My Buddy Slota and I have been up to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCA) a few times before, including twice in the winter (for his wedding in 2010, I gave him a coupon redeemable for one sweet adventure a year). I have a goal of going to the BWCA in every month of the year and after my trip with the folks from George Williams College over Halloween weekend; I was left with only 6 months left.
George Williams College Crew in BWCA costume
Slota and I have been camping in the BWCA twice in January so a new month was in store. February it was. He had a friend from Chicago who wanted to come after bailing out on our last trip and that turned into another guy “winning” a spot on the trip in a White Elephant exchange (it wasn’t your typical white elephant gifts). Slota and I met up with another friend, Joe, on New Years and he invited himself on the trip. A group of 5 going up to the BWCA in early February was a big number, until we hooked up with another group, pushing our number to 11. Yes, we had 11 people winter camping in the middle of nowhere, half of whom had never winter camped before. This should be interesting.
Greg was the leader of the other group and had a lot of experience leading groups into the wilderness at all times of the year, calming my anxiety over whether I could bring everyone back alive in my group. My previous winter adventures with Slota have been interesting to say the least. Our first trip was going to last 5 days and we were going to make a loop of 15 miles or so. We snowshoed in 6 miles and set up camp on land, at an actual campsite. The cooking stoves didn’t want to work (I’m guessing -20 degree temps had something to do with that), leaving us with frozen food and a lack of water. We headed back the following day and camped along the way, running into the same problems, which were magnified by my inability to get a good campfire going (my failure to get a fire going was my biggest disappointment of the trip – it still haunts me). We survived in an igloo we found and made it out with all of our extremities intact. Not bad for our first frozen foray.
Our next trip was better after we learned you are supposed to camp on the ice in the winter. We set up in a sheltered bay, blocked from the wind, only to have the wind shift and blow right into our campsite the last two nights. It wasn’t as cold and my white gas stove worked so we ate and drank our fill. I was confident Slota and I could survive, but was nervous with the newcomers. Luckily, Greg was coming to show everyone (including me) what to do to enjoy yourself winter camping.
We checked into our hotel and headed over to Sir Ben’s for beers and to plan our menu (menu’s are best created over beers). I had the Abrasive Ale from Surly Brewing, their Double IPA – quite hoppy and tasty. We bought our groceries, including 4 different sticks of summer sausage, and headed back to the hotel for a little roof top hot tub action. The temps were dropping towards zero and a snow began to fall as we dipped in with Grain Belt Premium’s in hand. The big lift bridge loomed on the skyline as we finished off the 12er in the “man soup” (I guess that’s what you call 5 dudes in a hot tub). Shortly thereafter we headed to Brewhouse for food and more beer.
We saddled up with our grub and drinks when Greg showed up. I had met Greg the year before at Slota’s wedding in Mexico. Having finished my hike just before the wedding, I was feeling pretty important and then the first person Slota introduced me to was Greg who had just completed a circumnavigation of Lake Superior in a kayak. Really? Dammit. Anyways, Greg was a pretty cool guy and I was looking forward to talking to him again at the Brewhouse. I go “Hey Greg” and he just stared blankly back at me and said it was nice to meet me. He didn’t remember me. Awesome. He blamed it on the fact I was clean-shaven in Mexico and was sporting a 6-month beard now. Oh well.
The rest of Greg’s crew showed up as the band, The Brothers Burn Mountain got cranking. The band consists of two brothers who can bring it. The drummer plays like Animal from the Muppets. They were great and I highly recommend catching them if you’re in Duluth or they are passing through your town. With a percussion backdrop, we passed around a boot of beer and got to know each other. It was a good night, but more important things began in the morning. We closed down the Brewhouse and walked along Lake Superior back to the hotel where we managed to order Pizza Luce before they closed down. Being a homeless bum, I took the floor and let the more civilized people enjoy another night in a bed.
Duluth Lift-Bridge
The sky was a deep blue Friday morning as the wind built up decent waves only to have them break upon the rocky shore. We putzed around and got a little later start than was planned. With the cars packed, we headed to Greg’s to figure out where we were going. We had an intense game of rock-paper-scissors to decide our entry point. It came down to the last toss as Greg and Sawbill Lake came out the victors.
