A travel article I wrote (that didn't appear online)
I sat on a huge white rock that sloped down towards the lapping blue
water. So far, so good. But then I lifted my gaze to the land across
the lake, where a 34-mile wildfire had burned itself out only two weeks
before.
Instead of the crowded green hues of Superior National Forest, I saw
burnt-orange desolation. Huge chunks of earth were lifted out of the
ground, revealing the complex root systems of charred trees that had
crashed down. The perfume of pines was replaced by the smell of one
tremendous campfire.
This was not the Boundary Waters I knew and loved.
News of the Cavity Lake fire, set off by lightning on July 14, never
trickled down to my friends and me. As the fire raged, we sat
blissfully unaware in a stifling Rogers Park apartment and planned our
three-day canoe trip into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA).
However, despite the surprise challenge of two days camping and
canoeing in a fire zone, the Boundary Waters charmed me once more on
this, my third, visit.
The BWCA is a one-million acre wilderness preserve that stretches
between Ontario and northern Minnesota. Each year thousands of campers
canoe along 1,200 miles of water trails, portaging their canoes and
packs across land bridges that connect hundreds of lakes and rivers.
Yet despite its many visitors, the BWCA looks much as it did when the
French Voyageurs paddled their fur-heaped canoes through the waterways.
These days, primitive campsites feature a firepit, grate and pit
latrine shielded only by trees. Hikers must pack out everything they
pack in to keep the land untouched. The water is clear, the fishing
plentiful and the forests teem with life.
One trip five years ago, I slipped away from my group and took a canoe
out alone in the magical, still moments just after sunset. As my oars
flashed through a lake of glowing glass, beavers splashed on either
side of me and a loon called eerily.
On Aug. 16, the six of us drove 12 hours to the northeastern tip of
Minnesota and arrived at sunset in Grand Marais, a charming town built
along Lake Superior. After a quick dinner at the unabashedly kitschy
Sven and Ole’s pizzeria (one offering, “Da Vild Vun,” comes topped with
wild rice), we drove up the Gunflint Trail until we were just a lake
away from Canada. There we draped our sleeping bags over a rented cabin
floor and enjoyed the convenience of indoor plumbing for one more
night.
The next morning we pulled our canoes into Saganaga Lake and were off.
Only we weren’t. Not with a bolt of speed, anyway. One of the pleasures
of a canoe trip is that you are forced to slow down to the steady,
splashing pace of paddling. Conversation among our lively bunch of
young adults also slowed down as we consulted our map and entered the
wilderness.
Our first turn was a wrong turn (compass and map skills are a must in
the BWCA) but it was a serendipitous mistake, because we spotted a bald
eagle flying low towards a nearby island, shrieking. We quietly pulled
up alongside the island to see three adult bald eagles and one
youngster perched among the trees and rocks.
After lunch on an obliging island, we catapulted into the water for
swimming. Our afternoon paddle was a hard pull against a strong
headwind, so we were happy that evening to pitch our tents and enjoy
our campfire.
Since we only had three days, the group chose an easy route that took
us through four lakes with just two portages. I discovered with
pleasure the lightness of kevlar compared to aluminum when I hoisted a
canoe and carried it myself up and down a hill.
It was on the second day out that we entered the fire zone, a dramatic
contrast to the healthy forest a few steps behind us on the portage
path. The fire had been fueled by miles of dead trees that were felled
in a massive 1999 windstorm and, despite years of prescribed burning to
reduce fire risk near the Gunflint Trail, July’s Cavity Lake fire was
the “big one” that forestry officials had been dreading for seven
years.
After an hour of canoeing through a stark landscape, we found a
campsite that was still mostly green. Yet as I sat on a rock
overlooking miles of devastation, my attempts at optimistic thoughts
of, “This is how the forest regenerates,” and “We need fire to create
new life,” were drowned in sadness. I couldn’t help comparing the scene
around me to J.R.R. Tolkien’s bleak landscape of Mordor.
But then I began to notice the spring-green shoots of aspen, birch,
ferns and grass that were already coming up out of the ashes. I saw,
for the first time, the spectacular white stones anchoring the points
and islands. The rocks, like the lakes, are reminders of the glaciers
that carved out the BWCA so long ago.
Camping in a burn zone was a forceful reminder that nature is its own
force and does not exist solely for human entertainment.
It was on our final evening that a pile of the big white stones
provided a majestic perch for viewing the unspoiled night sky. We
spread out across the rocks watching first the bright blaze of
thousands of stars and then, in wonder, the Aurora Borealis.
It was my first time seeing the Northern Lights and I was enraptured by
the hours-long display of quivering, changing, blue and pink lights
that spread out first in vertical stripes and then in a horizontal
plain over the horizon. Three of my friends spent the night on the rock
in their sleeping bags but, wary of mosquitos, I chose the tent.
(Unlike my previous trips, however, the bugs were barely noticeable on
this visit, possibly because of the fire).
Sunday morning we were up before dawn for a quick breakfast and to
break camp. Two hours of paddling later, we’d left the burn zone behind
and reached our exit point. After one last swim we were back in the car
for another excruciatingly long drive. We were tired, dirty, a little
sore and absolutely content.
And we’re already talking about next year.
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