At Home at 35 Below

Rolling over to get out of bed Monday morning, my joints creaked like the Tin Man’s, begging for oil. My legs were consumed with a dull roar of pain, echoing from my toes to hips. What the hell did I do to warrant this? I haven’t been to the gym in years and my office job doesn’t strain me too much (although those 6 flights of stairs can leave me winded). No, the answer lay far north of Madison, 435 miles as the car drives to be exact. A weekend in the frozen taiga of Northern Minnesota’s Boundary Waters was the culprit.

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 first trip to the BWCA in Winter

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.

The second January trip

Look! Petroglyphs!

Slota facing death (iciclecide?)

January Sunset

I met up with Joe, Slota, Reno and Andy in Eau Claire on their way up to Duluth for the evening. We were convening in Duluth to make our last preparations and meet up with Greg’s crew at Fitger’s Brewhouse to enjoy the night. The Brewhouse is a tradition for people heading into (and out of) the BWCA. They make some excellent microbrews and sell nalgene growlers, enabling you to bring their beer into the glass-free BWCA. It’s awesome.

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.

Man soup!

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.

Flight of Brewhouse Brews

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.

The Brothers Burn Mountain

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.

After a two-hour drive, all 11 of us arrived at the Sawbill parking lot and started loading up our sleds, careful not to leave anything of import behind. With a forecasted wind chill of 35 below for the duration of our trip, being ready for anything was paramount. We set off into the sun splashed Great White North with smiles on our faces, excited to test ourselves and enjoy a weekend in the middle of nowhere. The mild winter left a dearth of snow throughout much of the Midwest, but we were lucky enough to find a hearty snow-covered landscape with 4”-8” on the ice and 12”-18” of snow on land. Perfect for snowshoeing!

Getting ready at the Sawbill entry point

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.

On our way to the middle of nowhere

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).

Andy building the quinzee

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.

Eating in the canvas tent

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.

It’s a great feeling standing outside with temps approaching -20 and you’re enjoying yourself. If you are prepared, you can not only survive, but also thrive in extreme conditions. The last few logs were sacrificed to the campfire and water bottles were filled with hot water (mmmm I love me some BPH!). The hot water wasn’t for drinking, but for sticking in your sleeping bag as a sort of wilderness heater. Even with the water bottles, I slept horribly. When I pulled my sleeping gear out of the quinzee, I exposed myself to the wind a bit too much, dropping the temps to a wind-aided 35 below zero. I was never too cold, but I couldn’t get comfortable. My makeshift pillow was a failure. When I did drift in and out of sleep, my dreams all involved me sleeping on the ice in the freezing cold. Not exactly the dreams I was looking for. The creaking and cracking of the ice under me didn’t help things either.

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.

Home

We came as two disparate groups but quickly became a community. Reno, Andy, Joe, Slota and I originally planned to come up alone but jumped at the chance to team with Greg, Tim, Tom, Charles, Deet and Maury. Trying conditions creates bonds that cannot be replicated in ordinary life. Friendships grow out of not only necessity, but also a common experience. Turns out the Duluth guys all know Reno’s wife from back in the day (not like that you weirdo’s), and everyone has a kindred heart with Tim and his search for Sasquatch (denial is the first nail in your coffin).

My crew warmed up our leftovers (Old Man Winter is a great freezer), while Greg made rice and beans for his crew. The food added to our warmth and comfort, but not more than the knowledge gleaned from surviving the previous night (I also think taking nippers of Jameson played a part in warming our souls [It’s a sweater you wear on the inside]). We watched from our protected cove as the wind continued to whip off the point. The waning moon rose to illuminate camp as everyone bundled up for their last night of the trip. The terrible dreams of the previous night were replaced with crazy ones, more typical of my deranged sub-consciousness.

My "bed"

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.

Maury as a battering ram

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!