A single line formed on the lake as we headed north, reminding me of pictures of people lined up while climbing Mt. Everest, forming a colorful caterpillar against the otherwise white background. The soft crunch of the snow followed our every step as we trudged with our snowshoes on, towing our gear into the teeth of the wind. The wind huffed and puffed but forward we went. Small adjustments were made as we found problems with the way we were hauling our gear.
After hiking for a couple miles, we found a cove protected from the arctic wind, optimal for setting up camp. Staying warm in sub-zero temps is hard enough without the wind weaseling through your layers, bringing a chill to your core. Darkness would be arriving soon enough and wood had to be found and cut for the campfire and shelters had to be constructed for those disinclined to sleeping under the stars, so everyone found a job and the work progressed quickly. The scrape of the shovel was followed by a dull thump as snow was tossed ever higher as the snow mound for the quinzee took shape. Quinzee is the technical name for the snow fort everyone made as a kid. You pile snow up into a big mound, wait for it to settle and harden, and then excavate out the inside creating a dome to sleep in or to hide from the elements. Our shelters were built out of snow and sat on the ice, which doesn’t sound like a recipe for warmth, but with people in them, they actually raise the temperature over whatever it is outside (snow is a great insulator).
Camp coming together
The woodpile grew ever larger and camp began to take shape. Greg and his crew got their sleeping situations set as they were sleeping under the stars. I spend a lot of nights camping, but I’m a chicken when it comes to sleeping without the protection of a tent. I don’t like bugs crawling over me and animals sniffing to see if I’m food. The wall of a tent brings me a modicum of comfort. With the bugs frozen, this gets thrown out the window in the winter (can you throw something out the window if you’re outside already?). Maybe sleeping under the stars is the way to go in the winter. I wasn’t confident in my gear to test this hypothesis yet so we built a one-person quinzee for me (bawk bawwwk bawwk). It ended up being a bit too small so I pulled my gear out and slept under the stars anyways.
The campfire was lit, brightening up the creeping dusk before being swallowed by the moonless sky. I set about cooking dinner for our crew and ran into problems right away. The cold was freezing the stove. We learned that white gas performs better in the cold, but I guess 10 below zero was too much. I retreated to the canvas tent with the wood stove in it, trying to warm up my gas stove enough to pop it and allow me to feed the crew. The food was cooked, as I grew frustrated with myself. I expect better from myself, especially when cooking is involved. Greg had no problem with dinner because he had a big pot with a pasta soup thing, which he cooked right on the fire. That looked way easier than messing with stoves. A few hours into the camping trip with Greg, I had already learned that tents were stupid and stoves unneeded. Our crew carried a lot of extra weight.
The Eye of Sauron made an appearance
With temperatures dropping, we huddled around the campfire, passing bottles and stories. A little night Frisbee was played before the battery on the light-up Frisbee froze. Greg introduced us to a new “game”. I don’t recall what the name was, but under the cover of night, you looked straight up and focused on a star while the other “players” spun you around. After plenty of good spins, you were stopped and had to look at the person in front of you who turned on their headlamp, blinding you. This “game” caused your senses to go completely haywire for a few minutes (kids and their idea of fun these days). I passed on playing.
Alas, the morning sun rose over the spruce trees on the horizon and I was still alive. I did a quick check of all my extremities to make sure they all functioned (never in doubt) and tried to rouse my mind from the fog of a restless night. Everyone got up and moving (although some a little slower than others) and breakfast was made – warm water with oatmeal packets! We decided to do a little exploring and check out some areas that looked easier to access in the winter with the water frozen. Greg had made lunches for his crew before leaving for the BWCA consisting of meat and cheese and probably something else, wrapped in a tortilla. They filled their water bottles with warm water and wrapped their lunch around them, enabling them to have a warm lunch on the clear, cold and blustery day. Brilliant. Have I mentioned how much smarter Greg is than I? My crew had frozen sticks of summer sausage and blocks of cheese, which we put close to our body to hopefully thaw a bit before lunch.
The jovial spirit of the weekend continued as we snowshoed north on Sawbill, on our way to an inlet that needed a closer look. We came across moose tracks (not the ice cream, sadly) that were being covered up on the windswept lake. Hope rose that we may encounter a moose, but it was not to be. Moose (meese?) can be elusive in the winter. We stopped for lunch on a sunny hillside where the conversation soon turned to the possible fact that wolves have evolved to use skis. The proper etiquette when you come across a wolf skiing is to stop and let it maul you. All this talk made us hungry like a wolf (……) and our sticks of sausage were carved up and distributed to the eager crew. The cheese wasn’t quite thawed so it was more difficult to cleave without leaving cheese crumbs everywhere (the cheddar was sharp, but not that sharp).
