A Cry in the Wilderness

The Register's Editor and Queen paddle into the Canadian wilderness.

I dreamed these dreams during a time when men were first landing on the moon, and even though that historic event and all the technology it required would seem to have invalidated my childish dreams of wilderness exploration, it did not do so.

In fact, Mr. Armstrong’s “one small step” fueled the fires of my imagination. I didn’t think about the fact that man had so civilized the planet of his birth that he had to seek new frontiers in outer space. I didn’t think about the diminishing wilderness. All I saw were courageous men pushing the envelope of human experience. When I was a kid, just like most every kid in America, I wanted to be one of those men. I wanted to be an explorer.

Alas, a tragedy occurred...I grew up.

I got married, started a family and a business. I entered that sad and dismal period of human existence when imagination takes a back seat to practicality and wonder is displaced by “common sense.” I am embarrassed to admit it now, but I became an “adult.”

Happily, as I grew older and wiser I was able to overcome this destructive tendency and recover some of the excitement and enthusiasm of my childhood. A lucky series of events led me to Round Top, Texas, and a second childhood in which I have had some chances to go exploring.

It all began the year of our twenty-fifth anniversary, when my wife finally went completely insane.

A few years ago, the mother of my children, a woman who had always been eminently practical, had a sudden inspiration. She read an article in Texas Highways about canoeing in the South Llano River and decided that it might be fun to ride a boat down that lonely, spring-fed tributary. This may not seem abberrant to the casual reader, but to those of us who lived with her, the “idea” was cause for alarm. After all, this was a woman who, for almost twenty years, had refused to enter a tent for fear of bugs. The kids and I had grown used to camping on our own while Mom stayed at home. Her idea of roughing it was to stay in a hotel without room service. Then, suddenly, she wanted to go canoeing. We should have known things were about to change.

We rented a house near Junction, Texas (she still wasn’t ready for a tent) and spent a few days falling out of canoes into the clear water of the South Llano just below the falls that were immortalized on the label of Pearl Beer. To our surprise, she enjoyed it. The children and I looked at each other in disbelief.

It was only the beginning. Over the next couple of years, the woman became obsessed. She bought canoeing gear, and took lessons and bought more gear and bought a canoe and bought more gear and dragged me on trips to the San Marcos, the Frio and the beautiful Colorado River that stretches though our part of Texas.

She bought more gear and we went to Arkansas to try the Ouachita and the Caddo. A little more gear, and we were on the Guadalupe and touring Caddo Lake. She bought a solo canoe (with gear to match), and we started attending the annual “Canoe Rendezvous” on Lake Raven in Huntsville State Park where she discovered MORE gear.

She compiled a library of canoeing and camping catalogues that began to crowd me out of the bedroom and developed close personal relationships with salespeople at Campmor, L. L. Bean and R.E.I. Despite the significant financial drain, I could see that this bizarre behavior was making her happy and I rationalized that the costly gear was much less expensive than the extensive therapy that seemed the only other viable alternative.

We added a small storage room onto the garage to store the camping and canoeing accoutrements and in my innocence I assumed that my wife’s strange outdoor equipment fetish was ultimately harmless. What a fool I was.

Little did I know that I would soon be carrying most of that cursed gear on my back across the Canadian wilderness.

The Boundary Waters Wilderness Area is over a million acres of glaciated bedrock that stretches for nearly 200 miles along the border between Canada and northeastern Minnesota. It is the second largest unit of the National Wilderness Preservation System and contains the largest virgin forests remaining east of the Rocky mountains. It contains the highest concentration of lakes in the United States.

Adjacent to it are two large Canadian parks, 1.2 million acre Quetico Provincial Park and 219,000 acre Voyageurs National Park. Altogether, that’s almost 2.5 million acres of remote wilderness without a single McDonalds or Dairy Queen!

When my wife first started talking about taking a canoe trip in the Boundary Waters, I did my best to ignore her. First off, I’m a homegrown Texas boy. I don’t get out much, and frankly, I wasn’t even sure that Canada really existed. The whole thing could have been a big conspiracy to sell salmon and ice hockey. I was also concerned we might fall off the edge of the earth if we journeyed past those far northern Texas counties like Colorado and Idaho. Even if the place did exist, it was bound to be too cold and the people were bound to talk funny.