The Great East Coast Road Trip Vol. Five

I awoke at 4:30 AM in the park and ride to a guy monkeying around with a truck next to me that had a big tarp covering the bed. He looked pretty weird (this coming from a guy sleeping in his car) and kept glancing over at me. I had parked away from the rest of the cars to give myself a little solace. Apparently that was not going to happen. After 20 minutes of farting around, the guy got the truck started and tried leaving, but only made it 5 feet before the truck died. A few minutes later he finally left. I was weirded out by that so I tossed my sleeping bag aside and hit the road.

I left Portland, wanting to come back sometime. It was a lot bigger than I thought (metro population of about 250,000) and had some great bars (at least that was the word on the street). After driving for a bit, I decided it was in my best interest to try and get some more sleep so I pulled into the Maine Visitor Center in Yarmouth. Across the street from the visitor center was the headquarters of Delorme. They make the maps that adorn the backseat of my car. It was just another random moment of my trip. I slept for a few hours and then headed up US 1, past LL Bean and the small towns that dot the Maine coast.

My excitement built as I crossed onto Mount Desert Island, home of Acadia National Park. I had done a little research and knew I had to go to the Park Headquarters to register for winter camping at the park, but I still went to the visitor center that is closed down for the season. After consulting a map, I followed the coast (Is it still considered coastline if you are on an island?) up to Bar Harbor. I quickly realized the town nearly shuts down in the off-season. There were at least 15 hotels shuttered for the winter and finding a closed restaurant was easier than an open one.

I registered to camp and before I went to set up camp, I asked the lady in the office where I could find a good lobster. Camping is free in Acadia after December 1, but you have to park at a gate and walk a half-mile or more to the campground and the only open bathroom is a port-a-potty and water is gleaned from a hand-powered pump on the other side of the campground. Needless to say, I had the campground to myself. Having free-range to pick any campsite can be tough because you want the perfect site. I walked around for a while before settling on a site that was elevated and had good drainage in case it rained and pitched my tent.

After getting situated, I headed into town, looking for Geddy’s and a lobster. I had never had lobster before so I figured Maine would be a good place to experience that for the first time. I found Geddy’s and a seat at the bar (I was the only one). Stacy, the bartender, found out I was from Wisconsin and immediately asked if I had any cheese curds with me. Add Stacy to the list of girls I’ve disappointed. She talked me into getting the island special, which consisted of a whole lobster, clam chowder, fries and a slice of blueberry pie. The homemade chowder was excellent (I always thought Campbell’s Chunky New England Chowder was the best you could find…), but that was just a precursor to the lobster.

The recently deceased crustacean was placed in front of me, waiting to be decimated with the help from the claw cracker by my greedy fingers. Stacy explained how to eat the lobster and I dove in. Minutes later, the beast was in my belly and all that was left was its hulking exoskeleton, quarried of the goodness inside (a shell of its former self?). The bartender said I was too clean after eating a whole lobster, and that I should’ve been covered in butter and chunks of lobster. Well, we don’t like to waste food in Wisconsin. I look forward to my next encounter with a tasty, tasty lobster.

The locals thought I was crazy to sleep outside in December. The low that night was in the mid 30’s. I hadn’t camped in weather that warm in a month or two. They were crazy for thinking it was cold outside. I had another local beer or two from the Atlantic Brewing Company and headed back to my tent. I nearly stayed for one more beer and I’m glad I thought better of it because 15 minutes after I got to my tent, it started raining, hard. I feel asleep, nice and dry as my tent deflected the deluge.

The Great East Coast Road Trip Vol. Four

I turned into Portsmouth, New Hampshire as the afternoon was turning to the evening. Portsmouth is an old town and that is readily evident in downtown. I parked my car and walked around for a bit, getting a sense of the history of the place. A huge tree caught my eye from behind a fence. I stopped to take a picture when I noticed a plaque that told me the tree was a horse chestnut and was planted by William Whipple after returning home from signing the Declaration of Independence in 1776. Wow. That’s pretty cool. I have no idea who William Whipple is but he seems to have had a green thumb.

