An Old Man Canoes the Quetico

 

An Old Man Canoes the Quetico
by Dave Wright

Canoeing in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, or in this case, its Canadian counterpart, Quetico Provincial Park, has been one of my favorite activities of my life. I recently celebrated my seventy-second birthday, and I wondered, Can I still do this? Am I physically capable of enjoying the trip? Can I compensate for my age with extra preparation? I was eager to find out.

I took my first canoe trip as an eighth grader out of Camp Widgiwagon through the YMCA. I was a shrimpy eighty-pounder and had a hard time keeping up. I learned that it’s okay to apologize, but persistent self-deprecation soon becomes aggravating. The trip was marked by rain, smelly canvass tents, food shortage, and a cranky guide and counselor. The last night of the trip, the four of us boys pitched our tent in a grassy swale—no roots or rocks to bite our backs for a change. About midnight it started to pour. We piled our sleeping bags next to one wall of the tent and huddled together to watch “a river runs through it.”

Surprisingly, the trip improved over time. I couldn’t wait to go back.

I toughened up by the time I took my next trip the summer after my senior year of high school. Bob Cary outfitted the seven of us, all high school buddies, with canoes, packs, and dehydrated entrees featuring gas producing texturized vegetable protein. Again, we were constantly hungry. I was tasked with dividing the rations into seven equal parts, and I got the last piece…

Since then, I’ve taken many canoe trips: college excursions over Memorial Day weekends; others the week before classes began; family trips from the time our youngest was four until the boys were young adults; two trips to the Quetico; a two-week “solo-duo” trip in 2014 with just my wife and me; and several more with a couple about our same age. My last canoe trip was in 2018.

Can I still do it? Is the magic of canoe country still there?

I was invited to join three buddies who take an annual trip to Quetico Provincial Park: Dan Pearson, Dale Bossen and his son Rob. Rob was the youngest, the fittest, and the only one who is gainfully employed. My wife, Sue and I had been with the same crew on a similar trip in the past, but that was fourteen years ago. It’s an ambitious, twenty-mile paddle across Beaver House Lake, through Quetico Lake, and into the east end of Lake Jean—famous for its beautiful campsite and spectacular fishing.

This old man better get into shape!

Practicing large animal veterinary medicine was a daily workout. Palpating cows, pulling out calves, and pushing in prolapsed uteri kept me fit. No more. Now my upper body workout consists of lifting a glass of Cabernet at happy hour and hoisting an occasional Guinness at the pub. Better hit the exercise machines at Sturges Park. They might give me the strength to lift the packs and canoes without getting hurt.

My first canoe was a durable 90-pound Grumman that I bought while I was in college. I chose this heavy-duty model because I was certain that it would get banged up in river rapids. I figured we’d be too lazy to portage around them. That canoe, which still resides on the shore at our cabin, has a hull like an icebreaker. I can hardly believe that I used to carry that canoe and a frame pack over a portage.

My Uncle Bill, whose funeral I attended the day before this trip, gave us his handmade cedar strip canoe back in 2014. The Lazy J weighs about seventy pounds, but it’s a work of art that I couldn’t leave at home. Anyone who sees it at a portage marvels at its beauty. Before I left, I practiced: I lifted it to my lap, cradled it under one arm, and rolled it onto my shoulders. It took a grunt, but I could do it.

The Quetico awaits!

We departed in mid-September from Maple Grove at 3:45 am and headed north on 35W. We missed the ramp to Toby’s, which was under construction, so settled for coffee and a sweet roll in Cloquet. By 9 am we were munching on Big Macs in International Falls. Canadian customs checked our passports, glanced at the four of us, decided we were not a threat to Ontario, and waved us on. We drove east on Highway 11 for an hour and a half. Another forty-five minutes of gravel road brought us to our entry point just before noon.

I stepped out of the car and inhaled a deep breath of North Woods. It’s great to be back!

