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Zen and the Art of Portage-Hunting: A Boundary Waters newbie savors the simple joys of mosquitoes, moose and sweat
The first portage of the trip (my first portage ever) started out well enough. There was a nice sloped beach to unload the packs onto and an easy trail to hike. It all seemed quite civilized. Would it really be this easy?
At the end of the path, we found murky water filled with fat, squirming leeches and a beaver dam that created quite an obstacle for the canoe. Okay, it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Hailing from an “outdoorsy” family, I had done my share of outdoor adventuring. But I was a recent Minnesota transplant and there was one Minnesota outdoor rite-of-passage I had never undertaken: paddling in the Boundary Waters. My boyfriend and paddling partner, Nathanael, is a Boundary Waters veteran, so I left the planning for my first trip up to him. He chose a simple loop that we would cover in a week.
Despite the dam (and the damn leeches), the first day had its rewards. We settled on an island campsite lush with ferns and examined moose and turtle tracks along the sandy beach. The next morning, we paddled into mist so thick and close it was hard to see the far end of the canoe.
The landing at the next portage consisted of knee-deep, very smelly mud. After gingerly skirting the worst sections, I accepted Nathanael’s assurances that every portage would not be this miserable. Things looked up as we completed the sweaty final rod of the 32-rod portage and reached the clear waters of Moose Lake. Time for a swim.
We continued this way for seven days, setting up camp in late afternoon and occupying ourselves into the evening with tea, books, and binoculars. The lowest moment came as we paddled along the buggy banks of a marshy little lake, searching for a portage.
“It looks like there might be an opening in the brush over there,” Nathanael said, pointing toward shore.
We paddled closer. Then I learned that, as the person in the bow of the canoe, I was the designated investigator of possible portage entries.
After bushwhacking through prickly raspberry bushes and scrambling over deadfall, I found nothing.
“According to the map, it should be right there.” But it wasn’t.
We repeated this scene half a dozen times. The sinking feeling in my stomach increased with each failed exploration. I knew we wouldn’t be lost forever, but the idea of spending the night on that mosquito-swarmed shore was dreadful.
Finally, we rummaged in our packs to find our other map, which showed the portage in its actual location. As we paddled toward the end of the lake, I could only sigh with relief. The mosquitoes would have to seek a different food source that night.
At dawn, on the last morning of the trip, a moose crashed past our island campsite. We watched it push through the brush, traverse the rocky beach and then swim for the opposite shore. As I peered at its huge, lumbering form through the netting of the tent, I had to smile. It was portaging just like us, moving from land to water and water to land. Headed, perhaps, for home.
