Category: Life at Tuscarora Lodge

We had such a gorgeous weekend and watched so many people paddle happily away, the kids and I decided to take our turn.

The weather held so we headed into Ham Lake on Monday afternoon—for a little hiatus. Perfect.

I woke early Tuesday morning because the birds were singing like maniacs. I lounged while the kids slept (partly because they still look like toddlers when they’re sleeping), then I started observing the multitudes of mosquitoes waiting on the screen of the tent. So many, packed so tightly that their wings were interfering with each other. We have such long winters here, and the world is so very cold and apparently dead under all that iciness. The birds—the mosquitoes—all the spring babies….re-remind me what a miracle it is that life returns anew, and that we get to tap into that.

When I was a kid I sang in choirs (years of memorizing sacred music). All those lyrics are stuck in my brain, which is lucky for me when the words match the current events of the day. Sometimes my children think it is unlucky when I’m humming the same song all day long. But this trip—it was a perfect fit.

For the beauty of the earth,

for the glory of the skies,

for the love which from our birth

over and around us lies……………..

For the beauty of each hour

of the day and of the night,

hill and vale, and tree and flower,

sun and moon, and stars of light……..;

For the joy of human love,

brother, sister, parent, child,

friends on earth and friends above,

for all gentle thoughts and mild;

Lord of all, to thee we raise

this our joyful hymn of praise.

A summer doesn’t really start until school ends—officially last Thursday.
Daniel graciously assisted with one more lesson: a key, a primer , for reading the subtle facial cues of a 12 year old boy. Cabin 3 guest (on a STAYCATION from Grand Marais) Kelly helped us out.

Excited

Angry,

Happy,

Amazed,

Bored,

Surprised,

Cantankerous,

Perplexed,

Flabbergasted,

Confused,

Doubtful,

Oops (Please don’t tell Daniel that I snuck this in. Not supposed to let on that he really is a sweet boy).

As staffers here at Tuscarora, we get one day off every week, and that provides us with the opportunity to take mini Boundary Waters trips. This past Wednesday was my day off along with 3 other staffers (Justin, Caitlin and Andrew). We were planning on heading out to Long IslandLake after work on Tuesday, but the weather continued to be quite indecisive right up to Tuesday lunch. The four of us were a bit hesitant to head out into uncertain weather—just what we wanted: to come back from our day off sick, tired, cold and wet! However, at about 4:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday our canoes hit the water at the CrossBay landing. We were off.

We enjoyed a nice paddle out to Long Island and were surprised that we were not wet or (very) cold upon our arrival to camp. (Though, I was a bit worried we were not going to find a campsite, as the first few were already occupied.) We set up camp as the sun was preparing to set for the evening, and then started brewing up a nice campfire. A long lasting, hot fire would be essential for the evening because in our packs we had stowed away a special Boundary Waters experiment of sorts.

Before coming up here this summer, my Dad made me a collapsible, lightweight, reflector oven to use on trips. Our experiment for the night was to see if the reflector over actually worked (Dad—I know you’re reading this…I never doubted your design!). Also in our arsenal for the evening was some of Chef Justin’s sourdough artisan bread dough. We were attempting to bake real, FRESH, artisan bread in the Boundary Waters.

Well, the experiment took a good dose of team work and patience as well. We had to collect new fire wood three times over to keep the fire going, and while Justin tended to the bread and Caitlin worked on the firewood, Andrew and I got the rest of dinner going.

I guess I had a few doubts running through my head at this point: either the fire would die out or not be hot enough, or the bread would take an exorbitant amount of time to cook, or it would cook unevenly, or burn, etc.

To my surprise and delight, though, about 45 minutes after we set the oven in front of the fire, we had bread. And this bread was not just any old slice of Wonderbread. This bread had a perfect golden brown hue and the unmistakable crunch of the fresh baked bread (you know, the good stuff). It also had a slightly smoky flavor that went well with the turkey and rice dish we had prepared.

We baked bread. That’s a feat in and of itself, but we baked bread IN THE WOODS!

The four of us lingered around the campfire breaking the warm bread and enjoying the heat of the fire at our toes. We enjoyed our dinner, to say the least, and the trip in its entirety. On our paddle out on Wednesday, we took our time. There was a little river off of Lower George and we went exploring. We sailed underneath downed trees and enjoyed the SUNSHINE. Another pit stop on our return included a climb up some waterfalls on Cross as well as a slide back down the falls. We sang songs from Pocahontas, picked off dozens of little leeches, caught a fish, laughed, smiled and took it all in. Trips like this one remind me of how fortunate I am to “work” here in the summer. This place is our home in the summertime, and I’m glad we decided to take our little trip this week—it’s one I won’t soon forget.

Did I mention that we made bread?

Charlie Jones and Tim Ivey traveled from their homes in Georgia/North Carolina to spend the week with us.

When they first arrived, I knew they were fishing, and I asked if they needed a boat. Nope, they showed me their own boats. And I was thinking…hmmmm, hope you guys are happy here. Because…this isn’t how it usually works on Round Lake.

Tim is a fly tying guy. He’s holding his card of flies to try in the BWCA. He already knows what works down South.

My friend Ingrid fly fishes for bass up here; it is becoming increasingly popular, I just don’t know how myself. I wasn’t thinking they’d have a lot of luck in their little rigs.

As the week progressed, we grew pretty fond of Charlie and Tim. They were good sports about the cool weather (although Tim said he was looking forward to returning to 94 degrees AND 94% humidity. I say—I’m glad somebody likes that climate…!)