It had been fourteen years since I accompanied Dan and the Bossen’s on this trip. I was fifty-eight then and seventy-two now. Last time, the portages were forgettable. This time they loomed. I unloaded my gear, hoisted the Lazy J on my shoulders, and trudged the 80-rod portage to Beaver House. My pride and joy bit into my shoulders. The price of arm candy, I thought. Tylenol tonight.

The next two portages were short, but steeper than I remembered. My right leg (the one with the titanium hip) refused to step up with the canoe on my back. Change of plan: Balance my left foot on a rock. Take a deep breath. Push. Step up. Look for another safe footing. Repeat.

Finally. There’s the lake.

Gently now…set the Lazy J in the water. Don’t drop her! She’d never forgive me if I slipped and bashed her head on a rock.

Getting her out of the water was just as risky. One missed step, and I’d be in the drink with a twisted ankle. Time to ask for help. I decided that after unloading the canoe, we’d lift her to shore. Then, one of the guys would hold the bow in the air while I crawled under the yolk—or maybe, let somebody else carry the beauty, which was fast becoming the beast.

Those darn exercise machines must have been defective.

Perhaps next time I’ll have to leave my pride and the Lazy J at home—and rent a 40-pound Kevlar.

September’s weather is as undependable as my right leg, and our “wet foot policy” means we’re going to get our feet wet whenever we load or unload the canoes. I imagined how cold my feet might get at that time of year if I wore my Keen sandals for portaging.

“Be prepared” is the motto of the Boy Scout, so I made an extravagant investment. I ordered a pair of lightweight Astral boots ($100 with coupon) and a pair of waterproof sealskin stockings for another seventy-five bucks. Who would ever have imagined that I would spend seventy-five dollars on a pair of socks?

After the portage from the entry-point parking lot, but before we got into Beaver House Lake proper, we had to navigate a shallow wandering stream that was like a miniature Mississippi River delta. We could leave the packs in the canoe, but we had to step out into the silt to keep from running aground. I thought, Good test for my sealskin socks. I felt water sloshing around my feet—but was it inside my socks or just inside my boots?

When I got to camp that evening, I pulled off my fancy new socks. My feet were like prunes, and my socks were full of water. They could have been used as a canteen if it hadn’t been for the silt. Apparently, you can’t step into water deep enough to go over the top of the knee-highs.

I’m learning, but now I need to take a walk in the woods.

Warning! Readers with tender imaginations may want to skip the next couple of paragraphs.

Every campsite in the Boundary Water Canoe Area Wilderness has a pit toilet located well away from the lake. The pit is covered with a fiberglass stool and a lid. The throne often comes with a good view and offers an opportune time for contemplation.

There are no such luxuries in Quetico Provincial Park. When the need arises, you must take a spade into the woods. Hike through the underbrush an appropriate distance from the lake and the campsite. Dig a hole. Do your business, and fill it in. In the summer as you venture into the woods, you are often accompanied by several squadrons of mosquitoes. In years gone by, I could squat, complete the business at hand, recover my balance, and flee the woods in the time it has taken to describe this event.

This year was different. I found that I needed a three-point stance to balance myself. Visualize this: (Well, maybe don’t.) My left hand is propped to the side and behind the hole. My two feet, hobbled with trousers and underwear at my ankles, are spread in front of the hole. I lean back so my bottom is centered properly. I push and piddle carefully so as not to soil any of my garments. I finish my business before my arm falls asleep. I use my right hand to unroll a swath of earth-friendly toilet paper. I can see through it. It’s the thickness of an onion skin. I hold the roll under my chin to pull the paper free. My left arm is starting to quiver (Those worthless exercise machines). I set the remainder of the roll on a piece of moss within reach for the second swipe. Now for the tricky part. Like in a game of Twister, I swing my numb left arm over my body. I synchronize a similar motion with my hobbled left foot. My body flops over the hole without dipping into its contents. I inhale a sigh of relief. The air is tainted. It reminds me to cover the evidence.