With the arboreal part of my day finished, I headed to the Portsmouth Brewery to imbibe the local brews. I saddled up at the bar and ordered what the couple next to me had, a flight of beers. The best way to get a taste of the local beers is to sample them all! The Portsmouth Brewery beers were joined by a few from Smuttynose Brewery, which is also located in Portsmouth, and their one revolving guest tap that currently was Celebration ale from Sierra Nevada. I felt a little out of place because it was a little more upscale than I’m used to. Looking around at the locals, I imagined them coming from old money (or being old ship captains). I kept to myself as I worked my way down the plank of beers. A guy walked in and sat down a few stools away and looked like a guy I could talk to. He had a big beard and looked like a guy I’d see at one of the music festivals I go to.

Eventually, another guy sat down between us with long gray hair, someone else I could talk to. The two of them knew each other and started talking when I overheard the first guy say “Cornmeal.” My ears perked up and eyes grew wide as I turned and asked if he happened to be referring to the bluegrass band Cornmeal out of Chicago. He affirmed that it was and that they were playing up in Portland, Maine that night. Holy Cow! They are my favorite band and I thought I had checked their schedule before I left on my trip, but I must have missed them. I was sort of planning on ending up in Portland that night so this couldn’t have been any more perfect.

Beer Flight!

The first guy, Matt, was heading up to the show and had me follow because I didn’t know where I was going. I said I was probably going to sleep in my car and he warned me about the strict parking restrictions in downtown Portland. One time he was sleeping in his van after a show and woke up to a tow truck trying to tow his van away. I followed him to the park and ride which is a great place to sleep in your car. We called a cab and headed to the show. Hot Buttered Rum and Cornmeal were on tour together and had been alternating who closed. I was hoping Cornmeal closed because I’m not the biggest fan of Hot Buttered Rum. My hopes were true as Hot Buttered Rum took the stage. They were OK, but sounded more alt-country than bluegrass, not my cup of tea. The highlight of their set was when they played the Beatles “I’ve just Seen a Face.” That’s one of my favorite Beatles songs and hearing it today was made more special because it was the anniversary of John Lennon’s death.

In-between sets, Matt left me alone and went to talk to some friends. I wandered around and checked out the merch table before settling back in front of the stage with a fresh PBR tall boy when I noticed a girl snaking her way through the crowd towards me. Of course she wanted to talk to me. I found out her name was Jess, was just learning the fiddle and had never heard of Cornmeal before (perhaps I won’t be sleeping my car tonight). I told her to prepare herself to be embarrassed by the fiddling prowess of Allie from Cornmeal who wields a fiddle like Van Gough used a paintbrush and Sergey Bubka commanded a pole vault pole. We talked about road trips and how it’s interesting how the geology changes as you drive from place to place. Cornmeal started and effectively ended any conversation with their amped up bluegrass. Jess was impressed with Allie (who isn’t?), but half way through the show said she had to head out. Well, I guess my car it is. Oh well. We said goodbye and I immersed myself into the music once more.

Cornmeal played a killer cover of the Doors “When the Music’s Over.” The show ended with Hot Buttered Rum coming back on stage to help Cornmeal close the show with the classics “Little Maggie” and “Friend of the Devil.” It was an awesome Cornmeal show and if you ever want to see a band bring the house down, check them out sometime. Here is Cornmeal playing a Paul Simon cover. Matt and I got a cab back to the park and ride and we exchanged info. Turns out exchanging phone numbers would come in handy the following week. It would not be the last time I saw Matt or talked to Jess.

What an unbelievable day. I started in New York, saw the Dan Patrick Show studio, reflected at Walden Pond, sampled beer in Portsmouth, met Matt who brought me to a Cornmeal concert in Portland and ended the day by sleeping in my car at a park and ride. I could get used to this road trip thing. The next leg of my journey brought me to Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine with more stories to boot.

