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Going Solo through Quetico

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Rating: 4.00 (1 vote)


Story:
Early every March, as the grimy Chicago snow begins to show signs of melting, my brother's e-mails start to arrive. The message is always the same; this year we paddle fast and portage light. He's referring to our annual week-long kayaking, camping and fishing trip through Ontario's, Quetico Park.

We've been doing our brotherly bonding trip since my divorce 15 years ago and it's turned into our favorite time of year. This year however, his e-mail took on an apologetic tone as he explained that his post surgery rehab on a baseball worn shoulder wasn't going well and he wouldn't be able to go. I e-mailed my bad news to Kim McCluskey, a good friend who runs World Wide Paddling Adventures out of Ely, MN and his immediate reaction was, "do a solo trip, you'd love it".

So the plan was hatched and after weeks of preparation, peppered by phone calls and e-mails telling me my trip was either, cool, naïve or crazy, I pulled out of Chicago and headed north. On the drive up I shot my brother and text, "Now I enter into the wild, if I'm not back in a week please cancel my cable." He shoots me one back, "I predict you'll be talking to your lures within three days". I have a good laugh and twelve hours later as I pull into the Beaverhouse entry point parking lot it hits me, wow I'm really doing this.


I decide the best thing to do is organize my gear and apply a nice coatingof cold-water surf wax to the bottom of the kayak. I like to do this because it fills 15 years worth of scrapes and gouges that someday might become leaks and allows my old Daggar Magellan to track a little better. I start rubbing the block of wax on the bottom of my kayak when I notice a strange smell. It's a sweet smell, kind of like the perfumed bathroom spray your grandmother would leave on the lid of the toilet. I lean in closer to the kayak and the smell grows stronger. I immediately flip over the bar and there on the label are the words, raspberry scented surf wax. What the%u2026. why did I buy raspberry scented surf wax, are you kidding me? I wipe as much of the wax off as I can and decide the best thing to do now is crawl into the back of my truck and try to get some sleep. I just hope my big raspberry kayak is still there in the morning.

I wake up late but to my delight my kayak is still in one piece. I get on the water around 8am, paddling through a stiff morning breeze across Beaverhouse Lake and knock on the ranger's door. The place is being run by a nice North American Indian couple who unfortunately haven't received any of their forms, receipt tape or even a calculator yet so things take a little longer than usual. As I wait I notice a photo of some pictographs on the wall, "So are they pretty easy to find", I ask? The wife responds, "you'd think so but a lot of people get distracted and paddle right past them". She asks me for my map and helps me plot the pictographs general locations. So with the paperwork completed and a few pictograph designating ink spots on my map, the couple wishes me a good trip and I am off.


The plan today was to go hard and make my first camp at Sue Falls, a good 9 hours of paddling and two short portages to the northeast. I'm making good time as I finish the second portage around noon and decide to skip lunch, opting instead to hit a short crossing and make my turn to the northeast. Then it hits me, a strong headwind that has Cirrus Lake white-capping. With Cirrus being a long straight lake my full attention will be on leaning into my stroke and driving through this wind. So much for the pictographs, I'll have to catch the ones on Quetico Lake in a few days.

The waves are crashing over the bow and my adrenaline is flowing as the icy spray slaps me across the face. I ease into a nice paddling rhythm but after four hours it's obvious I'm no match for this stiff headwind. What's worse is that my decision to skip lunch is coming back to haunt me. I'm starting to fatigue and even munching on chocolate covered espresso beans isn't alleviating the drained feeling that's starting to set in.

Just then the shoreline curls to expose a beautiful open campsite with a gradually sloping shoreline that's protected from the wind. I'm still a good 2-3 hours from Sue Falls and with the barometer dropping like my 401K it's only a matter of time before the skies open up. The evenings are still in the upper 30's and I'd really like to keep my gear dry as long as possible. I decide I'll take this camp tonight, get up early and still be at Sue Falls with a full day to fish and check out the falls. I finish setting up camp and if on cue the rain begins to fall.


Early the next morning I wake myself out of a nightmare screaming at some wolf-bear-weasel hybrid dream animal attacking my tent. I quickly sit up momentarily stuck between my dream and the waking world and wait to see how this drama unfolds. Luckily the great wolf-bear-weasel dissolves back into my dream as I notice it's still raining and the idea of making Sue Falls today also begins to dissolve.