When she finally harassed me into reading about the place, my research provided no relief from my fears. The place was full of bears, wolves, bull moose..., mosquitoes the size of 747’s, and nowhere a single convenience store in which to acquire staples like Big Red, Cheetos and the Round Top Register. The whole idea seemed far-fetched and vaguely threatening.

On the other hand, that old dream of exploration started to creep back into my mind like an impending migraine.

The more I thought about it, I began to become intrigued by the idea of expanding the Round Top Register’s distribution internationally. After all, we had conquered the New York media...how hard could a bunch of frigid hockey goalies be? As I teetered on the edge of indecision, the wife brought out the heavy guns. She pointed out that our twenty-fifth anniversary was coming up and that the trip could serve as an anniversary celebration.

I knew better than to decline such a proposal. An enraged bear is a serious threat, but a spurned wife is a much more dangerous and deadly foe. Against my better judgment, I finally agreed.

We would leave in early September and spend nine days canoeing across a wilderness with no roads, no hotels, no motorized vehicles, no electricity, no running water..., no fast food, not even airplanes were allowed to fly overhead.

We would have to bring with us everything we needed to survive . It would be a real experience in “roughing it.”

The Houston Rockets would already be into their preseason games. I began to compute the amount of extension cord that would be necessary to feed my portable television. A session with my calculator showed me I had cause for alarm.

As the months passed, my better half prepared for our trip in much the same manner that Eisenhower prepared for the D-Day Invasion. Every possible bit of information that could be acquired from every possible source was garnered, perused and filed. The massive “paddling gear” file cabinet grew to gargantuan proportions. The UPS man became such a common sight, I began to suspect my wife of infidelity.

The woman's obsession grew like an unchecked virus. She got up early every morning for a brisk walk, a behavior I considered additional evidence of her mental deterioration. The coming trip was all she thought about. Finally, a week before we were scheduled to catch our plane, she was finally ready to accumulate the gear.

All the books one reads about traveling in the Boundary Waters talk about portaging and how to do it right. A portage is what you must do when you come to the end of a lake or meet an obstruction on a river and must exit the canoe and carry all your gear to the next place you can safely launch. From the books we had read, it became obvious that portaging was a pretty common activity on a Boundary Waters trip.

Due to this fact, I viewed the towering mountain of gear my wife had gathered in our dining room with some trepidation. However, as she forced gear into the packs with the help of a pneumatic jack, she assured me that her plans were fully researched and that we were bringing only the “minimum” of gear. I suggested she add a few briquettes of charcoal to each pack as I was sure the diamonds that resulted from the incredible pressures at the pack’s base would cover the expense of our plane fare.

Arriving at the airport in Austin, with our luggage carrier bowed like an overloaded ore wagon, we attempted to check our luggage only to have the biggest of our packs, the “food” pack, rejected as overweight. At eighty-six pounds, it did not fit within the airlines maximum weight requirements. My wife was distraught. Each meal, each snack had been planned down to the infinitesimal detail. If we could not take the “food pack,” all would be lost. After considerable begging and a fifty dollar overweight luggage penalty, we shuffled toward our gate under the withering stares of soon-to-be herniated baggage handlers.

In Minneapolis, we switched to a plane so small I had to use peripheral vision to see my knees. My wife, no lover of small aircraft, inhaled as the propjet took off and to all appearances, did not exhale until we landed at the tiny airport in Ely, Minnesota, where I was able to pry her white knuckled death-grip from the tiny seat in front of her and with a gentle voice, seduce her into joining me as I crawled down the aisle to freedom.

Once we escaped from the Lilliputian aircraft, we were picked up by a van and hauled at a breakneck pace down gravel roads to the back door of our “world class” outfitter. He was a nice gentleman who viewed our mountain of gear with tired, sad eyes and shook his head. He suggested to the van driver that they had better upsize the canoe we had arranged to rent.

My wife, who had some concerns about bears, asked if they were a problem.

“You don’t have to worry about bears” he said. “We had a 60-below winter last year, and the bears took it on the chin. The bears aren’t dangerous. Lighting is what kills people...that and drowning. Lot’s of people drown but don’t worry about bears-just watch out for lightning.”

Less than reassured and unclear on how one “watched out” for lightning, we puttered off to our hotel to prepare for the next day’s adventure.

