The Great East Coast Road Trip Vol. Eight

It was Monday, December 12^th and was time to bid Acadia National Park adieu after staying there the last three nights.  I seriously thought of scrapping my plans and head north along the coast, perhaps to Canada to see what other mischief I could get into.  The rugged coast struck a chord with me and I wanted to explore her more deeply.  The locals had been great and I expected more of the same if I hugged the Atlantic.  Maybe I could find a captain who’d let me catch lobster with him for a day.  That would be a lot of fun.  Ahhhh.  What to do?  After thinking it through and looking at camping options along the coast, I broke down my tent, packed my car and started my drive inland.  The ample land around Millinocket and Baxter State Park was a cheaper and easier bet than figuring something out elsewhere.

Before making it to Millinocket, I had to swing through Bangor and pay homage to Stephen King, where he lives in a fairly modest home.  Talking to a guy in Bar Harbor, I learned that the previous owner of the house had committed suicide by jumping off a bridge, strangely fitting of the horror writers’ macabre books.  A new book in my favorite book series, his Dark Tower collection, is being released this spring!

Stephen King's House.  Note the bats and spiderweb theme with his wrought iron fence.

After the quick snapshot, I hopped on I-95 and headed to Millinocket, with something less than a plan.  Huge swaths of forest whirled by the further north I went.  Arriving in Millinocket, I stopped by the Baxter State Park office.  Perhaps, the folks in the office could give me an idea of where to go.  I struck up a conversation with the office lady and name-dropped Lester Kenway.  Lester is one of the most well respected authorities on working with and transporting rock in the trail building community.  He pioneered the techniques used around the county while working at Baxter State Park.  I had attended a training of his in late September at Devil’s Lake so I felt name-dropping was appropriate.  She responded favorably by handing me an application for their trail crew.

Lester drilling into a rock

Rock split in half with nice flat sides

The lady gave me a rundown of things to do in the area that were open in the winter.  I couldn’t camp at Baxter because to camp in the winter, you have to submit an application with a list of all your camping gear at least a week in advance.  Baxter is a 200,000-acre wilderness park and home to Mt. Katahdin the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail.  Needless to say, it’s a big chunk of land with no road access in the winter so you are on your own if tackling it in winter.  She told me the park road was not plowed but there hadn’t been much snow so far so I could drive all the way to the gate and check things out from there.  I bought a map and headed to an outfitter in town to get a bottle of iodine tablets just in case I got lost without a good source of clean water. 

I talked with the guy at the store for a while.  He was the first person who had heard of the Ice Age Trail!  He explained why the rules for winter use at Baxter were so onerous.  In the 60’s, the park manager lost a friend when he went into the park to rescue some folks who were not prepared.  I laid out my tentative plans for the rest of the trip and he suggested a place to go in the White Mountains.  His suggestion was a fantastic addition to the trip, but that’s for another post.  The folks I met on top of Cadillac Mt. the day before told me about camping along the Golden Road, which is a logging road that is kept open year round.  The guy at the store backed the information up and I headed out.

Katahdin loomed on the horizon, beckoning me closer.  It felt like driving to Flagstaff, AZ from the east where the mountain dominates the landscape for miles and miles.  I wasn’t sure where the Golden Road (to Unlimited Devotion) was but figured I could wing it and find it.  The road ceased to be plowed 15 miles from the park, but it wasn’t too bad so I kept going.  I made it to a gate and stopped to walk around and take some pictures.  It was a crystal clear day and the snow-covered Katahdin was beginning to blush in the late afternoon sun.  I had better find this Golden Road before too long. 

Baxter State Park

Katahdin in the distance along the icy park road.  I really failed at taking pictures this day.  Many times I saw what could be a great picture only to drive by without snapping a shot.  Fail.

Here's the view driving into Flagstaff and what it looked like driving to Katahdin, well Maine had trees, but you get the idea.

I headed back the way I came and got a little too confident on the icy road.  My car started fishtailing wildly.  Shit.  There was no cell coverage and it was 15 miles to the nearest house.  The prospects of someone coming along to pull me out of the ditch were somewhere in the range of the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series this year.  The rear end touched both sides of the road.  I was only seconds from disaster, when my Wisconsin skills kicked in and I miraculously regained control of the flailing Intrepid.  I think I should slow down a bit.

The map I had wasn’t the best and I turned down a “road” which turned out be an old logging road or tote road because the ruts started causing my car to bottom out.  I turned around and had to gun it down the hill just so I had enough speed to make it up the next ice-covered hill.  My car and I survived and I finally discovered the Golden Road.  I’m not sure how I missed it the first time.  It was a nice, wide paved road that was plowed.  I passed a few logging trucks on my way to the Abol Campground which the guy in Millinocket had pointed me towards.  Turns out it’s not open in the winter, but the logging company has campsites all along the road, opening up their land for public use. 

