The Singing Wilderness

by Robert Countryman

In April of 1956 Sigurd F. Olson released his first book, The Singing Wilderness, which for many became the Bible of wilderness spirituality.  It was Sigurd’s belief that man was genetically tied to the land, to the uncharted and untamed wilderness; that something – some spiritual connection – existed on the cellular level between humans and the natural world.  It was also his belief that as a race we were losing this connection, that the bond between man and nature was frayed almost to the breaking point.  As an author and leader at the forefront of the conservation movement of his time, Sigurd spent his life’s energy trying to convince the world that nature does matter, that wilderness has vital meaning in our lives.  He believed that by breaking our bond with nature people would be losing something essential, a spiritual connection rooted in the human soul.

It has been some 50 years since Sigurd released that first book.  It is appropriate then to step back and reflect on his work and life.  If Sigurd’s name and work are not remembered or discussed as they once were perhaps it was time to renew the discussion.  Joining with filmmaker Peter Olsen, we embarked upon a journey to capture the spirit of Sigurd’s work, in a first step to reacquaint the world with his writing and his beliefs, and to bring the beauty and essence of the natural world to life for the screen.  Our format would be a documentary.  Our quest was to answer the question – does wilderness still have meaning?   This first trip would be an experiment, a test of the feasibility of bringing high-end, broadcast quality (read: large and heavy) video gear on a wilderness expedition.

My relationship with the back country of the Quetico-Superior region began at an early age.  At 13 I attended a YMCA camp in Northern Minnesota that specialized in wilderness adventures in the Boundary Water Canoe Area, or BWCA.  But even prior to that I had been exploring the wilderness area that adjoins the BWCA.  In 1972 my step-father laid the foundation for our family cabin on Gunflint Lake, about three quarters of the way up the Gunflint Trail, one of three main entry points into the BWCA and Quetico.

The cabin sits on the south shore of the Lake.  On the northern side is Canada and development is strictly limited and it is possible to sit on our dock and look across the lake and view the pine, birch and aspen trees stretching across the landscape, unbroken by man’s touch.  The only sign of others’ presence is the occasional passage of a fishing boat or perhaps a canoe or two setting out on a trip.

For a young boy of thirteen the trips into the canoe country were difficult but rewarding.  Looking back now it’s hard to see how a 90-pound boy could carry a 70-pound canoe up steep paths scattered with rocks and fallen tree limbs.  During the trips I remember complaining of dried food, the lack of television, the swarms of mosquitoes and the physical torture of paddling and portaging a canoe.  But I also remember sitting by the campfire at night, watching the flames twist and curl around the logs.  Watching the smoke rise to the stars, stars beyond number, the darkness of the wilderness bringing forth shining heavens never before seen by young boys from the cities and suburbs.  I remember the sense of accomplishment when a difficult portage had been crossed, when with shoulders aching and legs wobbling from the effort, the canoe is finally set down on the shore of the next lake to be crossed.

These are the memories that draw me back to the area now as I get older.  As life continues to get more and more complex.  As work, family and other activities all compete for time that seems to slip away in the blink of an eye.  As the meaning of life becomes less clear yet more important.  Everyday the wilderness beckons, the simple life calls out.  A life where daily survival depends on individual effort and skill, on tasks accomplished with bare hands and a few simple tools.

I know from my discussions with Peter that his experiences and motivations are similar to mine.  We met through our work – my writing and his film career – and we had communicated several times by email.   Peter read a manuscript I’ve written set in fictitious town in Northern Minnesota.  He had recently completed an indie film that had received quite a bit of critical praise.  As we emailed back and forth we realized that we had a strong common bond – our love of the woods of northern Minnesota.  My novel was set there and Peter had long dreamed of filming a movie in the area.

As we discussed ideas and concepts for projects Peter mentioned his interest in to do a documentary on Sigurd’s life and work.  His idea sparked some memories and I dug an old copy of Sigurd’s Reflections from the North Country from the shelves.  Inside the cover was a hand written dedication from the director of my Y Camp recognizing my fourth year as a camper.  I re-read the book and was hooked on Peter’s idea.  We would embark on a journey to capture the beauty and spirit of Sigurd’s world on film.

The journey to the Gunflint Trail is approximately 6 hours from the Twin Cities by car.  Peter had flown in the night before from New York and we had spent the morning packing and picking up our camera, tripod and other filming gear.  This would be my first shoot and I wasn’t really sure what to expect.  Would the camera fit well in the canoe?  What kind of case was it in – would it be waterproof?  Would it (I hoped to never find out) float?  I wondered whether or not it would it be an appropriate question to ask the manager renting the equipment?  I could just see him refusing to let us out the door after explaining that we would be transporting his fifty thousand dollar digital camera through the boundary waters in an 18 foot canoe.  I chose not to ask.

We stopped halfway on our trip and met Peter’s parents at a small café in Duluth’s Canal Park district, a touristy waterfront area where you can watch the iron ore ships pass along the shore.  We talked of the project and possible contacts and sources of information.  We parted ways in the Duluth Pack store – a campers dream – and headed north once again.

The rest of the trip was spent on Highway 61 which meanders along side Lake Superior.  It’s a pleasant drive with numerous scenic rest stops and State Parks.  For the most part the lake is hidden by a dense picket of trees but at times the forest opens up to beautiful vistas of the water.  The shimmering blue of Lake Superior fading into the distant, soft blue of the horizon so that it is impossible to see where the lake ends and the sky begins.  Cliff faces drop hundreds of feet into the water, the dark brown surface disappearing into the clear water to unknown depths.  Rivers rush and churn their way through gorges and over rocks on their way to the great lake and eventually to the sea.