That night was a pleasant prelude to our trip. The little Holiday Inn in Ely had something rarely seen in a hotel...windows that opened. The breeze was miraculous, and our view overlooked a pristine lake that was almost devoid of boats or other activity. At one point, a small plane landed on pontoons. As the last flickers of light faded from the tranquil scene we began to hear the haunting call of loons echoing across the lake.

We were both overtaken by an overpowering desire to do impersonations of Katherine Hepburn in On Golden Pond. Despite our best efforts, however, we were never quite able to effect the warble in the call of either Ms. Hepburn or the loons. Perhaps our soft palates were desensitized by the wine and cheese.

The next morning, we wrapped ourselves in Polartec and polypropylene and dashed downstairs to meet the van from the outfitter. We had expected to receive exhaustive advice from this experienced outdoor individual but it turned out that he was a minimalist. He pointed to the map, showed us a few places where there might be good fishing and cautioned us to wear our PFD's. Then, with another look at our mass of equipment and a sad shake of his head, he bid us adieu.

The young man who drove us to our entry point into the Boundary Waters was so familiar with the terrain that he did not need to look around any of the blind corners on the gravel road as he raced into the wilderness. At various times, it seemed to me that the wheels were leaving the ground. The wild and invigorating ride took me back to my own youth a few years back when I, too, had driven in a devil-may-care manner down a similar dirt road in my home state of Texas. My reminiscence was tainted, however, by the fact that in my earlier adventure I had ended up in a head-on collision with a Peterbilt. At some point I began choking the young man, and he consented to a more casual pace.

At last we arrived at the point of our embarkation. As we dragged our gear from the back of the van, our situation finally hit us. We were soon to leave civilization behind and paddle into waters essentially unchanged from those used for hundreds of years by Sioux and Chippewa Indians in birch-bark canoes.

Like the first white-skinned explorer, French voyageur Jacques de Noyons, who roamed the area in 1688, we were about to enter a vast network of lakes and waterways without the benefit of civilized comforts.

We pondered the fact that the only thing that would keep us from certain death was the thin veneer of security supplied by the camping supplies and equipment that lay nestled in our packs. In this spirit, I shouldered the life-saving eighty-six-pound food pack and began to trek down the half mile portage to the point where we would first dip our paddles into the virgin Nina Moose River.

After an undetermined amount of time, I began to question the outfitters description of the first portage. “It’s a little long,” he said, “but it’s easy...all down hill.” It suddenly struck me that I did not remember ever having carried anything over half a mile that weighed anywhere near eighty-six pounds. I began to question if, in fact, the human body was designed for such an activity. However, I was fresh and full of excitement about our adventure and ignored the strange sounds that were escaping from my joints as I dropped the pack on the ground at the end of the portage. After a mere twenty minutes of whining and heavy breathing, I was refreshed and began the trek back to pick up the canoe.

Portaging a canoe is not terribly difficult. There is a specialized thwart built into the balance point of a canoe called a yoke that is designed to sit on your shoulders and thereby allow you to walk with the canoe upside down over your head and thus support the sixty or seventy pounds with ease. The yoke of our canoe was padded, and therefore it was several minutes before the pressure on my shoulder blades began to make me wince in pain. By the time I finally arrived at the launching point, my face had evolved into a permanent grimace.

Now, the aforementioned books on the Boundary Waters recommend “double” portaging. They suggest a couple take three packs and a canoe. The first trip, each carries a pack and the second trip, one person carries a pack and the other a canoe. This is considered much safer than the “single” portaging that athletic types prefer, where a pack is strapped on the front of the overachieving individual and then the canoe is loaded onto Mr. Smart-alec Showoff’s shoulders so the portage can be run in a single span. “Single” portaging is considered dangerous as the pack limits the portager’s view of the path and can lead to twisted ankles and collisions with trees.

However, the books never mentioned anything about “triple” portaging or, for that matter, “quadruple” portaging. It was up to my wife and myself to pioneer these methods.

After what seemed like an eternity, we gathered our mountain of gear beside the Nina Moose River. Despite our physical hardships, wer remained excited about our prospects. We loaded the canoe, which promptly sunk almost to the gunnel, and paddled into the wilderness.

About fifteen minutes later two things happened. First, we came to a set of rapids, our second portage of the day, and then I realized I had left my glasses back on the shore at the entry. We paddled back to the our launching point and searched to no avail.

“No problem,” I rationalized. “Jacques de Noyons survived without bifocals.” I still had my reading glasses, so things could be worse. As we returned to the second portage, I realized I experienced clairvoyance.