Moose tracks?
With full bellies, we headed out again towards an ever-shrinking stream. The crick weaved in and out, leaving a sinuous strand of white through the grass and sedge of the lowland. A math nerd would approve of the perfect sine wave formed by the meandering stream. We came across a beaver lodge with freshly munched logs and branches strewn about the snow (That’s a breathin’ beaver). The curvaceous stream led into an oblong lake. The group split apart with one group heading north to see what the stream had to hide while the rest of us horked a left to summit a rock face.
I scampered across the ice and scrambled up the outcropping to gain the vantage point. The temptation to jump was strong, but no one wanted to have to drag an injured idiot out of the Boundary Waters. We posed for pictures and enjoyed the views. It was time to head back and the quickest and dumbest way down was to jump (although from a lower point). I of course jumped, skimming a rock with my right snowshoe, eventually landing safely in the powdery snow.
Joe making an aerial descent
On the way back we built up heat from walking and walking and walking and if you watched Surviorman you know that out here “you sweat, you die”. My layers kept coming off, trying to fend off the sweat, but a little perspiration arose on my body. This wasn’t a problem until I turned the last corner to our camp and the full brunt of the wind hit me like the polar breath of Jack Frost. Holy Shit. I’ve never been to the arctic, but this was extreme. My frostsicle beard was acting like a man-made balaclava, doing it’s best to deflect the battering wind and blowing snow.
Jameo nipper with a frostsicle beard
The sound of an axe splitting the campfire wood welcomed us “home”. With everyone back at camp, the problems and cares of the “civilized” world faded to oblivion as people gathered wood and water with the ice cracking around us as if in pain as the temperatures began their dive toward the nighttime low. It was a selfless sight as everyone pitched in to ensure the survival of the larger group.
Sigurd Olson had a great line about getting the work done and surviving in the Boundary Waters:
If a man can pack a heavy load across a portage, if he can do whatever he has to do without complaint and with good humor, it makes little difference what his background has been. And if he can somehow keep alive a spark of adventure and romance as the old-time voyageurs seem to have done, then any expedition becomes more than a journey through wild country. It becomes a shining challenge and an adventure of the spirit.
How swiftly a place becomes home when the tents are up and a fire burning.
The morning came and Slota and Andy had a 10-hour drive back to Chicago so we packed up without breakfast. The sleds were loaded and tied-down and we gathered for a group photo. The quinzee’s we constructed needed to be demolished and we did it in style. Maury lowered a shoulder and rammed one side, while Slota pulled out his ninja skills and flew in from the other side. Joe finished it off with a powerful two-boot stomp.
Don't get in a fight with Slota
The sun was in our face as we began the final march out of the snowy wilderness and back to our vehicles. Wind had crafted designs in the snow that resembled a map of a snow-covered land dotted with frozen lakes. I paid homage to and got the obligatory picture of the BWCA sign, we were out of the Wilderness, but not home yet. Our last hurrah came at the Northern Lights Café in Beaver Bay, Minnesota. They have a great brunch spread and we did our best to clean them out. Laughter permeated the room as we recounted the weekend and other shenanigans (35 below is pretty funny after the fact). We said our goodbyes and started talking about a return trip the following winter. I’m looking forward to seeing those guys again the next time the bottom drops out of thermometer.
Leaving the Boundary Waters
We parted ways and headed back to being bankers, speech pathologists and Sasquatch hunters. I began my solo trip to Madison with my thoughts returning to civilization (namely the Come Back In and how the regulars, and especially the bartenders Jess and Andura, were doing without me around). It was interesting how little I thought of the outside world while in the Boundary Waters. My thoughts weren’t encumbered with the weight of everyday life and were free to wander were they may (I’m not sure this is a good thing for me). It was a revitalizing trip. “Normal” people vacation on the beach to refresh them, but this crazy winter trip reset my head by pushing and reminding me that great things (and happiness) can be achieved with a little gumption and perseverance. I look forward to my next adventure, wherever that may be and whomever that may be with. Forward!