At one point Peter fell asleep in the car and woke to see Lake Superior outside his window.  He looked a little confused and then said that it hadn’t really sunk in the day before that he was really here.  That flying two thousand miles to the Twin Cities and then jumping straight into a car had left him disoriented, uncertain how he could be viewing the vast expanse of Lake Superior that stretched away as far as the eye could see.  The contrast between the crowded, noisy streets of New York and quiet solitude of the wilderness which we were about to enter was as stark as night and day.  Modern travel leaves one with the ability, in the historic perspective, to instantaneously reach any point on the globe.  Journeys that a few centuries ago took months or even years are now done in a day or even a few hours.  The result is that we often fail to appreciate the distance we have traveled and the change in geography, climate and culture.

In the article “Flying In”, first published in 1955, Sigurd discusses a trip he took by sea plane to his favorite camp site on Lake Gabimichigami.  A few hours from his front door at home to the campsite deep in the backcountry left him unsatisfied and wanting.  The campsite which in the past had been gained by days of hard work, paddling and portaging was now available without the effort.  There was something missing he thought.  The cares and worries of everyday life still clung to him like a suit of city clothes.  There had not been a chance to discard the stresses through time and exertion.  He had not earned the right to enjoy his favorite spot, he had received it free of charge, and like anything bought on the cheap it did not satisfy.

…for the first time in my life I had failed to work for the joy of knowing the wilderness; had not given it a chance to become part of me.  The last time it had taken three days of travel, many portages, sixty miles or more of bending to the paddle and fighting the wind, two campsites along the way, with always the great goal ahead, one of the most beautiful spots in the border country.

- The Singing Wilderness

As the saying goes, getting there is half the fun.

At the cabin Peter spent a few hours setting up the camera while I got our gear organized and the canoe strapped down on top of the car.  Although our trip would only be for three days we would need a fair amount of gear.  The stove, cook kit, tent, sleeping bags, thermal insulating sleeping mats, and other basics would be required if the trip was going to be one day or fourteen.

Food and clothes were minimal but still took up room in the packs.  With everything lying scattered about on the living room floor I wondered once again, as I always do, how everything would fit in the canoe.

We got to bed late that night, later than I would have hoped and the morning rolled around all too soon.  We woke before dawn wanting to hit the water early, at the magic hour when the sun was just coming up over the horizon.

We arrived at the jumping off point, a long finger-like inlet on the south end of Lake Saganaga, around 7:00 am.  We wanted to get an early start hoping to beat the Easterly winds which can make the big lake difficult, and sometimes impassable, due to high waves and driving gusts.  The morning was cold, mid-twenties, maybe low thirties.  It was late spring in the Twin Cities but up north the birch and aspen trees had yet to open their leaves.  The skeletal look of the trunks and branches lent a desolate air to scene.  The water would be cold, just above freezing, the ice out occurring just a few short weeks earlier.

The inlet was mostly deserted, a few cars in the parking lot testament to others who had arrived before us.  Most likely fisherman as the season had just opened the weekend before.  This part of Saganaga is developed; cabins line the inlet along with a small country store selling provisions and live bait.  Motors are permissible along the corridor, a section of the lake marked on the map that extends north and westwards towards American Point.

The water was calm and the sky slightly overcast. We untied the canoe from the roof and slipped into the still water.  We lined up the packs, the camera and the tripod the shore.  All this equipment for three days on the trail?  A shoot in the Boundary Waters was going to be interesting to say the least.  After numerous attempts at stowing the awkwardly shaped gear (the tripod in particular was difficult and required a 3 stage maneuver that Peter and I would both master by the end of our trip) we were finally ready to get underway.

As we were about to set off, a group from one of the outfitters arrived and began to get their boats in the water.  We struck out towards the north gliding through the still bay towards the open water of the big lake.  A short while later a motor boat passed us.  It was then we realized that the group from the outfitters was not canoeing to start their trip.  Rather they were riding in a boat that was equipped with a large metal frame on which two canoes rested.  They were getting a ‘tow’ to American Point, the demarcation on the map where motors were no longer allowed.  The boat sped by and our narrow canoe rocked back and forth in its wake.

The noise and turbulence of the boat faded away and we were once again alone on the water.  The canoe slid through the water effortlessly.  The motion of paddling was strange and muscles unused to this type of labor grew tired quickly, and we switched sides occasionally to compensate.  The inlet narrowed and the noise of another boat approached us from behind.  We pulled to the side to wait for it to pass to avoid being caught in the narrows and tossed about in the passing waves.  As the boat passed we waved and received a raised arm in reply.  Two canoes again strapped to the metal framework built onto the boat.

A short while later, the narrows successfully negotiated, we reached the open water of Lake Saganaga.  The lake is about six miles wide east to west and seven miles north to south at the widest points, although its irregular shape makes this estimate no more than an approximation.  There are dozens of islands dotting the lake, some quite large, others a mere rock or two jutting out the water, with a scrub pine or twisted cedar clinging for life to its stark home. We turned westward and headed towards American Point.  The wind was at our backs and helped us along our way.

After about 45 minutes or so of paddling we decided to stop and take a short break to stretch our legs.  We opened the Duluth pack that held the food and pulled out some gorp.  Gorp, a mixture of nuts, raisins and M&Ms is a great trail snack.  It requires no prep time and the  combination of sweet and salty flavors is irresistible, especially if one is tired from a long day paddling.  Even though we had been at it for less than an hour it tasted wonderful and the feeling of being on trail began to sink in just a little bit.

A few more boats with canoes loaded on top passed us by and we decided to hit the water once again.  After about 15 minute or so we reached American Point and saw a number of canoes drawn up on shore.  Men moved about sorting out their camping and fishing gear.  We had to wonder why these men would need to take a motor boat to this point in the lake simply to save themselves an hour of paddling.  After all, it appeared that they would be paddling now that they had reached the edge of where motors were allowed.  Why would someone go to the trouble, not to mention expense, to hitch a ride on a noisy motor boat when they could enjoy a leisurely paddle and arrive at the same destination in a mere hour.  It was hard to fathom.

