Also, I must admit, even though the events that occur in this story really happened to her, the character in this story is not my wife. The lady in this story is two dimensional. My wife is a good deal more complex, more generous and more forgiving than the lady in this story. However, I don't have room to write a book about her in this newspaper . She was a practical woman, one who liked to be organized and in control. She cast a critical eye around the campsite, checking off each piece of gear to make sure it was properly stowed. The night before had been windy and wet but the sky was clearing and it looked to be a beautiful day.

Her husband stumbled around the camp whistling Oh, What a Beautiful Morning in a striped Capilene undershirt, his "Bobsled Boonie" hat and black Polartec pants that were too short. Small sections of hairy, white ankles showed above his hiking boots.

With his untrimmed beard, little round glasses and protruding belly he looked out of scale, like a fairy tale dwarf with an overactive pituitary who had grown to 270 pounds and 6'4" tall.

She smiled and shook her head, knowing she would have to supervise the packing of the gear. After all, the man could hardly put his socks on right side out. He was just a big kid.

They had pitched their camp on an island near the northwest corner of a big body of water called Basswood Lake. The little isle rested just over the border in a wilderness area called Quetico Provincial Park in Ontario, Canada.

Below the Canadian park lay the Boundary Waters Wilderness Canoe Area in the United States. Between the two of them, the parks comprise the largest restricted wilderness east of the Rocky Mountains. Glaciers carved thousands of tiny lakes and rivers out of the granite and other bedrock during the last Ice Age, creating an area that boasts the highest density of waterways in North America.

Native Americans and French Voyageurs had traveled across it in birch bark canoes and canoes are still the only mode of travel allowed in most of its lakes.

The last chords of a spectacular sunrise played themselves out over the bouncing waves. She sighed, pulled herself away from the riveting sight and began preparing for the day's travel returning her considerable gear back into the packs from which it had come the night before. As she worked, she thought back over the previous two days and the world she had left behind.

She and the Big Kid had left their home in the tiny town of Round Top, Texas two days before. Six hours, three planes, a rent car and a two hour drive later, they arrived in the small town of Ely, Minnesota where they bought toilet paper (hopefully the only thing she had forgotten) and some Canadian nightcrawlers for bait.

Then, they had driven down a park access road to Moose Lake and their outfitter's lodge.

That night they stayed in a small room with five bunk beds. They listened to the loons and drank a little wine. She remembered being forced to listen to the Big Kid indulge his growing obsession with bears which had done nothing for her own frayed nerves. Normally, the man was too oblivious to be concerned about the very real dangers that awaited them in the wilderness.

Just before they had left Texas, he had heard reports of some recent attacks by black bears in the Boundary Waters area. He didn't like the idea of meeting an animal bigger than himself, especially one with large, sharp teeth.

As each day passed, the Big Kid became increasingly fearful of bears. Normally an extremely peaceful man, he had bought an expensive hunting knife (like that would do him any good with a bear) and had whined so loudly that one of his friends who was a more experienced outdoorsman had lent him a spray can of bear repellent just to get him to settle down. She knew their chances of being attacked by a bear were substantially less than being struck by lightning but there was no use talking to him. He fingered his new knife and hugged the bear repellent like a baby with a pacifier.

Besides, she had a few concerns of her own, like lightning, and windstorms on big lakes or the risk of falling and injuring herself in the backwoods where there was no medical help or drinking contaminated water and becoming deathly ill with giardia...so the Big Kid's bear hang-up was no help at all.

So, despite the fact that she was exhausted from the day's travel, she had a fitful night's sleep.

The next morning, they awoke early. The outfitter had loaded all their gear and their rented canoe onto a small tow boat with an outboard motor and before they knew it, they were off to the wilderness.

Small, motorized boats are allowed on some of the lakes in the Boundary Waters Wilderness Area. At many entry points, it may take a day or two of paddling just to get to lakes that allow only canoe traffic. She had wanted to reach a remote area as soon as possible so they had hired the outfitter to tow them across the Canadian border to a secluded bay at the far end of huge Basswood Lake.

After a couple of hours the bumpy ride ended and they and their gear were unceremoniously dumped on the shore of the quiet bay. A narrow path led off into the woods. The outfitter said he would meet them in twelve days at the same location. "4:00 p.m." he said. "Don't forget."