Charlie had a really nice camera with a telephoto lens, and didn’t disturb the loon on her nest in his quiet boat.

And they had wild success with their flies. A great time….I believe they were on to something with their rigs!

And the word is–the Woolly Booger that Tim ties is the magic fly up here. He left some for the Tuscarora Trading Post, and he left his luckiest Woolly Booger for staff member Maggie to use with her fly rod.
We were sorry to see them go–

“Life for some strange reason has suddenly become simple and complete; his wants are few, confusion and uncertainty gone, his happiness and contentment deep.”

-Sigurd Olson, “The Way of a Canoe”

This past week, Sue has been hinting to the staff that the blog should have some guest appearances. For the most part, we’ve been able to avoid committing to anything, but under some duress, I agreed to give an account of a recent solo trip that I took on a day off. I know that the wilderness is a great place for serenity, relaxation, and a more calm pace of life, but I’ve been taking trips with my family for a while, and this means that I’ve learned a set routine, mostly from my father. It consists of:

Hurry! Drive up to Tuscarora! Hurry! Unpack, reorganize, and repack everything! Hurry! Get out on the water! Hurry! Find a campsite! Set up the fishing rods! Make supper! Wash dishes! Bed! … Repeat for the course of the trip, until we come to the final paddle out, then the rush through the showers to get back on the road to home.

While I enjoy this style of tripping, it sometimes seems to displace the peace that would otherwise be present, so for my first day off of work from Tuscarora, I decided that a solo trip would be appropriate. I hadn’t really considered the trip very much, and so my departure from the boys’ dorm at about 4:30 was rather disorganized. I hadn’t packed some of my gear from home, so I was borrowing some from Outfitting. Subscribing also to the “just tough it out” philosophy, I was also going without some otherwise helpful items. When I finally finished packing things up into my Army-surplus duffel bag (a shapeless lump of canvas, with luxury straps designed to dig into the shoulders), my final outfit consisted of a water bottle, a sleeping bag, Sigurd Olson’s The Singing Wilderness, a pot, a stove, some dehydrated spaghetti, and a tent.

The trip started with a portage from the door of the boys’ dorm (back by bunkhouses 5 and 6 to the cross bay entry point. Before I even reached the water, I was regretting the decision to include the “Charlie Brown” tent (more details later). I made it to the river, though, and was finally on the water for the first time this year. I realized after a few minutes of gung-ho paddling that I had plenty of time, since I knew that there were campsites available. This was almost a life-shaking realization, since it went against almost 16 years of BWCA training.

I managed to slow myself down quite a bit, inspecting an interesting rock cliff and then climbing up to the top to catch a nice view until I was driven back into the lake by the black flies. I finally made it to a campsite on Ham Lake, and spent the rest of the evening setting up camp. It wouldn’t take me that long to set up camp normally, but usually I don’t spend an hour locked in a mortal struggle with the tent I had found in the dark, eerily abandoned corner of Outfitting. There was a reason that this tent had been exiled: it was awful. It weighed about 127 pounds, had numerous design flaws, and smelled like it had been sitting in its corner for roughly 12 years. I fought to set it up for awhile, then gave up and just tied one part of the roof to a tree. Having finished my “fortress” against the terrors of being alone out in the dark, I went to eat my spaghetti, and discovered that I had no silverware. This wasn’t a problem, as there was a flat bit of bark nearby. I drank the soupy sauce and then ate the congealed powder at the bottom of the pot with the bark. Like all wilderness meals, it was more than gourmet. I watched the sunset and a few beavers swimming around, and then went to bed, ready to sleep late in the morning.

After thrashing about in the cold tent all night, I woke up at 5 AM to thunderous bird song. I read Sigurd Olson’s beautiful prose for an hour, had more spaghetti for breakfast, and then hit the road. Mr. Olson describes my paddle across Ham better than I could:

“Should you be lucky enough to be moving across a calm surface with mirrored clouds, you may have the sensation of suspension between heaven and earth, of paddling not on the water but through the skies themselves.”

With this beginning, I started off on the laziest day of paddling that I’ve ever experienced. A pair of loons accompanied me across Cross Bay Lake, and I saw a muskrat and a fox. The portage to Snipe Lake was prefaced by an hour-long break. I had intended to ponder life in general, and though my head was fairly vacuous at first, I gradually became immersed in the sky, the woods, and the water. The life that I had wanted to ponder seemed far less confusing and more complete when it was fused to the wilderness. I gradually came out of my reverie, and portaged to Snipe Lake. After an exhilarating paddle against the growing wind on Snipe, I portaged through to Missing Link Lake. I had switched from single portaging to doubling up, since there was no need to rush through. On Missing Link I paddled all the way to the portage and was about to start the path back to Round Lake and Tuscarora, but then I stopped.

I didn’t need to rush out of the woods. My immersion in nature shouldn’t be cut off by my need to be back home. I leaned back over the stern gunwale and watched the clouds drifting across the sky.

I woke up on the other side of the bay. I could have drifted the entire perimeter of Missing Link during my two-hour nap, while I was absorbed into my canoe, the lake, the forest, and the movement of the winds. Before the last portage of the trip, I had finally been able to slow down to the pace of the Boundary Waters, the pace of life as it should be. **

** Sue would just like to add that Andrew must have been called away, or surely he would have added “on a day off” to this sentence.