We continued on past American Point and reached the western half of the lake.  We paddled for some time, alone now and undisturbed by motors or even other canoes. For a few minutes we simply sat and listened.  It’s amazing what you can hear if you just stop and really listen.  The wind high in the tree tops on the distant shore whispered their welcome.  A loon called in the distance.  Birds deep in the forest kept up a constant background chatter of song.  The longer you listened the more the heard; individual bird calls were soon distinguished from one another, becoming clear and distinct.   This was the “Singing Wilderness” – this was what we were here to experience and if possible capture in some small way on film for others to experience.

From behind we could hear the sound of another group so we began to paddle again to our first portage.  We made good time, except for a slight detour where we missed the portage into Swamp Lake.  The group that we had heard before had caught up to us and we backtracked a bit after seeing them direct their canoes to portage.  One canoe landed while the others floated about the small bay, the men all casting their fishing lines about in hope of getting a strike before making the crossing.

We waited for a moment or two before one of the paddlers called out for us to go ahead of them.  The portage was tiny, only 5 rods long, really just a few rocks separating two bodies of water.  We pulled the canoe up on shore and attempted to walk it across without taking anything out.  After a few heaves we realized that some of the packs or the camera would have to be unloaded first.  This was quickly accomplished and we were soon on our way again in Swamp Lake, our first, albeit very short portage behind us.

We had only a short leg before reaching our next portage, which although it was a relatively short 80 rods, it would be a test of how well we would be able to get our canoe and equipment across these land bridges the rest of our trip.  But first we would cross Swamp Lake whose name did no justice to its beauty.  The water was clear and blue, the shore lined with pine, birch and aspen.  Not a swamp at all but a pristine lake, devoid of all signs of man just a few short hours from civilization.

After making our way across this lake, where we saw no other sign of people, we reached our next portage.  I took the canoe the first trip across while Peter double-packed one of the Duluth packs and day pack, along with the paddles.  The next trip was reserved for the camera gear and the last Duluth pack.  Peter took the camera and the tripod while I took the other Duluth pack.  At the end of the portage we looked out over Otter Lake, a long and lean lake that stretched out to join Knife Lake in the west.  We had made it, passed our first true test on land.

Over the next couple of days we would get our system down and become more efficient with each portage.  Gear was carried in slightly different combinations until by trial and error we discovered the best way to handle each crossing.  The tripod and camera for example were a cumbersome haul for just one person.  The oddly shaped bulks were not designed for long term lugging.  We found that the camera was carried most comfortably using the strap across the forehead, the bulk of the bag resting across the shoulders and back, rather than slung over the shoulder briefcase style.  The tripod could be carried by the handle but if it were thrown over the shoulder across the top of a Duluth pack it made for a much easier portage. These lessons were not learned on this one portage, but slowly over the course of the next few days.

The canoe safely in the water and gear stowed we set out on Otter Lake.  The sky was low and overcast, the gray skies adding a serene, almost somber air to the lake.  The pines and cedar trees lay thick and dark upon the banks, except where granite cliffs or piles of rock thrust their way out of the earth and woods.  We hugged the southern shore and made for our next portage, the one that would take us into Ester Lake and our campsite for the night.

At the portage we switched up the distribution of gear.  Peter headed off with the canoe while I took one of the Duluth packs and the day pack.  The dirt path wound its way through the woods, dotted here and there with rock or puddles, until it began a steady climb upwards.  After a few minutes I found myself short of breath and straining with each step.  The portage was 125 rods, which, while not long by any stretch, was also not a piece of cake.  The hill continued for what seemed to be much more than 100 rods and I wondered if there had been a misprint on the map.  Surely we would have to descend a considerable distance back down to reach Ester Lake.  At the top, finally, I stopped and took a few deep breathes and looked ahead.  The path sloped back down as expected and I set off again.  Before long I came upon Peter and our destination, the blue water of the lake spanning out from the shore.  The descent had not occurred as I had thought – Ester was sitting upon a higher plateau than Otter.

Paddles in hand once again I began to feel that we had truly reached the BWCA.  For the last few hours we had not encountered anyone, it was just us our canoe and paddles. Being in the wilderness again was exhilarating and peaceful at the same time.  The sense one gets when away from the noise, the bustle and the stress of everyday life is almost indescribable.  Sigurd said it best when he said

More and more do we realize that quiet is important to our happiness.  In our cities the constant beat of strange and foreign wave lengths on our primal senses beats us into neuroticism, changes us from creatures who once knew silences to fretful, uncertain beings immersed in a cacophony of noise which destroys sanity and equilibrium… Over all was the silence of the wilderness, that sense of oneness which comes only when there are no distracting sights or sounds, when we listen with inward ears and see with inward eyes, when we feel and are aware with our entire beings rather than our senses.  I thought as I sat there… that without stillness there can be no knowing, without divorcement from outside influences man cannot know what spirit means.

We talked about where we should camp for the night.  I had picked out a spot on the map before hitting the trail which had looked promising.  An island campsite about half way down Ester Lake.  Peter looked at the map and was concerned that there were three other camp sites in close proximity to the island site I had had my eye on.  I had to agree that it would be unfortunate if another group or two were camped so near us that we would be able to hear them.   We wanted solitude, wanted ours to be the only campfire visible on the lake.

On the map there was another lake just a few miles further west, Hanson Lake.  We would not even need to portage to reach it and the few campsites there were spread far apart.  One looked particularly promising, on the southern edge of the lake set back in a small bay.  We decided to head for Hanson Lake unless the campsites on the island were too good to pass up.

