Monday, December 17, 2012

Hiking with a Ghost (and a Brad): 65 miles on the Border Route Trail


It was Tuesday, October 23, just over a day from the start of a hike of the Border Route Trail and I had nothing ready.  My gear, both probable and luxury items, was strewn about Brad’s house, waiting to find the “take” or “leave” pile.  I had experience going on a multi-day backpacking trip, but I forget to keep track of what I brought so I have to start from scratch each trip.  To help in deciding what to take, Brad had a scale so I could weigh my gear.  Many cringe-worthy moments occurred as I weighed item after item, always finding things a lot heavier than I thought (and hoped) they were.  My base weight of backpack, tent and sleeping bag came in at 15 lbs.  How did I ever finish my hike of the Ice Age Trail?  After an hour or two, my pack was pared down to what I deemed the essentials. 


Brad picked me up at Devil’s Lake the next day after work, the temperature balmy in the mid-70s.  We headed up to my parents house in Eau Claire for the night so we didn’t have as far to drive Thursday morning.  After getting Brad situated, I headed out to the bowling alley to meet a few friends, intending to be home at a decent hour.  Needless to say that did not happen as I bowled a couple games and sat at the bar for a bit longer (In the second game, I was at 30 after 4 frames and somehow ended up with a 144).  I got home late and finally finished getting my pack set.  It was going to be a rough Thursday.

The Border Route Trail follows the US-Canada border in Northern Minnesota and when you’re talking that far north in Minnesota, you’re talking about the Boundary Waters Canoe Area and Wilderness (BWCA).  The BWCA also happens to be my favorite place in the world.  I’ve canoed on the lakes during open water and trudged through the snow on those same lakes in the winter, but I’ve never hiked the trails that span the Wilderness.  The two main trails through the BWCA are the 65-mile Border Route Trail (BRT) and 35-mile Kekekabic Trail (Kek).  Together, they wind their way through 100 miles of Northwoods beauty, most of which is in the Boundary Waters. 

Two and a half hours of sleep is enough right?  Well I was going to find out as Brad and I hit the road at 6:30 Thursday morning amidst a storm bringing rain, heavy at times, and brilliant lightning.  I turned on my GoPro to get some video of the journey up, only to find it dead.  What?!  I thought I had charged it the previous evening, but I was wrong.  My dream of a great travel video was gone by the wayside before we even started.  Ugh. 

We arrived in Grand Marais at 11:30 and met up with Chet.  His brother Gordy and Gordy’s wife Judy graciously offered to be our shuttle.  We drove to the Eastern Terminus of the Border Route Trail, dropped Brad’s car off and hopped into Gordy’s van to head to the Western Terminus on the historic Gunflint Trail. Snow buntings dotted the roadside as we bumped along the gravel forest roads.  The temperature kept dropping, allowing what remained of the rain from the morning to turn to snow. 

Gordy’s minivan rolled to a stop at the Western Terminus just after 2pm.  We got out to make our last preparations.  I weighed my backpack, afraid of what the scale might read.  29lbs. 13oz.  Not bad!  (This included about 8lbs. of food, plus the quart of water I had)  Brad and I had a nipper of his Seagram’s Dark Honey Whiskey to christen the start of the hike.  It was about 2:30 and 32 degrees with a gentle snow falling as Brad, Chet and I set out on our trek.



We were immediately welcomed into the North Country with a bleak landscape devoid any living trees taller than myself.  The barren wasteland of blowdowns and fire-decimated forest continued across the rolling hills.  The “Big Blow” of 1999 was a derecho with winds in excess of 90 mph that flattened nearly 400,000 acres.  Being a federally designated Wilderness, it took an act of Congress to allow chainsaws into the Boundary Waters to re-open portages and trails.  The Ham Lake Fire followed in 2007 and burned 76,000 acres through the blowdown area. 


The desolate moonscape was soon punctured by a tall, narrow, black rock rising out of the ground like an obelisk placed by a culture long-since forgotten.  This out of place landmark was Magnetic Rock, uplifted at a 90-degree orientation, and so named because of its effect on a compass.  The starkness of the scenery with the pearl-white snow sticking onto the blackened tree trunks accentuated the otherworldly feel of Magnetic Rock.

Magnetic Rock


We continued on, tracking on the easily followed trail, through a forest only beginning to rebound.  The thin soil and close bedrock make for tough beginnings for new trees and plants to take root.  The wind continued to howl across the naked ridges as the snow was still falling, cloaking the long view in a white falling mist.  I imagined Chet as Gandalf walking up the snowy mountain Caradhras, saying things like “There’s a fell voice in the air” and “we must go on!”

