Paddling Minnesota

34

Chapter 1

I drove back to the lake, bouncing over the rocks and ruts for several miles, slowly driving up and down the hills and through the mud puddles, or what might pass for ponds elsewhere in the United States. It was a very windy morning. Probably no one in his right mind would be attempting to take his kayak out fishing.

I got to the lake, unloaded, and pushed off into the water. At least the big island sheltered me from the wind a bit. I took a few casts and decided to keep paddling, fighting the waves instead, enjoying the battle against the white caps and denying the gods from keeping me windbound for the day. I reached the portage to the next lake and took it, glancing at all the mushrooms that had recently sprouted.

The lake had three islands—a large one with huge birch and pine trees, but also choked with brush and a gigantic mound of rusty tin cans, a small one supporting trees that seemed too large for it, and a long skinny one, just right.

First, after taking a few casts and blowing far off course, I got on the long skinny island and went for a walk, after working my way through the clinging spruce and balsam branches at the low end. The combination of wind and the sharp rocks that lined the island were not the greatest for my kayak, but I was not worried about sinking. Skipping out on walking the island would be worse in the long run than a few new scratches on the hull. What were a few additional nicks to the hundreds or thousands already there which I’d never bothered counting?

The wind turned out to be working in my favor because as I walked along the ridge of the island, I heard a splash in the lake to my right. When I looked up, I saw the backside of an eagle perched in a white pine snag. As I stared up at the eagle, seemingly oblivious to my presence, I realized what the splash had been: the eagle had relieved itself—taken a poop, as it were—and there I was, intently observing . . . the type of breach of privacy most doctors would not even consider. Oh, well, I was a bona fide naturalist after all, technically a professional, part-time anyway. The eagle finished its business, and I continued to watch it. Apparently it was still unaware I was only about thirty-five feet away, under and behind it. It was strange to be seeing the backside of a perched eagle, a sight usually only seen when they are alongside the road, feasting on deer carcasses, partying hard with the ravens, although in that situation they usually fly away immediately, scattering to avoid embarrassment. Surely they don’t think the humongous gleaming beasts mean them any harm as they zoom by.

As I sat watching the eagle I thought more deeply, but not too deeply, about seeing them along the road. Was it a metaphor for contemporary life in the United States—our national symbol sitting alongside the pothole-riddled highways, gorging themselves on roadkill? And then I thought a bit further back in our nation’s history to when the bald eagle was chosen as a symbol of the nation. If Benjamin Franklin had gotten his way and the wild turkey had become our national symbol, the metaphor would be of a giant bird puffing up its chest and pecking at anything shiny it came across. Hmmm . . . Anyway, weren’t there more important things I could be doing with my time? I guess not.

I continued to watch the eagle as it looked out over the lake for fish and preened itself in the wind. After about fifteen minutes, the eagle slightly turned its head, opened its beak and seemed to let out a loud sneeze. I had never heard of birds sneezing before, and I would think that I would remember something like that if I had, but I don’t know what else the sound and motions would have been. It had scrunched its shoulders up and it even seemed to have the slightly bewildered look afterward that humans get just before someone says Bless you, or "Gesundheit." The eagle finally turned its head almost completely around and noticed me, or at least acknowledged my presence. The eagle stared straight at me, likely wondering to itself, hmmm, how long has this creature been watching me? Did I do anything I should be embarrassed about? I said, Hello, and it turned away once more, thinking about its next move. Should it attack, berate me . . . what? After a pause, it turned back to me again, stared, turned away, did a little shuffle, and flew off over the water.

Drizzle was added to my morning as I paddled over to island number two, the big brushy one, and climbed along a huge red pine that had recently fallen. Hopping back into the kayak, I took a few more casts as I paddled back to the portage. I stopped to look again at the new mushrooms and hiked up through a stand of red pine to stretch my legs and give my arms time to rest. When I got back to the first lake, the wind had died down a bit. I portaged across to an unnamed, unmapped lake and cut through a beaver channel to a fourth lake.

This lake had not only a big island, but several smaller islands as well, putting the total at six. I stopped and explored the big island and found a full beaver skeleton as well as a deer ribcage. There had at one time been several buildings on the island. Old concrete footings and foundations remained, along with a rock wall, decrepit stoves and a plethora of rusty barrels, cans, and the like.