Content to put our backs into the paddle work now that we had our plan in place we made good time.  The canoe skimmed along the water, the shoreline gliding past at a nice clip.   Sliding through the water we approached the island and in the shadows we saw a shape move.  Suddenly a mother moose and two calves materialized in the water, their bodies emerging from the background of the tree lined shore.  The trio stood near the island for a moment or two, then mother led the calves across the shallows, the water barely reaching up to the knees of her two young.  We drifted toward them until we were mere yards away.  The mother appeared rather elderly, a large whitish or grey muzzle her prominent feature.  The youngsters appeared to be only a few months old.  They walked with the spindly stiff legged gait common to new born cows or horses, their coat a light creamy brown, milk chocolate color.  The mother was a darker brown, except for her aforementioned white snout.

We paddled slowly, careful on every stroke to slip the paddle in and out of the water as silently as possible.  The moose appeared to see us but did not seem alarmed moving slowly but surely across the shallows to the other side of the channel between the island and shore.  They entered the woods on the far shore as we drew parallel to their position; the mother paused and turned to look at us before disappearing into the underbrush.  We followed their progress by the sound of tree limbs snapping and breaking as the mother moose’s large frame shouldered aside the undergrowth, the calves trailing in her wake.  Occasionally we caught glimpses through the dense woods of a calf or the mother as they moved parallel the shoreline.

Eventually they entered one of the campsites, the one on the south shore just across from the one on the island where we had planned to spend the night.  The cow turned inland and began to climb up a hill and deeper into the woods.  Peter and I sat for a moment contemplating their exit.  We were sorry to see them go but were exhilarated by the fact that we had seen them at all. A mother moose with two young calves – if only we had been able to capture that on film!  The camera, however, lay snug and secure in the bottom of the canoe – it would have taken at least 15 minutes to set it up.  There just wouldn’t have been time to land the canoe, unpack the camera, get the tripod ready – the moose would have been long gone.  Still we were left with the memory– maybe for this first trip that would be enough.

We continued on and rounded a sharp point and much to our surprise a short 30 yards or so away was the moose and two calves once again walking in the water.  They had come down the other side of the hill and back to the lake.  All three crossed the shallow bay and once again headed up into the hills, this time to disappear for good.

A short while later we entered Hanson Lake through a narrows choked by tall grass and fallen trees.  There was a small opening, just two canoe widths in size that allowed us to leave Ester Lake behind.   We hugged the south shore and looked for our campsite.  We spotted the bay where our campsite should be but were unable to distinguish among the woods and undergrowth any sign of the site.  But then as we approached closer we saw a small hint of an opening.  We headed for it and beached the canoe.  Our first campsite.

Sigurd often reflected the importance of campsites in his writing.  Are they protected from the weather?  Were there flat open spaces suitable for placing the tent?  What was the view like?  Would the sun rise or set over the far shore?  Was it within hearing distance of a rapids or falls so that the last sound before drifting off to sleep would be the rush of water in your ears?

All of these are important considerations and we had them in mind as we surveyed our campsite.  On the whole there was nothing remarkable about this site.  However, there was a nice spot for the tent near the shore, on a sort of spit of land near an inlet, so that water was on both sides of the tent.  The fire pit and grate were set back and protected from the wind.  While it was not a perfect campsite it would be our home for the night.  I set about unpacking and setting up camp as Peter got the camera gear organized.

Later that afternoon we shot some footage from the canoe.  I paddled while Peter handled the camera that we had positioned in the bow on a tripod.  We learned as we tried to capture moving shots of the shore that it’s a considerable challenge to hold the canoe steady enough to shoot while slowly paddling forward.  The slightest movement or even gesture rocks a canoe in a way that its occupants may not notice but which is very apparent through the lens of a camera.  After experimenting for an hour or so we headed back to camp for dinner and a well deserved drink.

As this was our first night out we were going to eat well.  Thick, boneless pork chops coated with a dry rub of spices to be cooked over the open fire.  That along with some wild rice and chocolate for dessert would make up our first meal.  We each took a sip of whiskey while preparing dinner.  After a day’s paddle, with the smell of the meat roasting over an open fire, the whiskey tasted especially good.

Once dinner was over, the pork chops and rice consumed eagerly, we gathered more wood for the evening campfire.  As the sun sunk beneath the horizon the stars began to come out, a shimmering blanket stretching overhead as far as the eye could.  We talked of our trip and the project.  There were so many unknowns.   Would we be able to pull together all the financing?  Could we capture on film an essence of Sigurd’s writing?  As the fire crackled and the smoke rose up to disappear in the darkening sky the spirit of the wilderness began to truly sink in.

In his article “We Need Wilderness” Sigurd discusses the meaning to his charges of canoe trip he had guided.  All of his companions were successful in their professional lives – doctors, businessmen, a judge:

Now freed of the mental strain, taking vigorous, pleasurable exercise, and breathing pure air twenty-four hours a day, they became normal human beings with much of the spirit of the boy about them.  These, my companions on a wilderness cruise, had again discovered how a man can find release; where he can recapture his perspective and the calm of untroubled years where he can shed responsibilities and know the earning of freedom and the joys of simple living.  They, like others I have known on expeditions of the past, have found it here.  The untouched rivers and forests and lakes were the answer.  Now they could return to the cities with peace in their hearts.

What does the wilderness bring us these men?  Sigurd speaks of freedom and joy, of perspective and calm, peace in the men’s hearts.  Can this truly be obtained through a trip in the wilderness?  Are Sigurd’s words still as true today as they were some 50 years earlier?  Perhaps even more so today.