To add to the fun, do this in the rain.

It’s a recipe for constipation.

My paddling partners asked if I would be comfortable sleeping with them in their 6-man Eureka Base Camp, also known as the “Quetico Hilton.” I said that I’d be fine with that arrangement, but they may not be.

“I have to leave my CPAP machine at home,” I explained, “and with nothing more than a nose strap to control my snoring, you may not sleep very well.”

A previous trip that included a thunderous snorer was fresh in their minds. “Why don’t you bring your own tent.”

That meant I must be willing to carry it. I needed a bigger pack so I could include it with my personal gear. My brother was happy to oblige. He lent me his #4 Duluth pack, quite a bit bigger than the #3’s that I was used to carrying. Everything fit, but the pack weighed about the same as my canoe. What’s the payoff? One #4 that I can barely lift or two #3’s and an extra trip across the portage? Hmm.

When I set up my three-man Timberline last summer for the kids to use at the cabin, one of the aluminum poles snapped, so I ordered a replacement. I checked it before we left. It was the right length. it fit the grommets, and the pole slipped through the slots in the tent. I should be good to go.

It’s a dome tent with two jointed poles that arch and crisscross over the top. When I pitched it the first night, the new pole could have just as well been a branch from a weeping willow. The fly sagged over the frame like a saddle on a swayback mule. It wouldn’t survive a whisper, much less a full-blown howler.

When I ordered the replacement, I must have measured it fourteen times. It was a quarter inch. I swear. For now, a couple of strings from the fly to a nearby branch will have to do. That night I pounded the pillow thinking of choice words for the company that sent me a pole half the thickness I ordered.

(After I returned home, I measured the diameter of the pole for the fifteenth time using a crescent wrench as a caliper. My mistake. I re-ordered another forty-dollar pole. Now I’m black and blue from beating myself up over another mistake. It’s not age. It’s incompetence.)

I laid out my equipment and clothing weeks prior to our departure: raincoat, rain pants, long johns, a couple of flannel shirts, hiking pants with zip-off legs, and several changes of underwear and socks—something for every kind of weather. Check.

The first morning at our Jean Lake base camp, I crawled out of my tent to find Rob proudly holding a trophy smallmouth bass. After I admired his catch, he let it go. We’re committed to walleye for breakfast. Dan and Dale had already left, so Rob and I grabbed our tackle and paddled to a point south of our camp where we’ve had luck in the past.

My first three casts produced a fish—a four-pound slimer (a northern pike) that I threw back as soon as I could get him untangled from the net, a keeper walleye, and on the third cast a smaller keeper. Dan held up a stringer from their canoe. They had a slightly larger walleye, so I returned my littler one to the lake. Two of these beauties make four fillets. Plenty for breakfast.

Rob and I landed the canoe on the sandy beach, and I stepped into the shallow water from my seat in the stern. There was a fishing rod sticking out of the bow.  I didn’t want to step into deeper water and fill my socks again, so I straddled the stern and stepped over the canoe. I had my stringer with the walleye in one hand and my rod in the other. On my second step I tripped on a rock, lost my balance, and fell sideways into the lake. Although I saved the stringer and fishing pole, I soaked everything I was wearing.

Embarrassed, but confident that I had packed a pair of jeans for just such a mishap, I stripped off my soggy clothes and retreated to my tent. I looked in my plastic stuff sack that had all my clothes. No extra pair of jeans. What the? I’m certain I packed them. In my mind’s eye I could see them tucked in that bag. They were my durable, faded dark brown pair. I tore the pack apart. Maybe they were with my socks. Maybe they were still in my Duluth pack. Nothing. I must have imagined putting them in but never followed through. Distracted by another thought? Another trick on my aging memory? A niggling thought haunted me: What else did I forget?

