Time Travel

The New York Times Travel section from last Sunday features the Boundary Waters Canoe Area during the time of the year nearly all the water has turned to ice. The front page shows a man on snowshoes walking across a wide swath in the Kawishiwi River. A shore line of still trees frames the picture. The story tells of two couples who made their way to Ely, then to a rustic but comfortable cabin, then to the lakes and waterways of the BWCA. They slept cozily, though without running water or electricity, and took a 4 hour day hike which included wildlife viewing and a mild navigation mishap while they worked up a terrific appetite which they satisfied heartily in the cabin.

It was the grown up version of a weekend adventure from nearly a decade ago. Unfortunately the weekend was followed by the influenza virus which landed me at home, in bed, for a week. Three of the four campers contracted said virus. But when I can suspend that part of my memory, the weekend made a part of me live that I did not know resided in me. I nearly backed out. The planning meeting was after I'd been standing at a swim meet for two days and I was achingly tired. Was spending two nights in the wilderness really a good idea? But I drove to the meeting where I met (for the first time) two of the other campers, dusted off my backpack a few days later, and showed up at 5 am that Friday when we left for Ely.

When we arrived at the entry point and unloaded the car, my boots were missing. I had a pair of mukluks along, but they were my camp shoes -- to be worn after a day of hiking. I was panicked. If they got wet, I would have nothing dry to put on. Staying warm indoors is not my strong suit, how would I handle two nights out here with cold feet? Soon my boots were rigged up in waterproofing garbage bags after which I had to immediately put on snowshoes and not take them off until bedtime. It took two other adults to get me into my snowshoes without falling. Have you ever tried to walk on snow in garbage bags? But by the time we were on Lake One, walking, not paddling, my friend and I were laughing at the absurdity of what we were doing.

The next morning the silence was startling. There was nothing but our voices and the rustling of camping gear. The tent was darker around the bottom edges than I remembered seeing and it was hot in there. When we peeked out to see the day, a heavy but gentle snowfall washed out the lake in front of our site. Our tent was insulated by a half foot of snow, and still falling. We were out there in it.

Wanting to get some elevation so that we could see over the lake, we followed the terrain on the map to a corner of the lake that had a ridge along the shore line. It is a practice common during summer trips to the BWCA. Take a day to hike and find a path to a high spot. Find that high spot is covered with low brush, hike anyway, find surprising view in unexpected low terrain. But with the snow, much of the brush was gone and with our snowshoes, we lopped up the hills and jumped and plopped our way down. By that point, finding a view point was long forgotten. We were playing. The stunning beauty and thrill of being the only human beings within a few lakes of us was secondary to the abandon I felt at jumping in the snow.

By the next day the reality of hiking out, with our packs, in 14 inches of fresh powder, set in. The lakes that we crossed with ease the first day we were now high stepping. My quads were burning. But despite that, and the flu the following week, for one day of me young adult life, I played in the snow unleashed from the world and sent into the wild.