Words & photos:
Daniel Kuzjak

Daniel Kuzjak

Soul paddle – the spiritual effect of the Minnesota Northwoods

As Mandy continues pointing out our route’s intricacies, we lean closer to the map. “That’s Devil’s Elbow.” She gestures to a portage a mile back, yet merely an inch in the world of the map. “You’ll want to take out here. Don’t try running it.”

She looks up at us, wondering if we’re the type of young thrill-seekers that will leave the outfitter with two canoes and perhaps return five days later with only one. Or none. Or with a broken leg in a seaplane evac. I look at my two friends, both first-time paddlers in the Boundary Waters, to see that they’re nodding. I swallow the frog in my throat, hoping my bar for ‘manageable’ is not skewed after a decade of remote wilderness overnights.

“What about this one?” My friend points to another section a bit further up.

“There’s a log down over the top. But doable.” Mandy laughs. “I’d take your stuff out first. No sense in dumping so far from help.”

We nod again, yet this time our head bobbing is interrupted by another voice over to our left: a guide just returned from his own trip. “It’s gushing harder than usual right now.”

We listen for the next several minutes as he describes his most recent encounter with the section. He sits along a stone ledge in front of a large, unlit fireplace, my eyes drifting to the mantle overhead, speckled with vintage fishing poles, moose antlers, and pictures of grinning canoeists. Somehow I return to the present to hear, “Just give’t the beans, and you’ll be fine,” and despite not knowing exactly what ‘the beans’ could be, we leave vowing to do our best.

It’s the end of August, edging on early September, and when most are thinking of their final summer hoorahs, perhaps they imagine sandy beaches. Maybe they picture wine glasses, antipasti, sweet, serenading violins, and melodies wafting down cobblestone streets. And who can blame them? These, indeed, are what it means to relax.

Minnesota’s state bird?

I would venture to imagine that most are not thinking of exactly what our last 24 hours encapsulated: rising before the sun to catch cross-country flights; shopping for an entire week of food, knowing that if mistakes are made, you’re going hungry; deciding between 40% DEET and 95% DEET, preparing for a fight against the mosquitoes which, each year, seem to vie harder for the title of Minnesota’s state bird. The obvious question is why? Why choose a backcountry canoe trip vacation that frankly feels more like work than work?

To me, this answer feels simple yet, at the same time, elusive. It feels easy to point to despite being intangible. It’s somehow cleansing, a laughably backward, juxtaposed sentiment after five days of soggy, mud-stained shoes and clothes that, instead of the usual ‘clean’ or ‘dirty,’ are bifurcated only by ‘wet’ or ‘dry.’

It’s soul fuel

We’re on the banks of Gunflint Lake, a part of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) in the Superior National Forest. It’s known as the Arrowhead Region of Minnesota, which bumps against the border of Canada and the United States. Indeed, the border itself runs smack down the middle of Gunflint, and as such, as I sip wispy morning coffee and load canoes, a glance across garners views of Canadian fall foliage: red pine, eastern white pine, birch, and spruce, to name a few. Before long, we’re off, two Arora canoes, a solo and a double, with our maps of the Granite River sprawled out in the hulls. This is our route for the next five days.

It’s a foggy, choppy morning, and after a quick bolt across two lakes, we pass into the wilderness reserve, immediately feeling the isolation. Granite rocks spire upwards along both shores, condensing us into narrow, black water passageways. Arrival at our first portage provides an opportunity to stretch our legs. As others did for me on my first trip, I find myself back in times of old, describing the history of the portages, the importance of these interconnected waterways, once used by Native tribes and First Nations people, then European fur traders, lifting canoes overhead just like us.

We re-enter the water on the opposite side, cradling paddles gently in our hands and breathing in the misty air. A loon calls out, seeking a mate. Although the shackles of modern worries still hang from our wrists, they feel lighter and less constricting, already loosening their hold.