She thought it unlikely she would forget. One short portage and a couple of hours paddling had brought them to the island they now occupied.

As she stuffed the last few items into her packs, she shook her head to clear away yesterday's memories. "Where's my map?" she asked the Big Kid. He didn't know of course. She had a momentary twinge of concern before she found it.

The year before, on their first trip to the wilderness, they had brought only one map. The Big Kid had insisted on being the navigator and the whole thing had made her very nervous. This year she had made sure she had a map too. Getting lost in the wilderness was not on her to-do list.

The day before them promised to hold the most difficult portages of the trip. In order to avoid the popular Basswood River area, a section that their outfitter warned might have few available campsites, they had chosen to attempt a series of long and difficult portages into Tuck Lake. It was another strategy to get as far from people as possible, as quickly as possible.

As far as she was concerned, they had dawdled around the campsite a bit too long. It was almost 10:30 and they had hours of difficult labor ahead of them. Happily, the entrance to the first portage was just across the lake. Off they went, excited and confident on their first day in the wilderness.

As they approached the bank an unforeseen disadvantage to two maps raised its ugly head. It appeared that the Big Kid read his one way and she read hers another. They could not agree on what part of the rocky coastline held the entrance to their portage.

The Big Kid was sure it was somewhere close at hand but her map clearly showed it well down the side of the lake, around a large peninsula to their right. The Big Kid, lost in his male ego, insisted he was right and beached the canoe. He wandered around on the shore for five minutes, becoming increasingly sheepish, while she tapped her fingers on the gunwale. Finally, properly chastised, he returned to the boat and with bowed head, set out for the location she recommended. Despite the delay, she decided this was a good thing. Perhaps in the future he might not dare to challenge her decisions. She felt strong, dominant...in control.

After about 45 minutes of paddling in a stiff wind, they arrived at their first portage of the day. However, much to her chagrin, it appeared to have been misplaced. As they paddled, she searched the shoreline with increasing desperation. Quietly at first, then with increasing volume, the Big Kid began a chorus of I-told-you-so's from the back of the boat that grated on her nerves. Finally, despite her best judgement, she agreed to turn back. An hour later they found the portage, about 100 yards down the beach from where he had first predicted they would find it.

This was a disaster! It was almost afternoon and they had not even begun the first portage. Even worse, after this the fool would think he was right in every situation they ran into.

She ate a sullen lunch and when they were done, the Big Kid dragged their canoe over his head and took off down the narrow path. She shouldered the first pack and followed him up the hill through the towering pines.

Now, 280 rods is a long way to carry something that weighs almost 70 pounds. A rod is 16.5 feet long and this first portage was 280 rods long. That meant it was 4,620 feet or 87% of a mile of backbreaking trudging up hill and down, over logs, down slippery inclines and under low-hanging limbs. By the time she reached the bank of the next lake, she was exhausted. She dropped the massive load on the ground like a bundle of books on the last day of school and after a short rest, began the trek back for her second pack.

After an hour and half of this, the two of them lay gasping on the side of the small lake. "Three more of these and it's almost two o'clock." she worried. They threw the gear in the boat and set out. The second portage was almost as long as the first and had even more of an incline. By the time they reached long, narrow Kett Lake, she was starting to panic. It was getting late and if they were caught in the dark in this god-forsaken wilderness, they would never survive.

The Big Kid was being needlessly cheerful, raving about the beauty of the pristine lake as they paddled along. He didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Of course she should have expected that. He was such a child.

She browbeat him into agreeing to camp if they could find a place. He had pointed out that the maps showed no campsites on the lake. She didn't care. It was a matter of life and death. She searched for any possible place to throw a tent...a flat rock, a small opening between two trees...anything. But as they glided to the end of the lake and she saw the next portage, she realized they were doomed.

It was almost 5:00. They had two more portages and a long paddle ahead before they would reach the first available campsite. It was impossible! All her careful planning had come to nothing. The first day out and they had come to the end of their tether. Perhaps they would be lucky and park rangers would find them stumbling deliriously through the woods. Perhaps they would become hors d'oeuvres for bears. Either way, they were in big trouble. She had to pull out all the stops. She started to cry. She was upset, angry with herself and frightened that she was so exhausted that her chances of injury were much increased. But there was nothing she could do about it. She had to go on.