It began to rain.

Our itinerary had been set by the outfitter. We would paddle up the Nina Moose River, with its three portages into Nina Moose lake and then cross the lake and continue up the river across two more portages to Lake Agnes. Then we could paddle across Lake Agnes to the Boulder River and with only a couple of more portages, we would be in Boulder Lake and almost to Lac La Croix and the Canadian border. He suggested that this might take five or six hours.

Nine hours and five portages later, we limped into Lake Agnes by force of will alone. Our exploratory vigor long gone, we were two defeated, sopping, simpering, ill-tempered animals past all reason. We snipped at each other like starving mongrels around a spilled garbage can. It was not a pretty sight.

Physicists may claim that it is impossible, but I am almost certain we had to paddle uphill those last few miles. Sadistic beavers had purposely built dams across our path. No matter which way the winding river turned, the wind and rain were always in our faces. The hopeful enthusiasm of the morning had been sucked into a black hole of despair.

All in all, we wanted our mommies.

In the Boundary Waters, you are only allowed to camp at “designated campsites.” A “designated campsite” consists of a cooking grate and a path that leads to a fiberglass composting latrine. Each lake has a limited number of them so as to limit the environmental impact of human beings on the wilderness.

Some lakes have only one, some four or five. Larger lakes may have eight or ten. If you should be so unlucky as to arrive at a lake when all of the sites are taken, you cannot camp but must keep going until you find a designated campsite that is free on another lake.

In the failing light, as we struggled to drag our bargelike canoe through the winding channels of the swamp the Nina Moose River becomes before it enters Lake Agnes, our greatest fear was that all of the campsites ahead would be taken. We couldn’t imagine trying to cross the choppy lake in the dark to stumble in the blackness through two more portages in search of another chance for a campsite.

Twice already, younger, sleeker, less-burdened adventurers had passed us on the river; heading (we were sure) for the last two sites available on Lake Agnes. In my desperation, I began to fantasize about ways to relieve those perky young yuppies of their squatting rights. False injuries, begging and pleading, bear imitations and other devices were all considered and discarded as impractical.

Happily, as we eased the nose of our canoe into Lake Agnes, it appeared almost deserted. We pointed our bow toward the closest campsite shown on our map and paddled like starving otters.

We docked and crawled out of the canoe in the dusk and rain, our joints creaking like rusting gate hinges, both in foul moods and considerable discomfort.

As we unloaded our gear and proceeded to set up camp in the drizzling dark, our tempers went from bad to worse. I was committed to a minimum setup, a quick meal in the tent and collapsing into a coma. My darling wife insisted on textbook bearproofing procedures which meant squatting on the wet ground under a tarp and hoisting the food pack ten feet into the air between two pines.

This small discrepancy in goals escalated into a full-scale marital war which left her in tears, me steaming and the foodpack swinging. It was not an auspicious first night for two lovers out to celebrate twenty-five years of married bliss. We both went to sleep thinking that perhaps we had made a terrible mistake.

The next morning when we awoke, our bodies proved uncooperative. They balked when asked to move and punished us for the audacity to ask. I got a fire started, and some coffee made our pain a little less bothersome, but neither of us had much to say in the sullen aftermath of the previous night’s warfare. Our prospects appeared dim. Then, as we sat on soggy logs lost in our private thoughts, a miracle occurred.

On the horizon, across the shimmering lake, a beautiful rainbow, arching like a promise, began to form as the sky cleared. The storm’s exit calmed the lake and brilliant colors were reflected in the water forming a spectral highway that stretched from the base of our campsite on to infinity. It was a sign we could not ignore.

We stood quietly holding hands until the rainbow dimmed and our hearts were full. Then, full of newfound hope, we began our breakfast preparations.

The next day, somewhat recovered by a day of rest, we struck out once again. The wind had picked up and we had a wide section of Lake Agnes to cross. As we paddled out of our protected cove, the waves became larger and larger. The boat began to rock and we began to sweat. My wife and I had become moderately experienced river canoeists, so it was not the first time we had been in a bouncing boat. The difference was that in this case, the bouncing didn’t stop. In fact, as we got further out into the lake the bouncing became a bucking and the bronco was not tiring. We could reduce the crazy action by putting our bow into the wind, but then we were heading almost 90 degrees away from where we needed to go - which would have added a couple of hours to our paddle.