It rained hard on the way back to the first lake, but suddenly stopped, and the sun came out when I got there. Of course, my luck could not last, and as I was strapping my kayak to the roof of my vehicle, the wind kept blowing it over the side. It now was behaving more like a kite than watercraft. With some coaxing and soothing talk, I managed to get a strap started and slowly finagled the kayak into place long enough to secure it.

As typically happens, though, I found something else to catch my interest and delay my return. This time the distraction was a narrow trail winding its way through dense tag alder and willows. Coincidentally, the trail ended at an old tree stand, the same spot where a nail from said tree stand came through my boot and found my big toe—luckily my reflexes took hold, and I grabbed onto a nearby tree for support and managed to arrest my step. I pulled the board off my boot and carefully kicked around in the deep grass to be sure I did not have any more traps to fall into. A quick inspection of my foot showed minimal damage.

I looked up the rotting ladder of the tree stand and noticed marks from where a bear had clawed its way up to the top to retrieve whatever had been left behind by the hunter who had built it—or maybe just out of sheer curiosity. After all, a bear can climb a tree and hang out there for hours just fine and seemingly with minimal discomfort. Why would any creature need to build a ladder? Sheer laziness? I climbed to the top of the stand to admire the scratches, and the thought occurred that it was likely the bear had knocked down the nail-spiked two-by-four. With that in mind, I wondered if the bears had perhaps taken a few lessons from the wacky humans who came out to their home and had begun setting traps. I wondered if the bear had been watching me and chuckling to itself as my foot found the trap it had set.

Chapter 2

Paddling out from the riverbank in the early morning light—a pale light shining through the clouds in early June—heavy dew lay on the grass. The birds chirped eagerly, greeting the morning. I was back in the stream, one with it, paddling sometimes faster, sometimes with it, but I was in it.

The clouds would cover the blue of the sky for the first few hours of my trip.

The river was known to me, and I intended to paddle for most of the day, stopping for a shore lunch and maybe a few short hikes up the choked creeks that emptied into the slow flowing, clear waters of the river. The light green water weeds waved in the current, fluttering over the broken clamshells left behind by the otters.

I was floating north toward Hudson’s Bay through the northern boreal forest. Here along the river I was surrounded by spruce, balsam, maple, and oak.

It was a cool, wet morning. I would find a secluded place to set up camp along the river that night and would cook a humongous pot of spaghetti before laying back and, with any luck, looking up into a sky filled with the Milky Way and the brilliant constellations.

A young kid in a kayak passed by as I was lighting a small fire for my lunch. I shouted out hello, and he turned around and paddled back upstream to the landing where my kayak was parked.

That’s a nice looking fire.

Yup.

You mind if I throw a couple filets on there?

Go for it.

Some’s yours if you want ’em.

The sun had come out, and the day was warming up. The flies were coming out.

The kid pulled a frying pan and a mid-sized cooler out from behind the seat of his kayak and produced four huge filets as well as a bag of breading mix.

Pike?

Yeah, just caught them a few hours ago, down by that old bridge.

Looks good. They must have fought like hell.

They did.

He cooked the filets and brought out fresh hard rolls to put them on, good to let the small bones go down the throat a bit easier.

Random encounters were not frequent on the routes I took, but when I ran into someone out where I was, they were typically very friendly and seemed mostly carefree. There may have been a bit of grumbling about the bugs, weather, fishing or gear dumped overboard, but it was not overly bitter. Mostly it was self-deprecating, understated Northwoods wit—the sort of sparse conversation and weather talk that bonds people together. There were a few kindred spirits wandering around out there, somewhere. I knew I would find them eventually.

I told the kid I would catch up with him later as he took off, and I sipped at my coffee. He would be fishing, and I would surely pass him at some point before I stopped for the night. It was great to meet a fellow traveler.

When I stopped for the night, I began to make my spaghetti. I boiled river water in my pot over the hot coals of a balsam stump and some of its pitchy neighbors from nearby.

I drained the water using the cover, and I was usually good at getting most of it out. Sometimes I ended up with soup at the bottom, but when that happened I just put some soy sauce in and put the pot back over the fire so the water would cook off. Then I would have a soggy lo-mein-like dish after my olive oil plate of spaghetti.

This night I had some parmesan cheese along. I was eating gourmet, but sometimes while camping I ate moldy bread and dirt for supper.