I settled for a pair of long johns and a baggy pair of rain pants. I rinsed the sand out of my wet things and hung them on the line. It was about then that a mist rolled in that lasted for two days. Ask any farmer who has tried to bale third crop hay in September. It takes a miracle for it to dry. I finally put on the damp flannel shirt and let it dry on my back.

Never get too attached to a favorite lure. All the good ones end up in the mouth of the Great White Whale that gets away or rusts at the bottom of the lake. My favorite lure was a floating, blue, jointed Rapala. I gave it a kiss for luck and flung it into the channel from shore hoping to catch a big bass. A moment later, Bang! A hit! It surfaced! Damn—a northern pike with razor teeth. My six-pound monofilament line is no match for that kind of fish.

“You want me to bring the net?” called Dan when he heard my excitement.

“You better come quick. It’s already twisted the line around its jaw.”

Dan was jumping over rocks in my direction, but I got impatient. The fish was at my feet, right next to shore. So close! I dragged the northern into a crevice holding a few inches of water. I reached down to grab it. My beautiful lure was clinging to its mouth by one barb. The rest of the Rapala’s treble hooks shook menacingly with the fish, eager to stab me if I got too close. I placed my hand in front of the northern’s dorsal fin behind its head, but the pike didn’t like to be petted. A violent twist and the line broke. Dan arrived in time to watch it flop into the clear water wearing an ornamental piercing.

That evening, I saw something floating on the channel. It looked like a bent twig. I squinted. Could it be?

Sure enough. My pretty little Rapala survived a near miss with a northern pike. I returned it to my tackle box, ready to risk another cast tomorrow.

Fish chowder was on the menu the following evening. It was mid-afternoon and we agreed on a friendly competition. The first one to catch a non-northern keeper would have the honor of adding it to the pot. But before Rob and I got into the canoe, I took a random cast from shore. The surface broke with a splash and my line went tight.  A monster smallmouth surfaced, dove, and surfaced again.

We dedicated the rest of the afternoon to catch and release.

Catch and release. My dad had trouble even releasing a fingerling sunfish. Last year the group was reprimanded by a Canadian warden when he discovered the remains of a walleye they had cleaned that was too big. “You are supposed to release anything outside the slot limit,” said the warden who blessed them with a warning instead of a ticket.

They shrugged as the warden paddled away. “We haven’t caught a walleye small enough to meet the slot limit this entire trip.”

Every evening after the dishes were washed and the food packs were hung from the trees, we caught, and we released. The walleyes that moved into the channel for the evening could not resist a white-headed jig tipped with a “Mr. Twister.” I counted fifteen walleyes one night.

Walleyes get their name from the bright reflection in the back of their eyeballs. Dale shined his headlamp into the lake as he pulled a three-pounder to shore. Not two eyes, but six eyes shone back at him. Two other fish had followed the one that had been caught. It wasn’t uncommon to have a double—two of us with a fish on our lines at the same time. It was like crappie fishing in a feeding frenzy, but these were big walleyes. We finally gave up for the night when we were tired of catching, not when we were tired of fishing.

A fellow from last year’s trip claimed that fishing here was better than any fly-in tour he had taken—and those trips ran about four grand a person. This trip cost me less than $300, if you don’t count my socks.

I am known for being frugal (Those less flattering suggest I am cheap), so I doubt that I’d be willing to cough up thousands for a trip like that…unless I hit the jackpot, became really hungry for fish, and had to hobble around with a walker.

As I was planning for the trip, I fretted about having enough downtime entertainment. These days, I do most of my reading on my phone. It has good light. I can change the font size as needed, and my phone also serves as my camera. I frowned. How will I charge it? I have a pocket-sized solar charger, but it requires sunlight to work, and who knows if the sun will shine? If it’s raining, that’s when I’d need my phone the most.

I threw in a trashy paperback just in case. I should have focused on remembering my jeans.

Who has time to read when there’s a game of 500 to be played?

