Tuscarora Lodge & Canoe Outfitters

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.

Denali and I dropped the kids off at the bus the other day and hiked the Magnetic Rock Trail.

I’m smitten with the blueberry plants…wanted to see how the blossoms were holding up to some frosty nights. They’re looking great!

Also, I’m pretty fond of the little jack pines in there, no longer baby trees, coming along like hearty toddlers.

But I kept seeing these red berries. At first, I thought they might be just fluky left-overs from fall—but then there were entire patches. Berries in the spring? Spring is flower time..how come berries in May?

I’ve spent plenty of time with people who can name every plant in the area, and I admire that very much, but….most of the names don’t stick with me. My eyes must glaze over, and the all leaf shapes blur. It’s like when my grandpa used to take us around the old Welsh cemetery in Wild Rose, full of the graves of our relatives. Wasn’t it cool that he had all the stories and my sister listened so attentively? But suddenly, I’d be really tired..wanted to lay down and take a little nap right there on the gravesites. And so it seems with plants. It took me a year and a half to realize that I wasn’t a college biology major as I’d dutifully memorize ….kingdom phylum class order family genus species….but…I wasn’t actually connecting the knowledge with anything..

All these excuses mean I really don’t know many plant names around here. But, I know the bunch berries, you can eat them, but they’re kind of seedy. These mystery berries were sort of like bunch berries, but not. I also know enough that toxic bitter BWCAW berries would likely make me throw up before they killed me.

So- these particular red berries….were they bitter? I fed one to Denali and she wanted more. So I tried them too. EUREKA!!! Wintergreen! They tasted exactly like gum. It was pure Lewis-and-Clark fun. Or maybe a little like the first indigenous person who discovered maple syrup must have felt. We had to eat a couple more to celebrate. Then my gag reflex said enough.

Apparently the wintergreen berries last all through the winter. And the oils are used to flavor gum, toothpaste, mints, pepto-bismol.

At lunchtime, I was sort of excited to share my story with the staff. Cass wondered if I should tell my kids that I just ate unknown red berries? On the one hand, she had a good point. On the other hand, the simple wintergreen surprise moments are what I want them to experience.

I know next to nothing about wild mushrooms–just that the deadly ones don’t taste remarkably different from the safer ones. Although the fresh morels that Jim Colbert brings us from Iowa every spring are to die for! (figuratively) In the woods, I know just enough to stay away from tasting mystery mushrooms.

My kids—in middleschool, already face many mushroom-moments without me. More and more, I can only trust that they can separate the mushrooms from the berries as they make their choices, and I hope we stay tapped in well enough as parents to intervene when they don’t.

Assessing risk, yet taking advantage of experiences holds major value for me. I remember holding Shelby at one of my niece’s dance recitals…listening to a song about children. The lyrics said something to the effect…”when given the chance to sit it out or dance—I hope you’ll dance. ” Not a particularly noteworthy song…except that it expressed exactly what I really wanted for my kids; the urge to dig in to life.

I used to take youth groups on canoe trips—a couple of times with a guy named Bob Snodgrass. He ate black ants. They were surprisingly good. No kidding. A distinct lime sweet-tart taste, if you can get over the legginess and the exoskeleton crunch. They have formic acid that makes the twang. There’s another thing—it’s my opinion that a person shouldn’t go through life without trying a black ant, at least once. Hey! There must be a song to go with that one too.

So, it was a good day for a walk, and a great discovery. Pretty sure I won’t forget how to identify the wintergreen berry now. Maybe there is yet hope for me and plant identification. At any rate, I’m glad that I nibbled.

Mike and Dennis were happy with their catches…..

Darrin thought he spotted some spawning rainbow trout….but then….he was oh-so-disappointed