They loaded up their packs and fought their way through a portage so overgrown that sometimes it was hard to even find the path. When they reached the end of their first trip, the Big Kid told her to rest and he would go back two more times for the rest of the gear. She was too tired and upset he reasoned. She might get hurt. She protested feebly but then agreed.

The last portage was the shortest and the worst. It was overgrown and ran through a swamp. The path ran alternately through mire and along a short cliff with crumbling sides that threatened to collapse at any moment and drop them into the bog. She had to use physical and emotional resources that she didn't know she had just to complete it.

At dusk, all four portages behind them, they loaded the boat one last time and struck out across Lake Tuck in the gathering gloom. Their maps told them a far island held safe harbor. As the last shards of purple light faded out over the horizon they arrived to find a beautiful campsite... beautiful and unoccupied.

She had been tested...and she had survived.

That night, as they lay in their tent, the Big Kid heard bears roaming all through their camp. He could never quite identify for her the exact sound the bears were making but as he pointed out, "bears are very quiet." Eyes like saucers, he clutched his bear repellent and panted. After a while, she became disgusted, put in her ear plugs and went to sleep.

The next morning, she awoke in heaven. Wispy fog banks rolled across the still water of the beautiful lake. The sunrise was glorious. The little island where they camped was bathed in a golden light. It seemed like someone had left a light on in paradise that shined down through the pearly gates right on her face.

Even the Big Kid was in a good mood. He had survived the night without being eaten and was deliriously happy about that fact. He made a fire while she pulled out the food pack and started their breakfast.

Now your average explorers, say Lewis and Clark, or Stanley and Livingston, or Admiral Byrd or Neil Armstrong all traveled through the wilderness with only the barest of provisions.

That, she knew, was because they were men. She was not fool enough to follow their example. She had spent months planning the food for this expedition and she knew this first meal was a further chance to gain complete control over the Big Kid. Like all dumb animals, there were two organs that dominated his behavior. One was his stomach, and the other was not his brain. If they were to survive, he would have to be trained to follow her orders without hesitation. An expedition into the wilderness is no place for a loose cannon. She knew food was the key to this behavior modification and she had come prepared.

"Coffee's ready, want some?"

"You bet!"

"Breakfast is ready. You hungry?"

"You bet!"

"Want a second helping?"

"You bet!"

"Want to do the dishes?"

"You bet!"

It was working.

After breakfast, she ordered him around the campsite until his attention span became too challenged and then they went fishing. It was relaxing laying back in the canoe and drifting across the lake in the breeze. The Big Kid had read up on wilderness fishing before the trip and had bought enough fishing gear to open a small sporting goods store. She was willing to lay back and let him take the lead. After all, the year before, during their eight day trip, he had caught a fish...one fish.

She figured he was on a run.

They drifted for over an hour until suddenly, she heard a gush of excited expletives from the back of the boat. He was jumping around like a kangaroo. She was afraid he would capsize the boat. Finally, she got him calmed down and he hauled a good-sized lake trout over the gunnel and into the boat.

It was probably six or seven pounds and was still growing. In fact, she knew it would grow at least a pound every time he talked about it in the future.

They had more fried fish than they could eat for lunch. Then it was time for a nap.

That evening they were out fishing again, two nice lake trout already on the stringer, when they heard a sudden crashing sound coming from the trees towards their campsite. It sound like a big animal moving through the woods and the Big Kid knew the bears had arrived at last. Even she was concerned. Since they were on a island, they had not hung their provisions between two trees as was recommended and as they paddled furiously back towards their camp, she began to fear that she had left too much to chance. The Big Kid wouldn't let the canoe get close to the shore until they had spent a few minutes checking the site out from afar but he finally screwed up his courage and went ashore to face the bears. He shouted out a short time later that he could see nothing moving or damaged in the camp. She had begun to relax when suddenly a loud crashing and a harsh screech came from the trees above their heads.

She looked up to see a male bald eagle go smashing through the tree limbs above their head. Another soon followed. The crashing sound had been the bald eagles!

One eagle would fly from the island on which they camped to an island nearby and then the other would follow screaming. The second eagle would plow into tree limbs near the first making a terrible crash. Then, one would fly back to her island and the whole process would begin again. They did it over and over for almost a hour. It had to hurt.

It has to be some kind of territorial display." she thought. "Just like a man."