The rain has been falling for almost 24 hours. I've read, slept, read, slept and read some more. It's a strange sensation having more time than you need and none of the chaos that usually fills your day. My life typically involves meetings that run over, e-mails that needed to be answered yesterday and to-do lists that are more to than do. So with this palethera of time and silence I find my minds a buzz with thoughts of "what-if" scenarios. What if, I tip over in the middle of a 38 degree lake? What if I slip and badly twist an ankle on a portage? I really have to focus on calming the noise and not obsessing over the what-ifs. I decide to repeat the only Emerson line I know, "With the past, I have nothing to do; nor with the future. I live now."

I notice the barometer is on the rise and the rain is letting up; all good signs if I ever plan to get back on schedule. I decide to try and get a fire started using the homemade tinder I've brought along. I came up with my dryer lint fire starting idea after seeing a tip in Backpacker Magazine where someone had taken a cupcake liner, saw dust and wax to create a fire starter. I thought this was a great idea but I didn't have access to any sawdust. Then one night as I was doing laundry, I noticed all the dryer lint building up in the catch. I dug through the cupboard and found some old coffee filters and then grabbed a candle my mother had given me as a gift. Some mothers' bake, mine gives you a scented candle every time I visit, so while I'd prefer my fire starters didn't smell like cinnamon, it'll have to do. I place my fire starter in the center of some tree bark and twigs and within 20 minutes I have a blaze and my spirits are on the rise.

The next day I pull into Sue Falls and can hear the rumbling of the falls that's obscured by the shoreline. I turn into a small stream that leads to the falls and there perched in an overhanging tree is a beautiful adolescent Bald Eagle. I actually count six Eagles near the falls, an obvious sign the fishing must be pretty good. I jump out and grab a few photos and then paddle across the lake to my first portage.


The portage between Sue Falls and Kasakokwag Lake isn't making itself as obvious as I would like. I mistakenly hike down an animal trail but realize it's not the portage as it ends on the largest beaver project I've ever seen. I'm standing on a ten-foot wall of earth and logs that arches a good 50 yards creating a large spring fed pond. I survey the scale of their project and admire what they've accomplished before getting back to finding this portage.


The portage is a kilometer long and full of smooth slick rocks, exposed roots and flooded low areas, thanks to the beaver's handywork. Surprisingly the kayak isn't as difficult to manage as suspected but I take a few breaks and switch shoulders just to be safe. The trip back for my gear reveals a fresh pile of bear scat in the middle of the portage. Was this here on my first trip or did I just miss a Bear? Either way I better start making more noise. I decide I'll sing a song I'd been playing on the drive up called Fur by, Blitzen Trapper, the song is about a boy who heads into the woods and becomes a wolf. The last verse says, "I was drawn into the pack and before long, they allowed me to join in and sing their song." As I end my first portage, I sit at the waters edge and look out onto Kasakokwog Lake. I suddenly realize that along with my gear a little bit of doubt and worry has begun to fall from my shoulders and I let out big howl that echoes out over the lake.

As I make my way across Kasakokwog, the gold glow of the sun breaks the overcast and the wind suddenly subsides. I stop paddling and notice, or rather hear nothing. There is absolutely no sound at this moment. There is no wind rustling through the trees or waves lapping the side of my kayak. There are no birds singing or slapping beaver tails. The sounds of the north woods have stopped as if to pause and soak in the warm golden glow of the springtime sun. Something tells me this is a special moment so I stop paddling, lean back and do nothing but be part of it.

As I finish setting up camp, I get the sudden urge to see if the local fish are taking advantage of the warm surface water and more importantly might be interested in my crankbait. The excitement of that first springtime cast is only countered by the knowledge that there are no guarantees when fishing. I paddle out and decide I'll focus on Walleye tomorrow morning, this evening I'm looking for a fight and head into some promising bays where I suspect an aggressive Northern or Small Mouth is waiting for me.

I think it was my second or third cast when wham, the line goes tight and something takes my lure straight down. I think Northern but to my amazement what surfaces is a big Smalley, probably close to 4 lbs and he doesn't go without a fight. Call it Karma or just good luck but my long day of portaging is now being rewarded by a dinner of Small Mouth to kick the fishing portion of this trip off in style.



After a productive outing I paddle back and catch some late afternoon sun on the rocks. To my delight the bugs haven't hatched yet and the cold rain and wind of the first night seems a distant memory. For dinner I enjoy my Smalley along with some pasta and dessert of vanilla pudding and granola. I sit around the campfire and in the distance I hear what sounds like the faint whine of a loon but as I listen closer it becomes the deeper richer howl of a lone wolf. I'm not quite sure how you could end a more perfect day than with a sky full of stars, a crackling fire, a belly full of fish and being serenaded by a distant wolf calling to the pack.