Day 2

While I busied myself getting breakfast ready, a simple meal of porridge, Peter began to modify the canoe and tripod arrangement.  He lashed the tripod to the gunwales and one of the thwarts so that the legs lay flat and extended out over the sides of the canoe.  The black skeletal legs looked like a limb impaired spider and vaguely threatening.  After completing the tripod set-up Peter got the camera ready, adjusting for the light and the current conditions.
We broke camp and stored all of our gear under the tarp.  Today we were not going to head onward – we were going to backtrack.  We were going to shoot a moose.

I knew that moose typically had a range and did not stray too far day to day.  Our hope was to film the mother moose and her two calves back near the island.  We paddled through the calm water and discussed how we should approach the island.   The camera was stowed safely inside the case on the bottom of the canoe so we could cover some distance at good clip.  If we were lucky enough to see the moose again we would need to reach shore and quickly set the camera on its tripod.  That was our first miscalculation.

A canoe is a stable craft as long as it is well packed, the weight kept low and evenly distributed on both sides, and the occupants careful not to shift suddenly.  It is also built to be light and easy to carry which means that it can not be too big.  This makes paddling and portaging through the areas like the BWCA much easier.   But whatever its attributes for travel along remote lakes, it was not made for filming.  Our tripod took up the compartment just behind the bowman’s seat.  That meant the camera man would be in compartment just in front of the sternman’s seat.  The stern would be weighted down too heavily, leaving the bow empty and bobbing above the water and subject to every little gust of wind – definitely not a safe way to travel.  Especially when we had delicate and expensive camera gear aboard.  That was why we the camera was still stowed in its case and wrapped inside a waterproof tarp.

The canoe slid through the water easily.  The wind had picked up a bit from the previous day but it was still relatively calm.  There was no one else on the lake that morning; we had the waters to ourselves.  We approached the channel and islands where we had seen the moose the day before.  Hugging the shore so we wouldn’t startle them we spoke in whispers, hardly daring to breath.  As we edged the canoe around the point we stopped paddling, held our breath, and let our momentum take us past the point.  We knew the chances of seeing them around the bend were slim, but, just in case…

And there she was.  Standing in the water close to shore.  We could not believe our luck.  We backpaddled swiftly and as silently as we could and got back out of sight.  Peter rigged up the camera quickly and I changed spots with him so that I would be paddling from the bow.  Now our weight would be evenly distributed and the canoe more stable.  Paddling from the bow however, is an uncertain business and it was difficult to keep us heading in the right direction.

We rounded the point once more, hearts pounding, Peter hunched over the camera ready to pull the trigger.  But the moose was gone.  Disappointed but confident that the she would make a repeat appearance as it had the day before we stayed close to shore and listened for the telltale sign of branches snapping and cracking as the moose moved through the underbrush.  We thought we heard movement across the shallow channel on the island.  Thinking that the moose had already crossed to the island I paddled through the channel slowly while Peter crouched in the middle of the canoe holding the delicately balanced camera steady.

We crept along the shoreline, ears straining to distinguish animal sounds from those of the wind and the water lapping against the shore.  We spent about an hour or so lingering by the island before we finally gave up.  We were not to the see the moose again – not this trip at any rate.

We headed back to our campsite on Hanson to pack up our gear.  A light rain began to fall and we scrambled to cover the camera and left it on the tripod rather than take the extra time to stop and put it away with a steady rain falling down the back of our necks.  We put our backs into the paddling and raced to get back to the campsite.

A thin rain continued to fall with no sign of getting worse or any better as we huddled underneath the thick pines of our campsite.  The intertwining branches wove a substantial roof and very little water made it down to the ground.  We were dry but we had a long way to go that day and had already burned quite a bit of daylight.  We decided to push on.

Gear re-stowed, rain drops gently dancing on the water all around us, we said goodbye to our first campsite and pointed the bow towards the South Arm of Knife Lake.  Our first portage of the day was not long, a mere 120 rods.  The rain let up as we reached the end of Hanson Lake, though the thick gray clouds hung low over our head threatening to release a new shower at any moment.  We unloaded the gear from the canoe, shouldered our burdens, and headed up the trail.  The portage ran alongside a stream that tumbled down a rocky drop to create a beautiful little falls at the far end.  I was carrying the canoe and found Peter waiting at the bottom of the falls where the river resumed its course to the lake.  He had the same idea that I had – shoot the falls.  It was time to try out the Porta-Cam.

There was an old and stately cedar tree whose main body was split into two immense trunks about five or six feet off the ground.  It was a monster of a tree – each trunk wider than a mans arms could circle.  Propping the canoe in between the two trunks we went to work.  We lashed our paddles to the thwarts of the canoe on the underside of the bow to form a “V” shape pointing forward.  We then tied the camera to the paddles, tightening the ropes as much as possible to prevent the camera from swaying once we were rolling.

Gently lifting the canoe up on my shoulders, with Peter steadying the camera, we tried our first shoot with the Port-o-cam.  Carrying a canoe is largely a matter of balance.  Typically weighing 70 or so pounds they are not that heavy but because of their bulk they can be awkward and difficult to handle.    Adding to this a 25 pound camera rig tied to the bow made for an interesting carry.  We walked up the portage, camera rolling, trying to peer ahead and see what the camera would be shooting while at the same time avoiding rocks and roots in the path.  At the bend near the cedar trees we slowed and swept the bow of the canoe in a semi-circle trying to capture the flow of the water down from the falls into the rapids below.

[vimeo]http://www.vimeo.com/4006079[/vimeo]

Staggering over the cedars I set the canoe down in the crook of the tree and slid gratefully out from under the yoke.  We took a short break and then shot the scene a couple of more times before turning and heading down the portage to the lake.  The far end of the portage opened up into a sandy landing that eased into the water.  The bay was full of old dead trees, mammoth upturned root structures, jagged stumps cut off just a few feet above the surface and one long slender trunk that jutted up out of the water at sharp angle like a spear rising from the depths.  Exhausted we untied the camera and set the canoe down.  Peter carried the camera back to take a few shots of the falls on the tripod.  I stayed down by the water and tried to capture the loneliness of the land on my digital camera.