The next morning they got up early, broke camp and took out for parts unknown. They came to the first portage and she decided she should take a turn with the canoe. If the Big Kid got hurt she would lose her mule and had to be prepared. She hoisted the clumsy thing over her head and stumbled down the path. It weighed less than her pack but was awfully cumbersome. She ran into a couple of tree limbs and decided it was less trouble to keep the Big Kid alive.

After that portage they crossed a large lake named Sarah, then came to their second portage in a beautiful cove where the Big Kid seemed convinced was the site of a bear convention. She could watch his face and know what was on his mind. He would look around nervously, jumping suddenly on the trail or stop, become deathly quiet and listen. She knew his overactive imagination was running one bear attack after another through his adolescent brain.

She looked up at the beautiful canopy of trees above them, the occasional flaming maple, the forest floor strewn with ferns. It was too bad he was missing such beauty but at least it made him pay attention to the trail.

At the end of the portage between Sarah Lake and McIntyre Lake, they loaded up once again and paddled across the deserted lake until they found another island campsite. That evening they went out in their canoe to collect driftwood for the fire and came upon two otters bathing in the shimmering ripples of a reflection from the sun. They lay on their backs, placing their food on their stomachs and eating with their hands. Little pieces of food floated in the water around them. It reminded her of how the Big Kid ate in bed.

They followed a little stream as far as their canoe could go then wandered back among the islands, pulling likely looking pieces of weathered driftwood out of the rocks. Eventually the canoe began to look like a sea-going stegosaurus and she decided it was time to go back.

The next day, they decided to keep moving. The fishing in McIntyre had not been good despite the outfitter's recommendation. They backtracked a short distance across McIntyre and entered Deer Lake. The Big Kid dragged a lure behind them. It was the fifth day since they had entered Tuck Lake. They had crossed seven lakes but had seen only two occupied campsites and only one other set of canoeists.

They crossed Deer Lake and a small portage into Cecil Lake. It was perfectly charming. A variety of evergreens grew right down to the water's edge. It was long, narrow and cozy. They both loved it. About halfway down it, the Big Kid got a strike. He hauled in the beast and it turned out to be a smallmouth bass only slightly smaller than his lure. Even so, he was convinced it was an omen.

Like all primitive peoples, he believed in signs and portents, magic and superstition. He was determined to stop and put up camp at the earliest possible location. He ran the canoe into the side close to where they had caught the fish and climbed up the hill well into the trees. Once again, she noticed, the maps showed no campsites on the lake. The fool would have them perching on the side of a cliff. She was going to have to assert her will.

He came bounding down the mountain saying he had found a place and all they had to do was move a few fallen trees.

The battle began. He refused to leave. She refused to stay. He sat in the back of the boat and pouted, saying he was on strike and would not paddle. She sat in the front paddling furiously and crying. (This time it didn't work - he was too angry.)

It is very difficult to paddle a heavily loaded canoe from the bow. In a little wind, it is almost impossible, but she was determined not to have his childish display dominate the expedition. After thirty minutes of exhausting and frustrating paddling, she finally approached the end of Cecil Lake. Suddenly a miracle appeared, a nice, cozy campsite that was not shown on the maps. They forgot their anger and made up instantly. The best way out of an argument is when both parties get their way. She and the Big Kid had been married twenty-six years. They had learned that making up was one of the better parts of being together. Sometimes they fought just so they could make up.

The next morning she was up before daybreak making coffee. The Big Kid was stirring in the tent, probably giving thanks to his maker for the fact that he had survived the night outside the belly of a bear. She looked out across the perfectly still lake and thought... "Why is that tree swimming across the lake?"

Suddenly she realized. "It's a moose!" She screamed as loud as she could whisper for the Big Kid to come see. He came tumbling out of the tent and after taking one look at the huge bull moose swimming across the lake went stumbling back to the tent looking for his camera. She watched in awe as the massive animal glided gently across the lake. As the moose began to climb out of the water on the other side, the Big Kid came running out of the tent with the camera. As the moose shook its great body like a dog, sending showers of water all around, the Big Kid futzed with the settings. As the moose slowly lumbered into the trees, the Big Kid brought the camera to his brow. Just after the moose disappeared into the woods, the camera went "click."

So much for his career as a wildlife photographer.