Eventually we saw Gunflint Lake in the distance.  It bobbed and weaved into view, more glamorous each time.  The Border Route Trail interchanges with cross-country ski trails on the western end so we got the GPS out a few times to verify that we were on the right path.  We came to a river and Brad was all set to ford it, but I suggested using the bridge 50 yards downstream. 



Living trees began to enclose on us at the end of the day, helping to darken our path prematurely.  We made it to Loon Lake and the potential “campsite” at 6:30.   The potential campsite was the turnaround for the Loon Lake boat landing (we weren’t in the Boundary Water quite yet).  Well, it was good enough for us.  We pitched our tents, had a pull of whiskey and turned in early (I couldn’t use my left hand because it was so cold, perhaps I should’ve worn gloves).  Our first day on the Border Route Trail ended 8.37 miles from the trailhead (plus another 0.3 miles to the “campsite”).  We had hoped for a couple miles, but over 8 was a bonus.  It was a good day.

DAY 2
We woke to a dreary, cloud-filled morning, and ate quickly.  My socks from the day before were wet, but I was loath to let both pairs of socks get wet, so I put the wet ones back on.  It was not pleasant.  We packed up and left by 7:30.  Getting back to the trail, Chet realized he forgot his thermometer at camp so he went back for it.  My feet were bordering on frozen so I continued ahead to generate some heat.  The snow from the day before beautifully carpeted the land and made the trail stand out like an unfrozen stream in a frigid wilderness. 



Shortly, I arrived at an awesome overlook.  We had spotted it the day before in the twilight and thought how sweet it would be to climb the acme and take in the vista.  Little did I know, this would be a common theme along the Border Route Trail. 


Throughout the morning we had small amounts snow, sleet and rain, continually changing the footing on the trail.  We trudged through more of the blowdown, fire-scarred terrain, experiencing more overlooks.  There was life in the desolation though as birds flittered about looking for a meal – chickadees, black backed woodpeckers, ravens, and grouse all showed themselves.  It was remarkable how far you could see with no trees to block the view, just rolling hills with lakes in the valleys for as far as the eye could see.  With our packs on in the stark landscape, we looked like a roving band of Quasimodo’s cousins.




We arrived at our first landmark of the day, Bridal Falls, shortly after 11 AM, 15 miles into the trip.  Water bottles were refilled, snacks were brought out and a few pictures were taken as we rested a bit. 

Bridal Falls
Soon we were officially in the Boundary Waters and the effects of the wind and fire maelstroms began to disappear.  Spruce, fir and pine trees colored the way with their shades of green and popple, maple and alder brush filled in the rest of the view with their empty branches.  We crossed the Laurentian Divide (my favorite divide), which separates the Hudson Bay watershed from Lake Superior’s.  The forecast before the trip predicted sunny skies for most of the duration of the trip, but forecasts have a tendency of being wrong.  The sun was shyer than a kid at their first day at a new school, hiding for most of the day. 


As we traveled further east, the trail went up, up, up and then down, down, down and back up again, like we were on a roller coaster, only with our feet providing the power.  The ooh’s were replaced by oww’s as our bodies began to ache (at least mine) but the ahhh’s were still ahhh’s, as we were graced with the Rose Lake overlooks.  When deciding which trail I wanted to hike between the Kek and BRT, the vistas at Rose Lake were the deciding factor.  I wanted to stand on the edge of grandeur and gaze upon the miles and miles of unbroken forest and wilderness lakes that Native Americans, Voyageurs, and Sigurd Olson came to love and worship.  I was not disappointed. 


The views from the rocky cliffs expounded the enormity, the vastness, and the desolation of our setting.  The sheer faces dropped precipitously to the lowlands surrounding the lakes, hemming them in, but granting us the bird’s eye view I was coveting.  I scampered from rock to rock trying to find the best perspective.  The perfect aspect was there somewhere, but I failed to find it.  I did find the picture from the Border Route logo though and we snapped a few photos to frame the memory.  (Here's the link to the rest of my pictures)

Rose Lake Overlook
Rose Lake Overlook


The afternoon was growing long and there were more miles to pass underfoot before day’s end so we moved on (myself very reluctantly).  We had different gaits and I found myself in the lead when I arrived at Portage Falls.  I snooped around while the others caught up.  The fading light cast the waterfall in a demure setting; it was an understated beauty.  Brad and Chet caught up, but the signage was lacking as we took the most obvious path.  Ten minutes later, Brad called out that according to the GPS, we were on the wrong path.  Shit.  The darkness was slowly beginning to envelope us as we headed back to find the correct route. 