The Golden Road is maintained by the logging company and is similar to other roads around Maine, a lot of them charge you to use them.  I’m not sure if there was a fee for this road because I snuck on and off via an access road.  The guy I talked to at the campground, pointed out the Appalachian Trail had camping and was just a hundred yards down the road.  I drove up and parked on the side of the road and headed into the woods.  Dusk had arrived and not even the summit of Katahdin found the last rays of the day.  

Golden Road (To Unlimited Devotion)

I threw together my backpack and set off into the Maine Woods.  This was the last 3 miles of Maine’s fabled 100-mile Wilderness.  Nowhere to resupply or get help for 100 miles.  Awesome.  I was excited to stay at an official Appalachian Trail shelter and the Hurd Brook Lean-to, 3.3 miles down trail, provided me that opportunity.  The trail was rough with roots and rocks, but easy to follow in the darkness.  My days seem to becoming more and more crepuscular in nature.  An inch or two of snow covered the ground, illuminating the trail, but eventually the cedars and hemlocks blocked out the snow and light, forcing me to turn on the headlamp.  I started out excited, but soon my brain started working against me.  “What am I doing out here?  Hiking a crappy trail at night in the middle of nowhere and for what?”  My feet never turned against me and soon enough I was at the lean-to.

Entering the 100-mile Wilderness

Hurd Brook Shelter

I made dinner and started to peruse the trail register that sits on a shelf inside, protected from the weather.  After reading a bit, I realized that the Hurd Brook campsite is the last night on the AT for a lot of the thru-hikers. The register was filled with hikers named Swift, Witch Doctor, Happy Pappy, Bumblebee and the Bearded Jew.  From their entries, a lot of the hikers were trying to outrun a hurricane while others were reminiscing about the previous 2000 miles.  One guy said this was his 17^th thru-hike!  I hope to be back someday, I just need a trail name (I was always partial to Chimp, in reference to Rick Moranis’s character in Strange Brew [Here's the clip!])!  

One of many trail names scratched into the shelter's walls

Reading through, you get a sense of the community that is created over 2000 miles.  You keep seeing and talking to the same people as you trek north and leave notes for one another at registers along the trail.  It seems the hard part of the AT is physical, not mental, because someone is always there to pick you up if you’re feeling down or having trouble.  Maybe I’m wrong.  A few people who’ve hiked the AT had trouble with the Ice Age Trail when they got to the Northwoods because it is filled with solitude.  I’m a lonely guy in general so the IAT wasn’t too bad (wait, I talk to everyone…)

Hurd Brook

I kept seeing lights through the trees, which made me think town was close, but I realized it was just the stars, acting as my streetlights.  I dozed off with clear skies overhead and a gurgling stream providing the soundtrack.  Tomorrow my voyage was headed to Rangeley, Maine.  I didn’t know what I was going to find there, but I sure didn’t expect the craziness that ensued.  

The Great East Coast Road Trip Vol. Seven

The alarm clock rudely awakened me at 4:15 in the AM.  The sunrise sure comes early in Maine.  I had a packet or two of cold oatmeal, got dressed and packed my backpack for the hike up Cadillac Mt.  I wasn’t sure what to expect with trail conditions and whether or not my knee would hold up.  She gave me fits on my thru-hike of the Ice Age Trail and the largest elevation gain there is only a few hundred feet.  I was going to climb over 1300 feet this morning in dawn’s early light.  Oh well. 

I set off on the Cadillac South Ridge Trail at 4:54 with a full moon illuminating the landscape.  It was December 11^th and there was a chill to the air.  The temps were in the 30’s, perfect for hiking up a mountain.  I soon discovered that this hike was not going to be easy.  The trail was severely eroded with roots and rocks reaching up to trip me.  I was too stubborn to turn on the headlamp; the romantic in me wouldn’t let the artificial light ruin the brilliance of the full moon (although the trees did a great job blocking said moonlight).  

The Moody Blues song “The Day Begins” from the Days of Future Passed album surfaced in my memory when writing this blog post (This album is fantastic by the way.  It was one of the first concept albums as it follows a day through its arc).  It was a great touchstone and provided a perfect soundtrack to frame my thoughts:

Cold hearted orb that rules the night

Removes the colours from our sight

Red is gray and yellow, white

But we decide which is right

And which is an illusion

I pushed on up the steep, wooded trail until I emerged into an opening of barren rock overlooking Bar Harbor.  The town was still in slumber as the faint glow of the dawn slowly crept across Atlantic Ocean.  I wasn’t planning on coming to Eagles Crag on the way up by my affinity for darkness led me to miss an intersection a ways back on the trail.  With the moon shedding more light as the trees diminished in area and stature, I pushed on, eager to see what lay ahead.  The higher elevation had turned what water there was to ice, making for a tricky hike as I tried to avoid slipping off the mountain.  The trees eventually faded away, opening up the views on all sides (the views here were slightly better than from atop Timm’s Hill…). 