If you flip your canoe a river wearing a PFD (Personal Floatation Device), you get banged up but it is unlikely that you will drown. Also, the river does much of the work of getting you to your goal. If you don’t paddle, you still move forward.

On a windblown lake we discovered, this is not true. In fact, after twenty minutes of hard paddling, we almost swamped by simply resting for a moment. Our boat lost some momentum, drifted almost perpendicular to the waves and before we knew it, we had everything we could do to stay out of the drink. The bank looked a half mile away and the water was cold.

Suddenly we realized that we were in some real danger. There were no other canoes on the lake, and if we capsized we would most likely have a hard time making it to shore before suffering from hypothermia. This realization was quite motivating.

Just like in all first-person adventure stories, some of the suspense is lost by the mere fact that the storyteller survived. We did not die, although we were almost scared to death. We made it across Lake Agnes, whitecaps and all and after two more portages entered Lake La Croix where we once again battled teeming waves.

When we finally dragged our boat into a protected cove at the mouth of the Bottle River, we were adrenalin-sated and numb, but somehow the experience had strengthened us. “We may have been two overweight, under-exercised, over-forty wimps,” we thought, “but we are wimps who survived!” The wilderness had not beaten us. Despite the mind-numbing exhaustion, our confidence soared.

As we studied the map, we realized that the little inlet we had paddled into was the exact geographic border between Canada and the United States. On each bank we could see small obelisks rising from the rocks like tiny San Jacinto Monuments, each one marking the national borders as they dart back and forth across the waterway. “We’re in Canada...now the U.S...now we’re Canucks... now Yankees...now we like ice hockey...how ‘bout them Cowboys...yumpin’ yiminy... howdy pardner.”

After a few minutes we tired of playing multi-national schitzophrenics, beached our canoe on a big rock and set up camp.

In the Canadian parks you can camp anywhere you want acoording to the books. Our first Canadian campsite was a large rock with water filled hollows in it. Busy beavers were building a lodge to the north. The sunset burned to the west and to the south, a set of rapids lulled us to sleep. We curled up around one of the tiny little San Jacinto Monuments and dreamed of home.

The next day we hit perhaps our most difficult portage. The rain two days before had left Bottle Portage a soggy mess. It was obviously a popular route because the path was strewn with water-filled footprints from canoeists...and moose.

I scared up ruffed grouse on the first trip across and almost scared up a twisted ankle on the muddy, vertical path. A couple of days before, Bottle Portage would have been a major challenge, but we were bolder, more seasoned adventurers after our harrowing experiences of the days before and were able to stop whining and sniveling and wishing we were dead after only a few minutes of rest on the other side.

Bottle Lake was beautiful. It made the effort to reach it worthwhile. The water was still, and bald eagles flew overhead. Stark granite cliffs soared here and there out of the maples, aspen and pine. As we left Bottle Lake, a vista opened up that featured the a wealth of tree-covered islands sparkling on a pristine Iron lake.

It was a pretty place to get lost.

There are no street signs in the wilderness. You have to get around with a compass and a map. This is not hard if you keep the map in front of you at all times and don’t loose your way. After the first two days of leading us through the wilderness, I had begun to get a little cocky.

“Why in the heck did I, Chris (Jacques de Noyons) Travis have to hover over this stupid map all the time?” I thought, “Why, I can guide us by the sun and stars. I’m a real outdoorsman, and... uh....uh.

Oh oh.”

After a panic stricken conference with the compass and a stridently critical spouse, I was able to reorient us and get the boat back on track, chagrined but unbowed.

Even after all these years, I still love and respect my wife and wouldn’t want to be married to anyone else, (despite the fact that lately, a number of celebrity spokesmodels have been throwing themselves at me). Surprisingly, she felt the same. Early in our planning we had decided to renew our wedding vows in the wilderness. We had ordered a special “wedding broom” from an artisan we met at the Winedale Spring Festival who makes handmade brooms.

In the old South, before the War Between the States, slaves used to “jump the broom” to marry since many slave holders didn’t allow formal marraige.

We had our broom made just for us. The broomstick was made of a forked limb so that it came down and had two bundles of straw at the bottom that merged into one. It was also smaller than a regular broom so we could lug it around in the wilderness.

When we arrived at the outfitter’s in Ely, our first question had been “Where is the most beautiful place on our trip? Where should we ‘jump the broom’?”

He answered without hesitation: ”Rebecca Falls.”