Portage Falls
With the Border Route Trail reclaimed, we continued into the evening, pushing for a campsite along Rose Lake.  I was being stubborn and refused to turn on my headlamp until need be so I hiked along the trail, my eyes straining to keep me on the right path.  The uplands allowed easy walking sans light (for me) but when the trail began its descent to the lakeshore, the white pines were too intimidating to the moonlight, completely blackening the route. 

We got to the Rose Lake West campsite, but the site nonplused Chet and Brad so we pushed on.  The trail became more muddy and difficult to navigate as we went on.  Legs were weary and packs were heavy when we staggered into the Rose Lake East campsite just before 8.  Holy Buckets.  We traversed more than 20 intimidating miles over 12 hours, draining our energy and expectations of the journey.  It was a long day, but camp had to be set up and a fire started.  Brad and Chet set up the tents while I scoured the woods for dry timber to get the fire started (I’m very particular with the ingredients I use to get a fire going).  Within 15 minutes, the tents were set up and a small fire was going.  The clouds began to thin, allowing the stars to come out and the temperature to drop as sleep befell camp.


DAY 3
Overnight a snow fell, blanketing the tents and campsite with a cloaking shield of white, blending trail and forest into one.  It was 28.2 degrees and we got a late start, as the Minnesota John (toilet) was a hot commodity.  Once our packs were saddled and feet moving, we quickly came to our closest encounter with the Maginot Line of the Northwoods – The U.S.-Canada border.  I’ve had my share of disparagements and disagreements with the Canadians, but it was hard to tell the difference between the two countries.  It seemed like an arbitrary line and I hated it. 


Canada on the right, US on the left
Throughout the day, Chet and I talked about our hikes, IAT, AT, PCT, Superior Trail (Most of those were Chet of course).  He hiked the Superior Trail this fall and is doing it again next year, but not before I sneak it in next spring.  A friend is getting married in Duluth so I figured I might as well hike from Canada to it (wearing a tie of course). 

Canada

More overlooks greeted us along the way, continuing the grandiose theme of the BRT.  The sun peeked out for a bit, only to go back into hiding.  Brad had tweaked his knee the day before on the many ups and downs and was laboring with the continued elevation changes of the trail.  Chet and I stopped for lunch at a portage crossing and waited for Brad.  It became apparent that he wouldn’t be able to make it all 65 miles, so Chet and I discussed our options and created a contingency plan. 



Brad met us after ambling down the trail and we tossed out a few ideas.  We could stick together and figure something out when we get out of the Boundary Waters and to a road, some 20 some miles away or have one of us split off and go ahead to hitch a ride and bring the car around to the first road crossing.  We decided our best bet was for me to go ahead and get the car.  I mentioned that one of the first rules of survival in the bush is to stay together, Chet responded with a “Screw the rules.”

After trading tents with Chet, I moved on down the trail.  Alone.  My goal was the Pine Lake campsite, 9 miles ahead, which would leave me only 7 miles to the Arrowhead Trail the following day where I hoped to hitch a ride to Brad’s car (the Arrowhead Trail is a road).  It was different hiking alone, my mouth stayed shut and comments kept silent.  I wanted solitude in the Boundary Waters and finally had it, but was not how I wanted to attain it. 


The Border Route Trail was scantily marked while traversing the BWCA.  A scrap of blue ribbon would appear once every 15 miles or so.  Some intersections were marked with a sign while others were not.  Thanks to the maps and cheat sheets Chet made, along with understanding how portages work, I was able to continue on, confident I was on the right path. 

Can you see the blue flag?
Walking alone let my mind wander.  What day was it?  It didn’t feel like any day.  Did it really matter?  Civilization seemed so far away up here.  The closest people to me may have been Brad and Chet, 6 miles back on the trail.  Awesome.


It’s quite satisfying standing on an overlook, hundreds of feet above a lake and see an island in the distance.  You take a picture and keep walking.  An hour later, after going up and down a few times, you come to another overlook and that island is now behind you now.  You trace the route you just took through the woods and ridges, marveling at how far you can go if you keep putting one foot in front of another.

Walking over the rough terrain for so many miles, I noticed how you never look exactly where your foot is stepping; you’ve scoped it out already and are looking two or three steps ahead, like chess.  You remember the roots and rocks and adjust your steps without even knowing it.  Pretty cool.



I arrived at camp at 6:10 after hiking 17 miles, set Chet’s tent up, and got my sleeping gear in order.  A fire was built and water retrieved from the lake (iodine tablets tonight!).  My dinner of peanut butter and tortillas (classic hiker meal) was classed up a bit by toasting them over the campfire.