The sky remained low overhead, the varying grays of the clouds mixing with the dark greens and blacks of the far shore before merging with the dark blue water.  It was late now and we knew that we had quite a ways to go before reaching our camp for the night.  We had spent all of the morning and the early part of the afternoon shooting and had not made much progress when looking down at the map.  We packed up the canoe and paddled out of the forlorn bay, sliding silently past the gray trunks and out into open water.

In the grand scheme of things we did not have far to go.  A three mile paddle, a couple of short portages and lakes.  Puddle jumping we used to call it back in my camp days.  Then a mile or two on Lake Ogishkemuncie to our camp site.  The wind however, had begun to come up, and as we found when rounded a point and begun to head East, it was going to be directly in our face for the rest of the day.

We made it through the next couple of lakes without mishap and reached Lake Ogishkemuncie.  It was now early evening and all either Peter or I could think about was reaching a campsite, building our fire and cooking a warm meal.  The stiff wind had been chilling on the water, although we worked up a good sweat on each portage.  Ogishkemuncie is a medium sized lake stretching two miles long in a northeasterly direction where it pinched together between two large points of land before widening up again for another couple of miles.

The first couple of possible campsites did not suit our tastes and we decided to head on towards the middle of the lake.  We reached the narrows between the two points where there were a string of likely campsites depicted on the map.  It was now early evening and although we could not see the sun under the heavy blanket of clouds we both knew that we were running out of daylight hours.  We rounded the point to where we could see the first campsite only to find canoes drawn up on the shore, tents already staked and an inviting fire blazing beneath the grate.  The campers on shore waved and said hello and we waved back before digging in once more with our paddles.  It was the same story with the next two campsites.   Looking at the map we had to set our sights on a couple more towards the far end of the lake.

The wind continued to blow straight at us, a stiff breeze that seemed intent on preventing us from reaching our destination.  I began to worry somewhat as there were only two more campsites on the lake.  If these were taken we would have to continue to the next lake a few more miles, with another portage thrown in for good measure.  By this point our energy was flagging and all either of us could think about was a warm meal and a good stiff drink.

Once shelter is made and the outfit has taken over the site, a fire is built and canoes put away, any place becomes home and little things become as familiar as in a house one has lived in many years.  This feeling of having many homes all through the wilderness gives a sense of belonging, as all know who have ever been there.

– The Lonely Land

As we neared the next prospective campsite we began to discern the outline of the spot that would be our home for the night.  An expanse of rock sloped out from the forest to end at the water where it dropped off abruptly.  From our vantage the on water the rock formation made a small cliff jutting up in a straight line two or three feet out of the lake.  We let the canoe coast the last few yards and came to stop next to the ledge.  Both of us and set our paddles down for the first time in a quite a while and let out a sigh of relief.

The campsite looked good.  From the waters edge the rock sloped up gently to a flat grassy area where the fire pit stood.  To the left a thin promontory of land, a finger of bare rock, extended out into the water.  A couple of likely tent sites were partially hidden by trees, one to the north and one to the east.

We unloaded the gear precariously balancing in the canoe while hoisting it up onto the ledge.  I backed the canoe away from the ledge and paddled it around the spit of land that lay to the west.  After pulling up the canoe and tying it off due to the wind we quickly set up camp.  We both moved about efficiently, cooperating when beneficial, like in setting up the tent.  Performing tasks alone that were simpler to do alone.  It was interesting to note how after only a couple of days on trail we had worked out a system for most everything.  If we had only more time on trail we would further refined the functions of daily living until hardly a word would need to be spoken.  If only we had more time.

In The Lonely Land Sigurd talks about the way in which time on trail molds the group together, taking individuals with different skills, talents and temperaments and through the rigorous toil of traveling distances through the wilderness and bonding them together into a unit that moves seamlessly through the landscape.   Our two-man team had begun to build that bond and that working relationship.

That evening Peter set up the tri-pod and camera on shore to shoot, using a time lapse setting on the camera, the sunset behind the thinning layer of gray clouds that scrolled past the opposite shore.  Dinner was cooked while the camera stood alone on shore, a sentry capturing forever the day that we would remember only as well as our fallible minds could.  After dinner we stocked up on fire wood and sat back to sip a little whiskey and talk about the day and what lay ahead, not only for the next day but once again the project as a whole.

One question that we both wrestled with was how broad of an appeal would this work hold for the general public.  Sigurd was, after all, not a household name in most of the country.  In our little corner of the universe in Minnesota we were sure that a good portion of people would be interested in Sigurd, his work and the natural world he fought to preserve.  It was outside of Minnesota, however, that we worried about.

In my mind, Sigurd’s work, his belief that man and woman have an innate attachment to the natural world, would seem to have universal properties that would interest numerous people.  But would it?  Popular culture (and I use the term culture lightly) seems to have little time for nature, for solitude, for the exhilaration brought about from a long days toil on the water.  There is too little time to stop and listen, not to silence but to the Singing Wilderness.  There are however, some signs that not all is lost.  That at some level, even if they do not realize it on a conscious level, people still need wilderness.

In his work time and again Sigurd discusses the satisfaction and sense of well being that is derived through hard work.  Whether this be in a long days paddle, crafting by hand a wood shed or carving your own paddle.  The physical nature of men and women in connection to their world should not be overlooked.  As Sigurd notes often in his writing it was not long ago that mankind had to derive their livelihood from the soil.  This was not your modern backyard garden tended in spare hours for the joy of eating homegrown vegetables.  This meant physically pulling from the soil, or hunting on the land, the food that was required to live.  This brought men into contact with nature in a very real and sometimes very frightening manner.  Nature’s power was not to be taken lightly as the line between life and death could often depend on how well man worked with, or against, his surroundings.