Now I’m a big fan of diversity—diversity in the workplace, diversity in friendships, diversity in conversation—but not when it comes to playing a game of 500. A few hearts here, a diamond there, a cluster of clubs, a short run of spades between seven ten. These are not bidding hands in 500. These are the cards I was dealt all week. I spent most of the week ushering my partners out the back door.

“Make the most of the hand you have been dealt,” is the conventional cliché. That’s good advice for life, but it becomes tiresome in cards. Am I becoming a curmudgeon? Don’t answer that…I’m well past becoming.

I offered to bring the first aid kit, and when Dale sliced his finger while cleaning his first fish, he and the others kidded me about packing more surgical supplies than Band-Aids.

By the end of the trip, they were happy I had packed the first aid supplies.

It was noon the day before we intended to break camp and begin our trek toward home. We were preparing to canoe to the base of a cliff south of our campsite and hike to the top for a view. As I was gathering my water bottle and life jacket, I heard Dan mumble something about tripping and falling.

“Are you all right, Dan?”

“I don’t think so. I must have cut my finger on a rock. It’s pretty deep.”

“Let me take a look.”

“I’ll say,” I said.

The laceration was across his right pinky just beyond the distal metacarpal joint. (How’s that for resurrecting some veterinary anatomy?) I sopped up the blood with a paper towel and peered into the wound. “It looks to me like there’s a fragment of tendon in there.” I gently extended the tip of his little finger. There was no resistance.

I looked at Dan. “I can sew this up. I’ve got suture material and even a little local anesthetic, but you’ll need to see a hand surgeon in case that flexor tendon needs to be repaired.”

Dale and Rob gathered around to join our conversation. Despite Dan’s protest, Dale said, “We need to break camp and leave as soon as we can.”

Rob and I agreed.

While Dale and Rob struck their tent and began to stuff our gear into the packs, Dan lay on a sleeping pad with his arm extended into a beam of sunshine. While I soaked my instruments in soapy water—a forceps and a hemostat I used as a needle holder—I scrubbed the wound with good old Dawn detergent. I laid paper towels out for a surgical drape and used another towel to sponge up the blood. I drew up a couple of cc’s of Carbocaine, a local anesthetic, and infiltrated both sides of the wound using a 25-guage needle. Using #2 silk with a curved needle, I placed a horizontal mattress suture across the wound. It’s a stitch I used on horses when there would be tension on the wound. Another simple interrupted stitch on each side of the mattress suture completed the surgery. Dan didn’t flinch. I didn’t even need a twitch.

I stretched my back and examined my work. “I think that’ll do for now, Dan. I expect that a real doc will pull my stitches to examine the wound anyway.”

Then I applied a Band-Aid, surrounded his finger with a paper towel, and covered it with adhesive tape. “You should keep that dry, but I think you can paddle with it.”

“Wait,” I said. “One more thing.” I rummaged in the first aid kit. “Here’s some Ciprofloxacin pills. They’re outdated, but I think some antibiotics would be a good idea.”

“Thanks, Doctor Dave,” said Dan with a smile.

Ah, to be of use.

We left camp at 1:30 in the afternoon and began the most ambitious single-day paddle of my life. The weather was perfect—70 degrees, sunshine, and absolutely calm. Rob took the stern of Dale’s canoe with Dan in the bow. Dale, who was the most confident navigator, managed the stern of the Lazy J. I jumped in the bow and began paddling.

We took the two portages out of Jean Lake into Quetico Lake and arrived at a possible campsite around 5 pm. Dan wanted to camp there and fish so as not to cut our trip short, but the rest of us had no interest in setting up camp, enduring a sleepless night, packing up early again, and still having to paddle hours to the car.

“I’m worried that the wound could be infected,” I argued. “It was clean surgery, but it was far from sterile. You should be seen by an expert as soon as possible.”

Dale looked at the glassy lake. “We’ve had to paddle this lake in a westerly headwind. Conditions are perfect for paddling now. We can use our headlamps the last couple of hours, and we know the way.”

“Let’s go for it.”