My achilles had been hurting earlier in the day, but faded into the background as I looked back on the day.  I had stopped at a vista and looked up to see which way the clouds were moving and they appeared to be going straight up (I’m not a meteorologist, but this doesn’t seem right).  One of the bigger ascents brought forward images of Minas Morgul (up, up up!).  More importantly, how was my camera still functioning?  I had taken over 200 photos with temperatures never rising above freezing so the battery should be on it’s last legs, but miraculously the pictures kept coming (I’m going to attribute this to the camera gods after my GoPro battery was a failure).



Awesome beaver dam
I’ve spent many nights in the Boundary Waters, but never one by myself.  While I’m up here, I think about how I need to get back.  The sights from the Border Route Trail had greatly surpassed my expectations.  I’d been to the Boundary Waters 8 other times, but never on a hiking trail and never this far east.  It blew my mind that something this beautiful was so close.  It’d been like Devil’s Lake times 50.  The lakes were bigger (and more pristine), bluffs bigger (and a ton of them) and no one else around to bug you (hiking in late October may have helped).  I love the BWCA; it’s my sanctuary.

Inside Chet's tent
DAY 4
My dreams were weird like usual.  This time I was at the Super Bowl (the Packers weren’t even playing) and kept running into people I knew.  Small world I guess.  It was a long night as sleep came in fits and bursts.  Light streamed through the tent, the moon was out.  It was clear.  It was cold.


Morning brought clouds and more wind and flurries.  Chet recorded 23.9 degrees at his campsite, but I think it was colder.  Camp was picked up and I went about my usual morning business by paying a visit to the Minnesota John.  During my morning constitutional, I thought about how no matter the temperature, I’m never cold while using the toilet.  Interesting (or maybe too much info?). 

Minnesota john
The day began with a mile long ascent and soon a good sweat was trying to build up.  As Les Stroud says about winter activities in the middle of nowhere, “You sweat, you die.”  I did my best to cool down without stopping my feet.  Jacket was unzipped, hat and gloves came off, shirt untucked, and if that didn’t work, I lifted up my shirt to let the cool air in and put my cold hands on the small of my back (this last trick felt pretty good).

I stopped for a break at the last overlook in the BWCA on the BRT.  The light snow from the morning showed which lakes had froze over in the night.  Perhaps that was the last time they’d be ice-free until spring.  I tried taking a sip from the water bottle, but it had ice in it.  I had to use my lips to strain the water like the baleen of a whale.  It was sad to leave the Wilderness, but there was still 14 miles of trail left.




I look so happy
I got to the BRT Trailhead on Arrowhead Trail at 12:10 and started walking down the road towards the car, having no idea how far it was (I didn’t have a map of the roads).  I had never hitchhiked before so I didn’t know what to expect.  I thought I looked liked a decent enough guy (or at least someone who looked like they belonged up there) and had a good reason for thumbing a ride so one shouldn’t be too hard to come by right?  One car drove by and another 30-45 minutes passed before the next car came.  The truck pulled over and I talked with the lady for a few minutes.  I felt pretty confident about getting a ride when she said someone going my way could give me a ride.  She wished my luck and drove on.  Hmm, maybe this wasn’t going to be so easy after all.  Another car passed with no luck. 

Eventually a minivan pulled over and I gave her my sob story.  She lived up there but had never heard of the road I was looking for, but I coaxed her into giving me a ride.  Shirley had Hall and Oates on the radio and we talked about this and that for the 10-minute drive (She called the road Brad’s car was on something else).  Her son, who was my age, worked as a land surveyor out of Grand Marais.  When we got to Brad’s car she almost offered a few tomatoes she had purchased in town but decided she wanted them more.  I didn’t blame her and we parted ways.  What a nice lady.  Thanks Shirley!  I got into Brad’s car and looked into the rearview mirror and found I had a blood-crusted nostril.  Well, that didn’t help my appearance. 

I headed back to Border Route Trail crossing on the Arrowhead Trail and measured how far I walked with the odometer.  I made it 5 miles before Shirley picked me up and if she hadn’t come along, I probably would’ve had to walk the whole way.  It was Sunday so I searched for the Packer game.  From past experience I knew, thanks to Lake Superior, I could pick up Wisconsin radio stations from the North Shore.  The Iron Mountain station crackled to life (A Michigan station I know, but part of the Packer Radio Network!) as I settled in to listen to Wayne and Larry.  The game was boring and I nearly fell asleep, but we beat the Jaguars (Larry picked on Wayne for his unenthusiastic “And that’s the dagger!” call).   I was about ready to go check the trailhead to see if Chet and Brad had showed up (I couldn’t park at the actual trail crossing) when the lady who had denied me a ride stopped by and admonished me for sitting there.  Two people were waiting for me back there she exclaimed (she also asked if the old guy was my dad).