Now we, at least in the United States and many other countries, are isolated from nature in a way never before seen in history.  We spend all of hours in cities or suburbs where there is little if any connection to nature.  Our physical activity is limited to mowing the lawn or raking the leaves.  How well we eat at night does not depend on our relationship to the natural world but on whether or not we get take out Chinese or order in pizza.  Once again, it would seem that something important has been lost here.  Our physical connection to the world has been severed.  We have traded that connection for a sterile and convenient form of existence, and we are worse off because of this.  Driving to work, standing on the subway or bus does not give one a sense of accomplishment on a physical level.  Neither does sitting and typing on computer all day, working at the local retailer, or standing on the factory line.

Sigurd understood man’s relationship with the physical world and described it often.  In The Singing Wilderness he writes:

There is a satisfaction in reaching some point on the map in spite of the wind and weather, in keeping a rendezvous with some campsite that in the morning seemed impossible of achievement.  In a canoe the battle is yours and yours alone.  It is your muscle and sinew, your wit and courage against the primitive forces of the storm.  That is why when after a day of battle your tent is pitched at last in the lee of some sheltering cliff, the canoe safe and dry, and supper under way, there is an exaltation that only canoemen know.

Although on this, our second day, Peter and I had not fought storm and waves as described by Sigurd we had come a good distance, through a stiff wind; we had done our work, captured a few images, and landed at a campsite much further away and later than we had originally planned.  Indeed that night as we sat by our fire there was a sense of exaltation, a quiet feeling of accomplishment and peace.  The flames of the fire danced and the sparks lept up into air only to disappear one by one as the cool night extinguished their brilliance.

Peter moved the camera from where he had been shooting the sunset.  The moon had slipped above the horizon, big, bold and luminous.  It’s face so clear I felt I could reach out and touch it.  As we stood by the shore mesmerized by the sight above us the loons started calling on the lake.

I have heard loons many times in my life.  I’ve gone to sleep after a long day on the water with their music in my ears and woken in the morning to hear their song greet the sunrise.  This night, however, was like nothing I had ever heard before.  The loons were more numerous than I had ever experienced, you could hear them calling from every quarter of the lake.  They called, laughed and trilled, each one feeding off the others.  Loons have various calls but the one that I love most is a haunting, long lonely wail that can almost be mistaken for that of a wolf.  This call lingers in the air and when it ends the silence is more profound for its absence.  If you have never experienced the singing of the loon on a still lake with the stars stretching overhead in a brilliant canopy I strongly recommend it.   Before long the song reached a crescendo that left both Peter and I in silent awe.

Later that night the loons once again repeated the song as we sat by the fire, the camera packed away and our gear stored for the night.  It was late and we were both reluctant to go to bed.  It was our last night on trail, our last night, at least for a while, to enjoy this wilderness.  That night we talked of many things, our hopes and dreams for the project and other work and life in general.  Sitting by a fire on trail lends a spirit of camaraderie not often found in the civilization.   Thoughts that do not have the time to see the light of day during our routine existence have the time to come out and stretch their legs.  There are no distractions, no TV’s, cell phones, billboards, or computers to drown out your thoughts.

The loon song provided a backdrop to the conversation and the night, infecting us with its wild spirit.  As I sit and type this on the computer I think back to that night and why it remains so vivid in my memory.  I’ve tried to outline much of what wilderness means to me, and to Peter, throughout this journal.  Much as I have tried, however, I’m not sure everything experienced can be put into words.  A friend of mine used to often say that he would never go any place where he would be unable to spend the night in a hotel with a comfortable bed, cold beer and preferably a hot tub.  Looking back at our last night on trail I can’t help but think that my friend has missed out on something.  An experience that verges on the spiritual which he will never know.  I think of him and the many others who have never before spent a night in wilderness.

As you read this article ask yourself when the last time was that you ran your hands across the bark of a tree trunk.  Or dug your fingers into the earth to feel the rich soil against your skin.  Or lay on your back in a field of grass watching the clouds drift lazily by.  How many people go through the week, the month, the year without having touched anything from the natural world?

On one of my first canoe trips through a YMCA camp back in the late 70s I went on a solo.  That is I spent the night alone in the wilderness.  Each camper on the trip was dropped off at a different spot on a lake far enough away from the others that there could be no communication or teaming up.  We were all given a few matches, 3 or 4 if I remember correctly, and a sleeping bag.  No tent, no cookware.  Just some cold food and our thoughts to keep us company.   I was the last camper to be dropped off and it was already close to dark.  By the time I had gathered my firewood and gotten myself situated it was inky black.  I was unable to start my fire because the kindling I had found was not dry enough.  So I sat there alone, tired and scared, wrapped in my sleeping bag.  I could see the blaze of burning wood at a number of campsites from where I sat and I envied the others their warm, glowing fires.   To add insult to injury it started to rain, not hard, but enough to soak me to the bone and make me entirely miserable.   When the day dawned I was picked up by the others.  I was exhausted, wet and somewhat embarrassed at not having been able to start my own fire.

Why relate this episode?  Looking back the night was not a pleasurable experience.  But I had learned a life lesson.  I had stayed out by myself, in the woods, in the rain, without a fire and without any means of getting help.  I was on my own and I had survived.  I doubt that many other 13 year olds that year had spent a night like the night I spent.  And the funny thing is that even though I remember the experience as unpleasant in many aspects at this point in my life I long for a night or two ‘solo’ in the BWCA with every fiber of my being.  It pulls me in a way that is hard to describe, maybe impossible if you have never before experienced the wilderness in this way.