They broke camp and set out for the next lake. At the portage they met the first human being they had seen since they had left. He was a nice man in a solo canoe. He lived in Green Bay and came to Quetico every year. She told him they were on our way to Robinson Lake and he said there was a "10" campsite there and showed us where it was on the map. He gave them a few pointers about fishing and then disappeared down the narrow path.

When she came out of the woods on the other side of the portage, she blinked in surprise. A beach of white sand spread out before them, lining a beautiful bay. It was the first time she had ever seen sand in the lake country. She was enchanted. It was more like a scene from the south seas than from the frozen Canadian wilderness. Their good Samaritan's boat was a tiny speck in the distance.

They paddled across the small lake, managed the next portage and entered Robinson Lake. The wind had picked up and Robinson Lake was not as protected as the small lakes they had just crossed. They paddled the rocking canoe furiously through the chop towards a tiny dot in the distance they hoped would be their "10" campsite. As far as she could tell, the lake was deserted. When they finally arrived, her dreams were realized. It was indeed a glorious little island. Tall pine, birch and maples towered above the site, climbing the hill like stick soldiers. The ground was covered by multi-colored lichen, ferns and moss. The campsite had been improved by park rangers in that a series of downed logs had been stacked around the rock firepit to form a sort of mini log cabin where they could sit.

The fire pit was atop a big flat rock that made a great work surface for her camp kitchen. To the side of the tent pad area, which was well away from the cooking area, was a small opening between two giant birch trees that stood just at the edge of the lake. Through the leafy portal she could see a wide, white sand beach. Fifty feet out into the lake, the pale sand was still visible under the aquamarine water. It was glorious. That night she whipped up some fresh onion soup, complete with croutons and fresh grated parmesan

cheese. She broke out the Frangelica liqueur she had held back for a special evening. The Big Kid was being good. She would give him a treat. The stars were bright. Earlier in the day, they had seen male and female bald eagles cavorting in the sky, the female in the lead of course. All was right with the world.

There was a reason that she had brought out the alcohol. Early in the trip she had developed an early warning system. Unfortunately, it was beginning to get out of hand. The Big Kid was becoming less afraid of bears with each day that they failed to arrive.

She was determined that he remain vigilant. So, each night after they turned off their flashlights, she would wait a couple of minutes and then, with a sudden intake of breath, gasp "What was that?"

That was all it would take. He would lay there holding his breath for hours after that and she could put in her earplugs and go to sleep. It was almost too easy.

Unfortunately, the Big Kid was not suited to long periods of tension. He was getting tired of being afraid and each night he was getting a little braver. Instead of lying motionless in his sleeping bag, quaking with fear, he began to peep through the tent flap. Then, one night, he got enough courage to shine his flashlight out through the mesh opening. Then he started making loud barks and growling noises. The next night he went so far as to unzip the flap.

It never occurred to him that there were no bears outside the tent. He always assumed they were running away when he made noise or skulking just outside the beam of his flashlight. But as sleep deprivation began to take its toll, his behavior became increasingly aberrant. His fear turned to rage. He started getting up and leaving the tent when he thought he heard something and yelling into the woods. He made loud aggressive displays of flatulence, daring the surrounding bears to challenge him. Next, she was afraid he would go rushing off into the woods after a shadow and hurt himself. The man needed a good nights sleep... so out came the Frangelica.

Besides, his stentorian snoring was enough to keep any non-rabid wildlife away. It sounded like heavy equipment in a tunnel. What bear would attack a bulldozer?

The next day they decided to do a little serious fishing. They had a few nightcrawlers left so they tried jigging for walleye. Three hours later they were still without a bite and had drifted well across the big lake in the wind. Finally, the Big Kid decided they should switch to lures and try the shallows. As they paddled up to a little cove, they heard a sudden hiss. A second later, a big otter came scrambling down the granite sides and splashed into the water. The Big Kid decided it was an omen. They slowly trolled along the side for a few minutes and then, while rounding a little peninsula, suddenly they both had bites at once!

They caught several pan-sized smallmouth as fast as they could haul them in and then the Big Kid's rod almost dipped into the water. At first he thought he was tangled on a snag but then the snag started pulling his line out of the reel. His drag was whining and he was cursing and she was squealing and the boat was rocking. It was a regular aquatic three-ring circus.