I picked them up at 3:30 and we decided Chet and I were going to keep hiking, leaving Brad to sleep in his car at the Eastern Terminus.  We set off just after 3:45 (not before playing musical tents once more) with Chet setting a blistering pace as snow began to fall, heavy at times.  He’s 70 and I did my best to keep up with him.  I wasn’t sure I could handle the pace anymore when he stopped for a break.  Thank god.  We happened to stop at an impressive overlook with a huge cliff dominating the view, across the border in Canada.  It was quiet and we could hear the Pigeon River (which is the US-Canada border here) cascading below us.  The beauty along the BRT cannot be overstated.  It is just awesome.  Vista and vista after vista, gazing out over crystal clear lakes stretching for as far as the eye can see.  It may be the most spectacular landscape I’ve ever laid eyes on.




Continuing on, we encountered more and bigger blowdowns than anywhere along the trail, breaking up our rhythm and slowing us down.  We made it to camp just before 6, having covered 6 miles in a little over 2 hours.  Not bad on this trail.    

Looking across towards Canada
Pigeon River doing it's best to hold those Canucks at bay
We set the tent up across the trail so our hips could rest in the dip of the tread.  I thought this was a good idea, but when I finally monkeyed into my sleeping bag, I realized it wasn’t the best spot.  I had trouble finding a position that didn’t put pressure on my sore knee and tossed and turned.  As I was whining about my situation I thought about how Brad had gutted it out for over 24 miles after his injury.  And these weren’t an easy 24 miles.  This was over some of the roughest terrain in the Midwest.  That’s impressive.  He was hurting, but kept his feet moving.  It’s a testament to his will.  If Brad could fight on, I could suck it up and get some rest.  I fell asleep only 6.5 miles from the goal.


DAY 5
Chet woke me at 6 to get moving.  It was dark and cold, 22.3 degrees according to Chet’s thermometer, when we set off, headlamps showing the way.  We crossed two bridges early on as dawn slowly ambled to the day.  The blue flags marking the trail were sparse (but not nearly as sparse as they were in the Boundary Waters) so Chet let me lead (I guess he didn’t want to be responsible for getting us lost).  Daylight increased, but the trail did not present itself any more distinctly through the open grassy areas.  We were able to tease out the route and just when we were going to check the GPS, a blue ribbon would appear hanging on a branch



We worked up quite a sweat trying to pound out the miles in the dawn’s early light.  I set the pace and this time it was Chet who was thankful we stopped for a break.  The overlooks were great since the sun decided to make an appearance (albeit brief).  The hike culminated with a 270-degree vista, only one mile from the end.  Wow.  To the south, the Swamp River meandered through a wide valley.  It reminded me of the Alaska I had seen in pictures and videos.  Turning to the east and north, Canada lay sprawled out, undisturbed and sleeping in the cold, sun splashed morning, simply spectacular.  I coaxed enough life out of my camera for a few photos and a video. 



We made it the last mile and found Brad sitting in the trailhead parking lot.  It was 9:24 and we had completed the BRT in less than 4 days (about 91 hours if you wanted to more specific, with only 20 minutes of direct sunlight during those 91 hours).  I had hiked over 70 miles with spurs, road walking and wrong turns.  Not bad.  To add a bit to my hike at the end, I walked down the road for a few hundred yards to the Superior Hiking Trail Trailhead.  I’d be back in the spring and didn’t want to leave the gap between the two trails.  We loaded our gear into Brad’s car and sped off down the gravel forest road.





I was glad to have finished the Border Route Trail, a goal of mine and Chet was happy to add another trail to his growing list of accomplishments.  While Brad didn’t quite complete the trail, he toughed it out for 52 miles, which is nothing to scoff at.  Not many people can do what he did. 

The beauty of the Boundary Waters from the Border Route Trail caught me off guard.  Seeing the BWCA from a different angle made it even more beautiful than I remembered.  It was like listening to your favorite album and being able to hear it anew, to get a fresh take on it.  The new perspective deepened my appreciation for the Boundary Waters, which I idolized.  Beauty is around us every day, but sometimes we aren’t looking at it in the right light or we come in with preconceived notions that spoil our thoughts.  Taking a step back and looking at something or someone with a new outlook can unlock beauty that has lain hidden from you. 


A few hours later, we arrived in Duluth and headed to Fitger’s Brewhouse.  It’s a tradition of mine to stop there on either the way up or back from the Boundary Waters and I was happy to bring Brad and Chet into the fold.  The food was great and beer even better.  It was the perfect ending to our journey.

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