Pinprick holes in a colourless sky

Let insipid figures of light pass by

The mighty light of ten thousand suns

Challenges infinity and is soon gone

Night time, to some a brief interlude

To others the fear of solitude

The moonlight was still the dominant light source, helping me pick out the blue blazes that had been painted on the mountain and the rock cairns that guided me along.  I made it to a perched lake named the Featherbed (what a great name for a pond) and took a break.  It was at this point I realized the dawn was progressing a lot quicker than I anticipated.  I came all this way, only to sleep in too late and miss the sunrise.  Wow.  Fail.  I put the pedal down and booked it the last mile.  The hell if I was going to miss this. 

The Full Moon getting ready to rest after a good nights work

I arrived at the summit with time to spare and a solid sweat running down my brow.  Being a cool Sunday in mid-December with the road to the top closed down (the only way to get up there in the winter is a 3.5 mile hike either up the road or one of the trails), I was hoping to find myself alone, but company awaited me.  There was a group of 6 or 7 others who had come from the next island over.  They walked bikes up the road so they could ride them down after the big show.  The wind was brisk, driving temps down before the warmth of the sun hit America and causing me to layer up pretty fast.  The group of locals invited me to join them in sun salutations to stay warm.  I’m not much of a yoga guy (although after reading a few recent articles, my interest has been piqued), but doing the sun salutation right before we witnessed the first sunrise in the US, seemed like a great idea.

We huddled around in eager anticipation of Helios cresting the horizon.  The warming rays were finally unfurled.  We were the first people in the United States to see the sunrise today!  I don’t care what you think, but that is pretty cool.  I’m never first to do anything so it was a nice change of pace.  We gazed over the Atlantic and cheered our glasses of wine as the sun rose ever higher in the East while the full moon set in the West.  It was a beautiful sight.  The other people packed up to start their chilly descent, but not before giving me a few tips on where to go near Millinocket, the next destination in Maine of my journey.  I thanked them and we parted ways, leaving me alone to soak in the sunrise.

Brave Helios, wake up your steeds

Bring the warmth the countryside needs

I looked down on Bar Harbor and saw how beautiful it is this time of year, but most of the town is closed down, awaiting the return of the tourists and summer residents.  I guess I’m a little different because I relish what the late fall/early winter has to offer.  Crisp mornings and sunny days, followed by nights lit by a full moon.  What more do you want?  Maybe, I like Bar Harbor precisely because it’s the offseason.  I share Acadia National Park with a smattering of fellow hikers and the town has plenty of parking available (and bars still open).  The locals are friendlier with the summer onslaught over and can settle into a peaceful routine.  The only visitors are the hardy ones, looking for a little solitude themselves amongst the surrounding beauty.  I think the locals appreciate that.  They get to enjoy the solitude of winter contrasted with the mass chaos of the “in-season.”

Rock cairn guiding the way

The Featherbed

Glacial striations?

The way down was much easier with the full power of the sun allowing me to easily avoid the patches of ice.  Hiking a trail in the daylight is quite different from hiking it at night.  The night hike gives you a more intimate feeling, as your senses are more attune to every undulation of the trail as it writhes along the terrain.  Your feet become your eyes at night.  The daylight exposes grand vistas and hidden sights allowing you to forget about where each foot is stepping. 

I passed a guy who was celebrating his 60^th birthday with a climb to the top of Cadillac Mt.  What a great present to give yourself.  After retracing my steps, I made it back to my tent right in time to take a late morning nap.

This may be why the night hike was difficult

The trail is eroded down to the bedrock

After waking up and having lunch, I headed into to Bar Harbor and wasted an hour or so talking on the phone – big Packer game that afternoon.  I peeled off the phone and made my way to the Beehive Trail.  A couple at the bar the previous night had mentioned how crazy of a hike it was so, of course, I had to check it out myself. 

Beehive Trail is a little rocky in places

Let’s just say they don’t have trails like this in Wisconsin.  The trail takes you straight up a rock face using iron rungs and ladders.  A slip or fall would not end well.  I have trouble getting some of the trails I lay out in Wisconsin approved because of “safety issues” but then I see a trail like this, in a National Park no less, and wonder how they can get away with a great trail like that.  People are too scared of adventure and getting hurt these days.  I say if you get hurt while on a trail, it’s your own fault.  Mother Nature isn’t always easy. 

Up we go!

Now this is a trail!

