Arrrrrrg. This story is daunting just to write. The last two days were so epically weak, so tragically hard, yet so stupidly simple, I can’t do it justice. It needs some good cinematography and a soundtrack. Perhaps David Attenborough could narrate as he watched the sad yet comical struggles of this young pair. That’s how it plays in my head. Keep that in mind as I try to conclude this story after two years of procrastination.
Day 18, spirits started high. The wind was at our backs. It was cold and sunny. The small lakes had begun to ice up. Without a doubt this would be the penultimate day of this wilderness honeymoon. So we stopped to marvel at the sound of water gurgling under thin ice.
We played with breaking it and tossing it and paddling through it. Then four trumpeter swans flew over. Their calls reverberating through the crisp air and the deep quiet of winter coming. They turned and circled over before leaving us.
By late morning we made it to our last lakes. North and South Foul Lake. The wind had turned, we would be paddling straight into it. After much miserable paddling we stopped angrily at a marshy rocky island. The sky was clouding over. Will’s mood was now foul. When we finally reached the far shore we ate lunch.
I cheerfully told Will that the worst was over. We were done with scary wind and confusing portages. Pigeon river had to be easy. The current would just push us right along. The map showed a perfectly uninterrupted blue squiggle straight to Grand Portage. There were no campsites along it’s 9 miles so surely it would be swift and simple.
We probably should have taken the map’s warning more seriously. Continue reading →
Midwest With Zest 