Thus, our entire trip was an odyssey to Rebecca Falls and as we crossed Iron Lake and rowed around a promontory into the cove where Iron Lake almost interects McAree Lake, we were thrilled by the faint sound of rushing water. Nearing the granite banks we saw a little inlet to our left and a little inlet to our right. In our excitement we almost decided to paddle up the little creek to the base of the falls. However, we were tired and going against the current sounded like too much work, so we docked the canoe instead and walked down a rock path toward the ever increasing roar of the falls.

A few moments later we both turned white. The little inlet we had almost paddled down had not been an entrance to the base of the falls...it had been the top of a raging torrent that dropped perhaps 150 feet at a 45 degree angle into McAree Lake. There were six and eight-foot standing waves. We most likely would not have survived such a ride. We laughed nervously and acted like we had known it all the time. A little while later we realized that a similar deluge fell to the left side of the rocky shore where our boat was beached. We had landed on an island surrounded by two waterfalls!

After the initial shock we were captivated by the view. The narrow channel that formed that part of McAree Lake made a cozy bay beneath the falls,but to the north the inlet stretched forever, creating a startling vista. We saw smoke wafting from a promontory across the lake, and our campsite paranoia began to raise its ugly head. “The most beautiful area in this part of Quetico,” I thought. “We’ll never find a campsite.”

We rushed back to our boat and paddled along the bank to the portage point shown on the map. It looked seldom used and a bit overgrown. This was a good sign. We hurried down the path to find an unbelievably choice site just at the base of the falls. We couldn’t believe our luck. After two of our three portages were complete we fell on the carpet of pine needles, exhausted and giggling deliriously. It was perfect! The falls roared. The pines towered. I turned to my lover and said “Honey, can we used the propane stove tonight. I’m sick of smelling campfire smoke... smoke... hmmm.”

My wife got a puzzled expression on her face. “You know,” she noted, “I don’t think that campfire over there is a campfire...it’s burning in two or three places.” Our eyes got big and began to goggle.

“Forest Fire!” we screamed.

We both jumped up. She went one way and I went the other. She was leaving Canada and I was Smokey the Bear. After a screaming discussion of moral priorities she reluctantly agreed to be Mrs. Smokey, and we jumped in our canoe and rushed across the lake to the peninsula and the smoldering fire. As we neared we could see that much of the small hillside was blackened. The banks were rocky and very steep, so it took a while to exit the canoe and climb the rocks to the top of the hill. The scene up top was terrifying. Most of a two-acre area was black. Small fires roared in the stumps of fallen trees. It looked like the kind of situation that a little wind could turn into a full-scale forest fire. I put my paddle against a tall pine whose base was a burning cauldron and lightly pushed. It toppled, leaving me nervous about what other trees might do.

We found two old fishermen further down the lake who consented to help us fight the fire and spent two hours running up and down the hill with our little food pans trying to drown the perimeter of the burn, stomping and coughing and getting increasingly concerned that we were not equipped to manage the situation. Finally, almost unable to stand, we gave up. We had done our best. It was up to the wind and rain. We thanked the old fishermen. One of them had been coming to Quetico every year for thirty-two years. He found the campfire where the burn had begun. A careless camper had risked the sanctity of one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen in my life. I was outraged but impotent. We paddled back to our campsite unsure of what to do. Should we stay at our perfect site and risk the fire or should we leave like normal, sane, mature, intelligent people.

We stayed.

That night I began the Canadian distribution of the Round Top Register. I dug into my stash and distributed it into long strips which I used to start our fire. Besides its value as a literary masterpiece, it was clear the Register had a future as kindling.

All night long the fire crackled and popped. Occasionally a tree would topple, the crashing sound breaking through the gentle thunder of the falls. We slept with one eye open. Happily for me, it was my wife’s eye.

The next morning we decided to ignore the fire and have a perfect day. I paddled upon a young osprey who let the canoe drift less than ten feet from his fallen tree before flying away. After losing about fifty dollars worth of fishing gear to rocks at the base of the falls, I pulled out a nice trout. From the “food pack,” my wife, the magic chef produced a banquet complete with a nice wine, and we decided it was time to wed.

We found a natural cathedral not far from our tent and laid the wedding broom on a bed of pine needles and lichen. It was a perfect chapel, away from the machinations of men, made impeccable by the hand of God.