I have to admit that I feel just a little bit sorry for anyone who has never spent a night out doors.  Never drifted off to sleep beneath the canopy of stars, with the scent of pine in the air and the call of the loon as their lullaby.

Day  3

Our last morning dawned with a stiff wind still coming out of the east.   This was the exact opposite of the way it was supposed to go.  I had planned our trip specifically so that our last day heading back across Seagull Lake would be with the wind at our back.  Seagull was a big lake and I’d been wind bound there in the past., the waves so big that we had not dared to push forward.  With that thought in the back of my mind we set out on the last leg of our journey.

The paddling was difficult on both Ogishkemunci Lake and Jasper Lake but not dangerous.  The waves were big but we were able to hug the shore or shelter behind islands when necessary to avoid the worst of the wind.  On Alpine Lake we were able to follow close to the eastern shore for much of the way but on a couple of occasions had to make mad dashes across open bays fighting wind and waves.  I complicated matters by misreading the map and sending us in the wrong direction for 15 or 20 minutes before we discovered our error.  We finally reached the portage into Sea Gull Lake.

To my disappointment there was a log jam of canoes at the portage.  BWCA rules state that groups should wait for one and other so as to not crowd the portages.  At this one there were already two groups, one of which looked to be taking a long break, and a third coming up behind us in the distance. We held back for a while but finally decided that we had to get moving – both Peter and I feared what the other the portage held in store for us.  We knew that we could be held up on Sea Gull for a number of hours, or possibly the whole day, if the wind was as bad as we anticipated.

We moved through the portage as quickly as we could trying to get our gear and canoe out of the way of the others so they could land.  We made our standard double portage, carrying our camera, canoe, packs and paddles for the last time on this trip.  The portage was straight and level with sparse tree cover.  The sun was shining and it was hot going.  There was a slight decline at the far end and we set our gear down and viewed our next challenge.
The portage sat at the end of a squat bay that extended off the lake on the map like a slightly misshapen thumb.  The wind blew directly into the bay and the waves ran for miles unencumbered straight into the shoreline on which we now stood.  The sight was awesome and humbling at the same time.  Both Peter and I knew we were in for a rough and tiring paddle before we would be able to reach our destination.

The one benefit of Sea Gull Lake, like Saganaga, is that it is dotted with many, many islands of all shapes and sizes.  A handful of those islands lay along our planned route.  By hugging the shore and using the islands for shelter from the winds and the waves we hoped to be able to lessen the brunt of the force of nature facing us.

We loaded up our gear and got back in the canoe.  The wind was blowing straight at us and white caps rolled in one after another.  We dug in with our paddles and set out.  Our progress was slow and looking across my shoulder it seemed as if we were standing still in relation to the shore.  But we did make progress slowly and surely.  The bay was left behind and we were out into the open water.  We headed northeast to the line of islands.  After reaching the first one we held up in the lee and grabbed a drink of water and handful or two of gorp.

After our brief rest we slipped back out from behind our shelter and once again fought to make our way against the crashing waves.  The trick to keeping a canoe upright in this type of weather is to make sure that the bow of the canoe hits the waves head on.  Riding up and over the waves, never letting a whitecap hit the side of the boat where it would pour over the sides and possible swamp the boat.  The problem was that the waves here were coming from all directions.  The islands, although they protected us once we were close, were causing the waves to change directions and hit us from all sides.  The waves almost seemed to wrap themselves around the islands so that they came back together in “V” directly behind them.  I struggled to look ahead and spot the bigger waves and steer right or left to catch the waves properly.

There were more than a few tense moments and at one point our frustration got the better of us while we tried to figure our where we were on the map.  A big lake with many bays, points, and islands can be hard to navigate under the best of circumstances.  On a day like this it can be almost impossible.  Both of us knew that a wrong turn could lead to wasted time and wasted energy as we would have to battle back to our starting point.   Peter took the lead on navigating and kept us from any side trips.

After about 3 or 4 hours we reached the far side of the lake, close enough to the shore that now we were completely sheltered and out of the wind.  The quiet was almost eerie after being buffeted by the wind for hours.  Our arms ached and our clothes were soaked with spray.  We still had a ways to go to reach our exit point but the time passed quickly as we moved along the water that was now still and calm.

We exited off a bay that adjoined the road to one of the state campgrounds.  It was a long, slender bay crowded with trees on both sides.  We brought the canoe up on shore and both climbed out, stretching our stiff legs and backs.  The gear was deposited on the ground and we stood to look back over the lake that had proved such a challenge.  From behind the lake looked placid, the whitecaps which now rolled away from us not visible from our vantage point.  The bay stood peaceful and serene.  It was quiet.

Our brief adventure was over but our project just begun.  As I reflect on the quiet of the bay that day I remember one of the aspects of the wilderness that strikes me as most important: Silence.  By silence I do not mean the absolute absence of any sound, a stark and empty world devoid of all life.  I go with Sigurd’s definition of silence which is the absence of man made noise.

Silence is one of the most important parts of a wilderness experience; without it the land is nothing more than rocks, trees, and water.  It includes the rushing of water the crash of waves against the shore, the roar of avalanches on mountain slopes, of wind through the trees, the howling of wolves, the bugling of elk when the aspen are gold in the foothills, the myriad sounds of birds and insects.  At times there seem to be no natural sounds at all, but these are rare.  It is only when the silence is broken by the sounds of man’s activities that the spell is lost … When man feels tension as though he were being pulled out of his ancient mold, it is his divorcement from silence that is often responsible, silence built into the fabric of his mind.  He may not know what is wrong, but he has only to find it again to restore his equilibrium.

– Reflections From The North Country

Silence brings time for thoughtful reflection.  Time to consider the world around us and time to appreciate our place in this vast world.  Time to remember that to be human is to be connected to wilderness.