For the first two days, we experience nothing but a low fog. The afternoon of the second even brings a solid, steady drumbeat of rain. I glance at my companions, wondering how they are faring. Do they feel it yet? The soul? Or are they wishing they were somewhere warm, sunny, perhaps enjoying a cocktail overlooking a cityscape rather than here, cold and wet, placing their paddle into the water repeatedly, drawing further into the remote wilderness with each stroke? The steady drumbeat turns to a downpour just as we enter a final channel, approaching our circled campsite. Another group has not passed all day, and my toes are secretly crossed that the site is open, for if not, perhaps moods would turn sour with the thinning of the light.

safety, warmth, food

As we draw near, I speak not of it, yet my soul is ablaze: something about the rain, the sound it makes splashing against the water, and the first-principled decision-making – safety, warmth, food – has me delirious, giddy, and spiritually grounded. It stays with me as water drips down my sleeves, soaking my last ounces of dryness. It stays with me as we finally make it to the site, hooting and hollering when we see that it’s open. It stays with me as I set up my tent, after which I sip tea while sitting in the wet dirt, uncaring of my soaked shoes, legs, and undergarments. Although it could be considered a miserable evening in late August, I find myself smiling at the tops of the trees and the rolling clouds, wondering, do my companions feel this, too?

“Hey, what’s for dinner?”

Turning, I see that my friend is finishing his tent setup. He’s shivering, and the hood of his raincoat is soaked. Yet despite all of this, a fire of adventure burns deep in his eyes.

“Brats,” I reply, and the grin that spreads across his lips makes me realize something. Our other friend laughs that the Boundary Waters mystique has sunk its teeth deep into the heart of one more, perhaps at the absurdity of warm, juicy brats in this – the wild, rain-soaked Northwoods. He feels it, too.

In the morning, the clouds are gone, and we paddle forward into blue skies. We do not give the rapids ‘the beans.’ We tip, thanking Mandy for her sage wisdom of portaging our stuff beforehand. We eat lunch at the end of the Granite River, by Saganaga Falls, as the sun dries our clothes before finishing the day. We swim in the evening off an island campsite and cook homemade pizzas, the sunset dazzling us with pink, orange, and red hues while a neighbouring bald eagle soars overhead.

stargazing

Once darkness has entirely fallen, the stars appear, giving us glimpses into faraway galaxies. With almost no light pollution for miles, the BWCA ranks near the top of all places in North America for stargazing, a one on the Bortles scale, a ranking developed in 2001 measuring the darkness in a particular location and its propensity for beautiful nighttime visuals. We paddle out, of course, into a glassy Saganaga lake, hoping to catch a few ephemeral moments of celestial soup – for the soul. What else?

At the trip’s conclusion, promises are made for future paddles. I smile, for that sounds just fine to me. Flights are boarded, returning once more to a sea of noise-cancelling headphones, calendars, and air conditioning. Yet something is different: perspectives, perhaps.

To me, the reasoning for a remote wilderness paddling trip is evident. Some say, “It’s the fishing that keeps you coming back?”

Another might argue it is the strenuous exercise, a sense of adventure, or perhaps to test out new camping gear. And, in a way, they’re all correct, despite being none of the true reasons I paddle in the Northwoods year after year. None of this was what I felt on that rainy, soggy afternoon between Gneiss and Marabouf, the section of the Granite River that includes the Devil’s Elbow. Instead, it’s mindfulness, reflectiveness, and an aura that hovers like a cloud over these spiritual lakes. That everything else melts away. That it breaks you down, exposes you, makes you think, and places life – your family, your choices, your job – in the canoe beside you.

the elusive reward

Don’t get me wrong: sandy beaches and Mai Tais are a delight. But the prize in any wilderness paddling trip is not always apparent. Sometimes the mindset comes weeks later. Sometimes it flashes across your psyche when anxious or uncertain, providing depth, a pearl of wisdom, to new obstacles. That’s the elusive reward, the payment behind the long flights, the hordes of mosquitos, the packing, and the windy, nervous crossings. These are the things I mean when I say soul fuel.

Admittedly, it’s sometimes easier to fall back to the fishing, the gear, or the thrill of the outdoors. Chances are I might even mumble something like, “It’s beautiful,” or, “Nothing like the taste of a fresh walleye,” rushing off to do something I may or may not remember tomorrow.

But you’ll know the real reasons.