After a couple of candy bars and some beef jerky, we were on our way.

Navigation was easy—straight west, directly into the sun. After several hours of steady paddling, and as the sun sunk below the horizon, we approached the portage into Beaver House Lake. With our sunglasses still on, it became eerily dark. We scrounged for our headlamps and stumbled across the portage that ended in a rushing stream.

“Let’s take the rapids rather than keep portaging,” said Dan. “We’ve run these rapids many times before. Stay to the left and keep the canoe where the water is deepest.”

“In the dark?” I asked. “You sure?”

But I didn’t argue for long. Tripping and falling on a root would be just as dangerous as a quick trip down the river.

We loaded the canoes and pushed off. I knelt in the bow and trained my fading headlamp into the rushing water looking for rocks. “There’s the opening,” I said. A furrow of water opened on our left as we rode the current.

Dale strained his eyes. “I think I’ve got it.”

The canoe was gliding rapidly to the opening when I saw that we were too far to the left. “Too far, Dale!” I shouted.

The Lazy J scraped on a rock and nearly capsized. A moment later, the current swept us into the still, starlit lake.

“Sorry about that,” said Dale. “I couldn’t see well enough to hit the middle of the trough.”

“No worries,” I replied. “I’m going to re-finish the bottom of the canoe when we get home anyway.”

The silhouette of an island lay straight ahead. After rounding it, we turned north. A clear view of Polaris guided us to the shallow mouth of the river that led to our final portage.

Recall that this stream was like a shallow delta of sand and mud that wound its way to the 80-rod portage to our car. We waded most of the way, guiding the canoe by hand and hoping that we wouldn’t step into a deep hole.

We arrived safely on dry land and hiked the final portage to the parking lot. By 10 pm we were loaded and on the road. An hour and a half later, there was no line at customs, and they waved us through. Stoked on coffee and sweet rolls, Dale and Rob alternated driving returning us to Maple Grove by 6 am.

Dale’s niece’s husband is an orthopedic surgeon. Despite having seventy appointments lined up for the day, “Dr. Dan,” as the family refers to him, told Our Dan to meet him at Twin City Orthopedics at 7:30.

“Can you flex your finger?” asked Dr. Dan.

Our Dan flexed his pinky.

“Good. It bends a little, so the tendon is intact—at least enough so you should regain some flexion.”

“Enough to hold a trombone slide?” quipped Our Dan.

“Yes. Plenty for that,” smiled Dr. Dan. “Now let’s check for nerve damage. Close your eyes while I poke your finger with this paper clip. Tell me if you feel one poke or two.”

“Two.”

“Excellent,” beamed Dr. Dan. “No nerve damage either.”

“What about the stitches?” said Our Dan.

“They look fine. No need to take them out. Soak your hand in warm water for ten minutes once a day flexing your finger. Re-bandage and continue on the Cipro. Here’s a suture removal kit. The stitches can come out in ten days.”

Our Dan hadn’t wanted his wife, Cindy, to find out about his accident until the whole thing was resolved. But when he called her later that morning, she greeted him with, “What were you doing in Thunder Bay at 12:30 this morning, Dan?”

“What are you talking about?” stammered Dan.

“As soon as I got up this morning, I saw that you used your credit card at some gas station.”

Gotcha!

I admire those who seem to age gracefully. Many years ago, Sue and I were hiking in Arches National Park in Utah. As we were strolling along, an older man breezed past us, hiking poles in hand. He stopped to catch his breath. We asked what brought him to the park?

“I care for my wife full-time, but I take a day off once a week,” he said. “I usually come out here to take get some exercise and fresh air.”

“How old are you?” I ventured.

“Just turned eighty,” he replied with a proud smile. “Have a great day.”

Then he cheerfully bounded down the trail ahead of us.

Our oldest son predicts that Sue and I will die falling off a cliff while on some “cockamamie” wilderness adventure.

I hope he’s right.

But not yet.

 

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