without any type of personal hygiene, we decided that the staff and customers at CoHo café could manage to bear our odor as we enjoyed two glasses of cabernet sauvignon on the deck overlooking Lake Superior. Content with our journey and experiences in the Boundary Waters, we began the voyage home, and awaited the next adventure.
Although Emily flew home to Missouri just a few days later, where she was presumably leech free, my time in the Great North Woods was only half over, as my father and I found ourselves beginning the voyage anew with my younger brother and sister. Departing yet again for Hog Creek in the wee hours of the morning, my tiny car became part of a two-vehicle caravan headed to the Boundary Waters one last time before my move to Chicago.
A bit pensive about returning through the portages into Isabella Lake, I remained determined to prove to my father, more experienced in the wilderness, that his oldest daughter, who had been labeled "Uppity" by classmates since fourth grade vocabulary lessons, was capable of roughing it in the Boundary Waters. As such, when we reached our first portage on Hog Creek that day, I was eager and willing to jump in the water, despite my fear of leeches, and to carry our gear before my younger brother, also a camp counselor, was able to snatch a pack. Turning and twisting along the creek, I quickly began to miss Emily's strength, as I paddled in a canoe with my ten-year-old sister, whose well-intentioned strokes provided little force. On the other hand, my brother and father, paddling in the canoe weighed down with gear, seemed to glide along the water with minimal effort. It was with great relief that we arrived at our campsite, situated on an expansive island that would become our home-away-from home for the next four days.
After yet another dinner of salmon and baked potatoes, (cooked much more skillfully by my father, I might add), my sister and I retreated to our tent, where I remained until late morning the next day. It was agreed that we would spend the day exploring the island and relaxing at our campsite, which I found more than agreeable. In fact, I was quite content relaxing in a hammock my brother placed near the north end of the island. Finishing The Reader, a novel about a boy and his experiences growing up in Germany, I cracked open Bridget Jones' Diary, and finished the entire book by nightfall. When not immersing myself in the novel, I swam in the cool water with my sister, and went rock-jumping along the shore. Peering across the lake, I could nearly make out the portages into Lake Isabella, and I secretly hoped that we might remain on the island throughout the weekend.
Only minutes after finishing our chicken dogs, we quickly cleaned up dinner remnants in lieu of a large storm that appeared to be coming upon the campsite with significant speed. My sister and I retreated to the tent yet again, and began an extensive camp song sing-along. Spinning a flashlight, we declared a "girls-only" party and tickled each other until, exhausted, we fell blissfully asleep.
Heavy winds prevented our trip across the lake the following morning, and I was barely able to mutter a disappointed comment about having to remain on the island yet another day. Relieved and overjoyed, I made my way to a large expanse of rocks on the west side of the island, and cracked open Ellen Foster, a captivating novel that I could barely put down throughout the day. My sister, however, less enthusiastic about spending the day reading in light of the upcoming school year, prodded me to play hide-and-go-seek and explore a grassy area on the north-east corner of the island. My brother, engrossed in a British book claiming that machines would soon take over the planet, was similarly perched upon a small cliff, and joined us later in the day as we enjoyed a fresh mango while watching the wind rip across the lake.
In a manner similar to the previous night's storm, another spectacle of lightning engulfed the sky soon after dinner, and we all reluctantly retreated to our tents. After yet another tent party, my sister and I fell fast asleep, anticipating our departure from the Boundary Waters the following day.
Although I beat my brother out of bed the next morning, it was nearly 11:30 before I left the tent to find my sister creating some sort of headwear constructed out of fallen branches from the previous night's storm. Her concoction, which she donned throughout the day seemed to span several inches from her head, making her seemingly invisible from the rest of the family. (Or so she thought as we began to pack up our belongings and head back home.)
As I spent what seemed to be hours rolling up sleep-mats and sleeping bags inside of the two tents, my brother and father gathered the kitchen pack and other gear. Soon it was time to leave our weekend getaway, and at 3:00 we were finally on the water and paddling back to Hog Creek.
My brother, having the pleasure of paddling with my sister en route to the car, was quickly scolded and told to "Stop paddling so fast!" According to my sister, who was fishing from the bow of the boat, his speed was too quick for trolling, and she wasn't able to catch any fish! My brother retorted several times that it would be nice to have some assistance in paddling the canoe, but his attempts were in vain, seeing as my sister, wearing her finely-crafted hat, was in no mood to have her fishing outing spoiled by an older sibling.
With my father eagerly snapping photographs as quickly as my sister threw her line in the water, making up for missed photo opportunities throughout the weekend, we traveled up Hog Creek, which was flowing much more rapidly due to the heavy storms. The current provided a dead-giveaway for which route to take in the mysterious bends that seemed to converge without warning, and I felt silly for having been so easily misguided the previous weekend.
After returning to the cars and stowing the gear inside, we set off for the Twin Cities, with thoughts of soft beds and a good night's sleep racing through our minds. Although we didn't opt for glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon at CoHo Cafe, Perkins sufficed to fill our stomachs for the long drive home. As my sister dozed peacefully in the passenger seat, I reminisced about my excursions in the Boundary Waters, my upcoming move to Chicago, and plans to return for yet another adventure in the Great North Woods.