Acadia in the moonlight

The Great East Coast Road Trip Vol. Three

I left the relative safety of NY and headed up the coast to find whatever treasures awaited me. I knew that success was not waiting for those who planned, so I was reassured I was on the right path. My path took me to Milford, CT to check out the Dan Patrick Radio Show Studio. It may only be the upper story of a Subway shop, but the man cave doesn’t care. His sports talk show is the best on the radio. Hands down. Perhaps some day I can command the audience DP does.

I got back on the road and kept going until I rolled into Walden Pond. It was a beautiful day as the sun illuminated the lake and pushed temps in to the 50’s. A trail wound around the pond with other trails interspersed throughout the 2680-acre property. The main trail was more like a narrow road, built to withstand the multitude of visitors. On this day, there were a handful of hikers moseying around the pond and even a few hardy swimmers! Walden Pond is a hot spot for long-distance swimmers. It is a decent sized relatively undeveloped lake with no motors allowed, located within the Boston metro area. U.S. Olympian Alex Meyer trains there as he prepares for the 10K open water event. I can’t even run a mile and this guy is swimming 10 kilometers, insane.

Walden Pond afforded me the chance to clear my head after a week in New York. It’s interesting how different my thoughts are in Nature compared to a city. I feel like I think more deeply (scary, isn’t it) when I’m away from people and other manmade distractions. In town, I look for a cheap laugh or comment because the pace of life dictates how long you can focus on one thing, whereas walking in relative solitude enables me to delve into a topic or thought and really probe the thought entirely. I’ve thought and written about the conservation movement in Wisconsin from the likes of John Muir and Aldo Leopold and those ruminations floated up from the depths of my head as I stared at the site of Henry David Thoreau’s cabin. Thoreau came before Leopold and Muir was still in his early years as Thoreau was at Walden Pond, laying the groundwork for conservation and nature in America (and the world).

The site of the cabin and woodshed were marked with small pillars delineating the structures. Off to one side, was a huge pile of rocks. Thoreau lovers have a tradition of placing rocks on the pile in honor of him. If I had known this, I would have brought one of the rocks I’ve picked up on my travels around Wisconsin, perhaps next time.

People had filled the site of Thoreau’s woodshed with sticks and branches paying homage to Thoreau and the idea of Walden. More cynical people would look at the woodpile and laugh, saying it means nothing and is a lame attempt to reconnect with Walden, but actions mean something. Placing a ceremonial stick on Thoreau’s woodpile is a gesture that speaks volumes. It pays tribute to Thoreau and the idea of Walden. We need to reconnect with our own Walden Pond. People become jaded and think nature-lovers are all hippies, like it’s a bad thing to enjoy and protect nature. Screw that. Nature is for everyone

Being a dork, I brought a copy of Walden to read as I walked around the pond. I skipped around a bit, reading random passages, but eventually settled down in the chapter “Solitude.” Thoreau writes, “I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.” And “Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as solitary as a dervis in the desert.” He’s talking about how you can be around people, but still get lost in your own thoughts if you focus on the task at hand. We all have solitary moments, but we may not realize it at the time. Everyone needs some time to himself or herself each day, but that gets lost in the hustle and bustle of life. We can get a little stale if we just go through the same routine everyday. From Walden, “We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are.” I love my sharp cheddar cheese, but every now and then, it’s good to change it up and try something new. Walden Pond enabled Thoreau to get away from the distractions of life in the city and just live and think deeply. Walden is not necessarily a place, but a frame of mind. Everyone needs their own Walden Pond.

I finished my walk around Walden Pond mentally refreshed for whatever crazy adventures lay ahead. I wasn’t sure where the rest of the day was going to lead me or where I was going to sleep, but my car was headed to the Portsmouth Brewery in Portsmouth, New Hampshire and I hopped in. Little did I know that was just the start to an insane story involving Craigslist Maine.