The church was perfect. The wind on our faces was perfect. The azure sky was perfect. We were perfect. We joined hands and jumped. We did that long slow kiss that everybody watches at the end of a wedding. The rest is none of your business.

The next morning a misting rain had blown in. Nature’s fireman began to suffocate the still smoldering fire as we gathered our gear for the leisurely trek back to civilization. We made the portage back to Iron Lake without incident.

Something had happened at Rebecca Falls. We were sore and tired, but it didn’t really matter. We looked forward to the four portages ahead without dread. It was just something we had to do to live through one of the most wonderful experiences of our lives. Bottle Portage was on the horizen but it had become an honor to confront it, not a chore. We paddled through the misting rain and for the first time ran into a canoe going the same way we were. He was a professor. She was an artist. They were from Colorado. When they spoke, it was as if they were in a cathedral, quietly...with reverence.

I thought to myself, “Why not, Is this not a sacred place?” And so it was.

On the way home, we ran into several people and exchanged a few words. It was always the same, even grizzled old fishermen spoke softly as though they were in a holy place. It was startling to see the effect that the wilderness had on people from all walks of life. I was surprised...but I understood.

We crossed Bottle Portage again. It wasn’t any easier, but this time I could see the beauty around me and our triple portage almost became an opportunity instead of an imposition...almost.

We entered Lac La Croix and it was much more calm than the first time we had crossed it. We decided to return through another part of the lake and struck out across a wider section than we had traversed before. We came to a mass of islands, each, according to our maps, with hidden campsites.

In the few days that we had been on our adventure, the first signs of fall had begun to show on the trees around us. Aspens that had been peppered with gilt now stood like glittering towers of gold. Here and there, maples were flush with a crimson so riveting that they seemed almost afire. The great rocks dragged up on the shore by ancient glaciers were covered in carpets of multi-colored lichen. Ferns wafted in the gentle breeze. As we paddled slowly past these wonders we could see far across Lac La Croix to the granite cliffs where some ancient woodland culture had left pictographs on the stone walls.

Little Mayamayguishi, the Indian equivalent of leprechauns, grace the towering cliffs, ready to bring luck or steal your fish. Artist’s renderings of moose, elk, bear, heron, pelican and turtle roam the cliffs thoughout Quetico Park, remnants of a time when men lived more in touch with the natural world around them.

We left La Croix and crossed three short portages into the northern part of Lake Agnes. Agnes was a different lady than she had been the week before. The misting rain cleared up, and the world turned still. So still she became that the lake became like a mirror, reflecting the tree-covered hills that surrounded her. That night, as we rested in the perhaps the most beautiful campsite of our journey. We could see the reflection of the stars so clearly in the motionless lake that we could tell no difference between earth and sky. There were two heavens.

The next morning the lake was just as calm. A fog rolled in and the macabre scene of the thick, boiling mist moving over that mirror of a lake, everything in twos, is something I will never forget.

We spent another day in Agnes, then paddled back over the beaver dams to Nina Moose Lake. We were shocked by the beauty we had missed that first day. Otters played. We found a beautiful natural spa on a glistening black riverbed. I stood the cold in that bubbling fountain of youth and was reborn.

It was amazing how different our altered perceptions had made the world around us. On the way in, all we could see was fear and pain. On the way out, everything was a miracle. The places were the same. We were the ones who had changed.

That last night, just at dusk, I took the canoe out alone on Nina Moose Lake to get some fresh water. As I started back, the penetrating call of a loon lept from the lake behind me and echoed off the hills around. As I turned back to find the source of the sound, I saw a small black speck in the middle of the lake.

I had never seen a loon. I began to paddle towards the sounds that seemed to cover the lake like another layer of liquid. Bird calls are not my specialty, but I am a good whistler. I began to return the call. Back and forth the loon and I called to each other across the lake. He let me approach within a few yards then began to paddle away, still sending his haunting tones tumbling into the approaching dark.

I watched him fade into the night. Inside, my heart was full of wonder. I had been touched by an ancient magic that moved at its own pace, in its own world. That loon was not a part of the world I had come from but now, in some way, I would take him back with me. My wife and I would go back, not to our old familiar life; that was gone, never to return. But, to a new life and a new marriage, carved from the wilderness.

As I paddled back towards shore, once again I heard his distant wail, and somewhere inside I knew...like his echoing call...we would return.

Round Top Register - Texas Fun Travel Guide