The next morning I set out fishing and decide to focus on trolling the base of Alpine Creek for spawning Walleye. Hopefully this time a year they should be stacked up in the warmer water. As I set up my Whistling Jighead with an action tail grub, memories of sitting in my ex-father-in-laws John-boat trolling the shoreline of their cottage lake start to resurface. My ex-father-in-law is a great guy but he would troll from 7am until 5pm and if it wasn't for the occasional Walleye I may have taken up golf. I stick with my plan working close to the bottom, jigging nice and slow while methodically working my way through a bag of sunflower seeds when I feel it, that steady pressure on the line that could be what I'm after. You always know when you have a Northern as they hit fast and hard but a Walleye isn't going to do you the favor and you have to pay closer attention. The words of my ex-father-in-law come back to me, "the rod is an extension of your arm, if you feel the pressure, set the hook". I think, maybe those long hours in the John-boat were worth it after all as I real in a nice 4 lb Walleye.

The next day as the afternoon shadows start to grow long, I notice those high thin clouds that can mean rain in the forecast. At dinner I pick up the weather report out of Duluth and it's not good. Thunderstorms and strong winds will be moving in over the next couple of days. So do I paddle out ahead of schedule to avoid being trapped by severe weather or do I chance it and stick to the schedule? I decide I'll make my call on the paddle towards Beaverhouse tomorrow and to my surprise, I sleep like a baby.

The following morning the sky is a beautiful burnt orange and gold and the sun seems intent on warming away the last remnants of crisp winter air. Likewise, the water, for now, reflects a mirror image of Lake Quetico's shoreline but the orange morning sky is telling me things could change. For now however my focus is on locating the pictographs that eluded me on the paddle in.

The pictographs should be to the southwest of me and I stare at every iron stained rock in anticipation. Suddenly, I see a bright red-orange image on a rock wall about five ft. off the water just 50 yards ahead of me. As I approach it's obvious this is a pictograph. The drawing is a vibrant collage of moose and people possibly representing a hunting party. I can't get over how bright the colors have remained, considering they're roughly 500 years old. To put this in perspective, these drawing were done around the same time Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel. I can't help but be in awe of these simple yet powerful images. Here in the middle of Quetico, undisturbed in their original form are some of the first aboriginal drawings ever made in North America. In a lot of ways that's more impressive than the Sistine Chapel.


I continue southwest pleasantly surprised by the developing wind I feel to my back and make my way around Eden Island. Faintly, I hear the steadily growing buzz of a floatplane that suddenly emerges over the tree line. I watch as it flies overhead, disappearing to the north only to reemerge a few minutes later coming back my direction. I suspect the pilot must be giving the passengers a photo op as a solo kayaker isn't likely an every day sight. I can image the contrast of my red and yellow kayak on the royal blue water must make quite the postcard image from that perspective. The plane tilts its wings and continues its flight to the northeast. It dawns on me that this is my first interaction with anyone in a week.


I make my way into Beaverhouse Lake accompanied by a steadily growing sense of accomplishment that quickly disappears when I see the two to three ft. swells developing in front of me. The weather seems to be reminding me that while I only have a couple of more hours left on the water, I'd better pay attention to the task at hand. I begin paddling at an angle to the growing waves that have my kayak almost airborne before crashing down into the trough of the wave. The waves seem to be coming from multiple angles now and a few timely braces keep me upright before I find a little relief on the backside of a peninsula.

I notice a small, motorized boat approaching with two park rangers. They pull up to warn me about the weather and then ask if I've seen any other paddlers today. I tell them I've made my way from McAlpine Creek and haven't seen anyone for a week. They ask, "so did you have good solo paddle?" I smiled and told them it was more than I expected in a lot of ways. They smile and say, "yeah we've heard that before."

While I definitely missed having my brother along, paddling solo for a week gave me an experience I could only have had on my own. With the chaos of modern life replaced by purpose and calmness, I began to see a change. Self-doubt was replaced by self-reliance; obliviousness was transformed into focus and stress became calmness. Ultimately, I got back a little of the person I should have been all along. Maybe the wolf I heard on Quetico Lake wasn't calling to the pack after all but to a solo paddler with an invitation to
return.



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