After a couple of minutes he had brought the monster to bay and as they watched in wonder, it rolled on the surface...a huge northern pike! He tried three times to get it into his dip net but it was wider than the net and it would arch its back and throw itself off each time. Finally he succeeded and screaming like a wild animal, the Big Kid hauled the leviathan into the boat.

It was so big that its tail and head went up the curved sides of their boat. It had teeth like a barracuda, a fact he discovered when he cut his finger while trying to remove the lure.

Finally, covered in slime and bleeding but oblivious to both, he got the pike on his metal stringer and held it up for her approval like the little kid he was. "Take a picture!" he cried. "Anything could happen. Take a picture quick." They looked around the boat for the camera and found it on the bottom under the net, dripping with slime. He waited, holding the struggling fish while she wiped the scum off the camera and then, just as she began to turn around to capture the Big Kid and his catch, the huge fish began to thrash madly and without warning flipped off the stringer and into the water. It had bent the metal stringer and escaped! The pike lay on the top of the water gasping for a moment and the Big Kid grabbed for it so desperately she was afraid they would capsize. But when the monster felt his fingers closing on its back it easily splashed away.

She had known the man for almost twenty-eight years and she was quite surprised that he knew any profanity she had not heard but in the next few minutes, his verbal inventiveness stunned her. His tantrum knew no bounds. He threw fishing gear. He screamed. He implored the gods to strike him down where he sat. After a few minutes of this he was reduced to a moaning, mumbling hulk.

During this whole display, she sat quietly. She had taught pre-school children for many years and knew what to do when a toddler lost it over a toy. It was best just to let them get it out of their systems. Besides, they had more fish than they could eat without the big pike. She was happy. He would have wanted to haul the slimy thing back to civilization.

The ride back was uneventful. As she suspected, the Big Kid became preoccupied with describing the ever increasing dimensions of the fish and bragging about his fishing prowess. He soon forgot the traumatic event. In fact, she suspected he was secretly glad there would be no photo. After all, evidence might have limited the extent of his claims.

That night they sat watching a beautiful sunset over a lake that had turned to glass. The Big Kid was in a good mood and affectionate. As darkness fell, she looked to her right towards a high hill on the mainland just across a narrow strait and saw a strange, twinkling light a short distance from the top. She pointed it out to the Big Kid. Small flickering lights danced. It looked like some sort of magical opening into another world or a loose circle of white Christmas lights. Both of them were baffled by the sight and watched it intently as it slowly rose until it reached the very top and a tiny sliver appeared above the pines. It had been the man in the moon peeping through the trees on the top of the hill! They both laughed.

The night had been perfectly still, not even the ghost of a breeze... but at that very moment, a very slow, long exhalation rolled across the water from the northwest that shivered the tops of the trees and made tiny ripples on the perfect calm of the lake. It was eerie. For a few seconds the perfect quiet returned, then another long breath of wind rolled across the water. For the next hour the long, whirring gales grew slowly in length and intensity but never changed in style. It was like listening to slow motion surf or to God breathing in his sleep. Before the night was out, they were in a crashing storm.

Rain fell, thunder crashed and wind blew for almost 30 hours. They built a small fire under a tarp with which to cook but most of the time they held a gin rummy tournament. She let him win.

Two days later they left their perfect campsite and headed out into a stiff wind. It was rough enough that they had to keep the bow of the boat into the wind to avoid swamping. They crossed Robinson Lake, entered the Tuck River, and went through a couple of more portages. By the time they entered Moose Bay, the wind was a major obstacle. Even paddling on the small, somewhat protected bays and rivers, they were constantly having to make course corrections and fight waves.

Finally they made it to the Basswood River. About the size of the Colorado or the Brazos in Texas, it was a significant stream. They hugged the leeward side of the river in order to avoid the mounting gale and came upon a wonderful surprise. There, on the multi-colored cliffs above them were aboriginal paintings, left by long dead Indian artists. A crane, a deer and other stick figures graced the cliff. She had heard about the paintings and knew they could be seen at various places in the wilderness area but to actually see some was an unexpected bonus. After floating beside the cliff and taking pictures for a while, they set out again.

Soon, the sheltering cliffs disappeared and they realized the wind had risen to dangerous levels. They came around a bend where the zephyr came at an angle to their progress and they had all they could do not to swamp. Not more than three hundred yards away, they saw a campsite and paddled with all their might. Whitecaps broke over the bow. She became really frightened for the first time in days. It seemed like they were making no progress but they couldn't stop paddling or they would capsize.