The trail gets a little tight on this ledge

Anyways, I scampered up the Beehive in time to catch the sunset.  Seeing the sun rise and fall from atop a mountain is an awesome experience (So I was the first person to see the sunrise and sunset that day?).  This may not have been the 14ers in Colorado, but I’ll take it!

The sun falling behind the horizon

For the trip down the Beehive, I took a less strenuous route and came across the first section of trail in the park that I saw constructed correctly.  Nice tread with a great looking backslope make for a pleasant walk.  I stopped by the Thunder Hole to watch the moon begin its ascent across the night sky.  The night ended with a drive to town to catch the rest of the Packer-Raider game.  The Pack was crushing Oakland to a pulp as I had a little dinner, which I washed down with the sweet nectar that is PBR.  Today was an all around great day.  

From the Moody Blues “Late Lament”:

Breathe deep the gathering gloom

Watch lights fade from every room

Bedsitter people look back and lament

Another day's useless energy spent

The coast of Maine was great, I met a lot of wonderful people and saw some amazing sights, but my crazy road trip had to leave town.  I was headed to the interior of Maine to find a little Wilderness, 100 miles of it to be exact.  

The Great East Coast Road Trip Vol. Six

Saturday began with cloudy skies and relatively warm temps, as I slowly got the gears turning and lumbered out of my tent. I wandered around the campground for a while, fetching water and eating cold oatmeal. I headed to town to check things out in the daylight and figure out what I was going to do that day. The blanket of clouds overhead began to thin and form holes. It was turning into a beautiful day.

Acadia National Park is crisscrossed with carriage roads that pre-date the park when the Rockefellers and other wealthy families used the area as their own personal playground. The carriage roads today, give visitors great access to the park and the beautiful sights. Beginning December 1 though, all the roads in the interior of the park are closed down to allow snowmobiling, leaving the small section of road along the Atlantic Ocean as the only open road in the park. This was the section I wanted to visit.

I’ve been to the ocean in places with beaches – Florida, Southern California, Jamaica, but never witnessed big waves crashing against rock and cliffs like I’ve seen in TV shows and movies about the Pacific Northwest (The Goonies). Acadia provided me with the views I’ve been looking for. The waves may not have been big, but you could still feel the power they hold as they battered the rocks just a few feet in front of me. One slip, overzealous step, or large wave could’ve meant curtains for me. Even with my awareness of the danger the cold waters presented, I danced from rock to rock, trying to find the best view and perfect camera shot (I always thought I possessed great talent to hop around on rocks and boulders). The ocean was not my demise, at least not yet.

I look so happy

I traveled down the coast and found Sand Beach, a rare sight along the Maine coastline. Walking along the beach, I got a little too close and a wave swept up over my shoes. I only wanted to feel the water with my hand, not soak it up with my shoes and socks. Whoops.

I moved onto Thunder Hole where the waves are funneled into a cleft in the cliffs, producing huge spray and the thunder sound. The thunder was quiet for my visit, but I got an idea of what she was like in top form as a few waves launched water into the air. I got talking to a guy named Everett who lived in the area. He liked to walk down to the Thunder Hole and see how it’s acting up on a regular basis. Apparently it can be quite impressive (skip to the last 30 seconds). We talked about the park as he informed me of the history and some neat facts. He pointed to the cliffs just south of us and said they were the highest cliffs along the Atlantic Ocean until you get to Rio de Janeiro. Those are the tidbits I like. I asked him where I could find the Internet in Bar Harbor so I could do a little planning for the rest of my trip. He wasn’t sure, so Everett invited me over to his house. I’m not one to turn down a strangers offer to help, so I gave him a ride back to his place. I found the info I was looking for and we proceeded to talk away the afternoon.

Thunder Hole (The calm before the storm?)

Everett told me a story about how when Martha Stewart bought a house on the island, she wanted to use the phone at the general store but the clerk said the phone was just for employees. Martha said she really needed to use the phone, but the worker would not relent and then Martha busted out the “Do you know who I am?” Martha got a tap on the shoulder and an elderly gentleman said “Ms. Stewart, they don’t let me use the phone either.” It was David Rockefeller.

Everett said I could stay at his house or take a shower if needed, but I passed because I already had a great campsite and had to get up early the next morning if I wanted to catch the sunrise from atop Cadillac Mountain. Before I left, I showed him a few of my pictures because he was a photographer and he was not impressed. I have a lot of work to do if I want to get better at photography.

I drove around the island checking out the small towns bathed in the falling light of the setting sun. It was quite beautiful. With night getting comfortable, I headed back to Geddy’s for a few drinks. More conversation was had as I finished sampling the local beers. A few hours later, I called it a night. I set my alarm for 4:15 so I’d have enough time to hike the 3.5 miles to the top of Cadillac Mt. and be the first person in the US to see the sunrise. It was a crystal clear night as I sleep soundly in anticipation of my trek.

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!