That last two hundred yards took almost twenty minutes of hard paddling. By the time they crashed through the last waves and into the shelter of a little bay behind the campsite, they were both cramping and out of breath. They couldn't have kept it up much longer. It was a close thing.

The next day they decided to leave their camp intact and explore the country ahead. They left early and came to Lower Basswood Falls. It was a beautiful area and for the first time, there were several other occupied camps and canoes around. After stopping to gaze for a while, they portaged around the falls and went further up the river.

She knew that the longest portage of the trip was ahead at Upper Basswood Falls. It was over a mile long. She wanted to find a campsite as close to the portage as possible.

They paddled upriver far enough to find an unoccupied campsite which they claimed with a little of their paddling gear. Then they turned around and paddled back. As they were coming up to one of the portages, she saw something in the water ahead. It was a large branch...and it was swimming across the river!

As they got closer, she saw that a beaver was pulling the tree limb towards his lodge on the bank. He slapped his tail on the water to show his disapproval of their interruption and submerged.

After the next portage they came upon another pair of beavers working on their home. Mrs. Beaver ducked into her living room but Mr. Beaver swam around their canoe for a while, getting within 8-10 feet before finally slamming his big, flat tail down on the water and following his wife.

They made it back to their old campsite, loaded up and paddled back up the river to their new home. At the end of the day, she had managed six portages and paddled several miles. She was tired but happy.

She had been in the Wilderness for eleven days, fending for herself. She had traveled uncounted miles across very unforgiving country and had done it herself. Okay, maybe the Big Kid had helped a little bit. He was useful for some things. She looked across the campfire at his overgrown beard and decided maybe she would keep him.

The next morning she considered changing her mind. The Big Kid was sore from all the portaging the day before and was cranky about the work to come. His feet hurt. His knees were self-destructing and his back was killing him...all before breakfast. She could also tell that he, like her, was starting to realize that their journey was almost over. It saddened them both. It also made them want to relish every moment.

The weather had turned cold and as they worked themselves up the river towards the falls, they came to a set of rapids. He got out to scout and came back claiming they could line the boat instead of portaging all their gear. He grabbed the bow rope of the fully loaded canoe and started hopping from rock to rock along the rapids pulling the boat behind him. He had almost made it when she saw him teeter and then fall into the rushing stream. The current caught the boat and almost capsized it while he fought to hold on, up to his waist in the freezing current. Before long, he crawled out, shivering and embarrassed. It was a nippy day and he was soaking wet so she had to unload the boat to get him some warm clothes before he developed hypothermia.

Finally, they came to Upper Basswood Falls. She could see from the look on his face that he was dreading the trek. She felt good but knew better than to let him see it.

On all of the long portages they had crossed so far on the trip, she had never been able to make the trip without stopping and resting. After all, she was a grandmother. Grandmothers don't go carrying 70 pound packs up hill and down without taking a few breaks.

That meant that the Big Kid, who she admitted was much stronger than her, would always meet her when he was coming back. Sometimes, he would help her with her load just to prove his superior male strength. Sometimes he would give her a condescending little smile, wish her luck and keep moving back to his second load.

As they took out across the longest portage of their trip, she felt somehow different... light, strong and in control. The path seemed easy to her, the roots and logs no problem to navigate. She could hear the Big Kid grunting ahead of her.

The next thing she knew she had followed the Big Kid out onto the rocky shore of Lake Basswood. He shuddered to shake his pack from his shoulders, collapsed onto a big rock and said, "That was horrible. My legs hurt so bad I didn't think I was going to make it. I can't believe we have to do that again."

All she could think of to say was "Oh, it wasn't so bad." Looking out across the huge lake, it's banks shimmering with autumn color, she added "Isn't it beautiful?"

They made the second run and then paddled for two more hours until they reached little Pipestone Bay and the short portage that would take them back to their rendezvous with the tow boat. When they dropped their first set of packs on the beach it was 3:58 PM. They were two minutes early! By 4:05 they had the rest of their gear at the meeting place and about ten after, up came the outfitter with his tow boat.

She was happy. She loved it when a plan came together. Twelve days and countless miles and they had made it back with two minutes to spare!

God, she was good!