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August 29, 2005
Nocturne
I took these for a friend. Roomie and I are suckers for these kind of architectural geegaws. Now if I could only figure out how to get it to work. . .
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Triumph of the Inferior Snack Food
Roomie and I were on our second visit to the neighborhood big box store (the one that sells huge sizes of everything). And there were the Cheez-Its. "Good price" say I.
—It really is.
—Shall we get some?
—I would eat too many.
—Should we get Goldfish instead?
—I don't like Goldfish. You like Goldfish.
—Exactly. If we had Goldfish around and not Cheez-Its, you would't be so tempted.
—Makes sense. Goldfish it is.
A new concept: Buying an inferior product so as to reduce consumption. Could also be applied to second class ice creams, chocolates, coffee, and cigarettes. I think the concept cries out for a term. Suggestions?
Posted by Underblog at 10:01 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
August 28, 2005
Career Opportunities Part One
We arrived at the motel on Tuesday night. This after five days driving solid to get here. On Wednesday, we met with the seller, closed escrow, and slept on our air mattress. Thursday, the moving truck arrived; we worked until dark getting boxes, furniture, and vehicles into the house and outbuildings. Friday, I got a call from my brother, he who has not had a job he has fit to tell us about in 20 years or so. He asks, "Have you had any luck with your new gig?"
—Pardon?
—A job. Have you found a job yet?
I was too incredulous to reply "No. Have you?"
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Local Customs
I think everyone I've met in Albuquerque has complained about how cavalier everyone else is about getting things done. I don't mind.
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August 27, 2005
Initial Impressions
Amid the unfamiliar things at our new digs is the operation of the acequia irrigation system. We saw it in operation yesterday on the other side of Fourth Street. Plus I lurked while the young man who is showing us this morning how to operate the weirs to properly flood our property. I am considering calling the Middle Rio Grande Water Conservancy District to increase the acreage flooded, currently at .40 acre. I reckon if we call it .75 acre we can flood the front as well as the back of the property.
In other news, it appears by the smell of it that we have a skunk residing on our property. No incidents yet, only a faint whiff of that distinctive scent when we walk by the Tuff Built tool shed. It may be that the shed has been skunked in the past, but I think we have a tenant.
We are poking around at the plants, mostly trying to help those in desperate situations. No master plan as yet (except to bring the irrigation forward), just trimming dead wood, collecting junk into piles, and deciding whether we have any use for a dozen old milk crates. I am pretty sure that I have no use for large electrical motors, but I should really check with Roomie.
Posted by Underblog at 7:27 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
August 24, 2005
Albuquerque
Arrived in New Mexico ahead of schedule. Roomie finally got to see her buffalo, munching grass by the dozens while pronghorn antelope lounged nearby. We have skirted storms since the rainbow began following us in Wyoming. The weather finally catches up to us once Roomie takes over the driving at a rest stop. No sooner than she has hit cruise control than do the raindrops begin to hit. For the first time since we left Saint Paul do the wipers go on to control actual rain, rather than roadspray (as in Wyoming).
New Mexico is beautiful; I really like the Fort Union area. The recent storms had turned the plains green, somewhat browner on the other side of Santa Fe. Two cop cars raced up the shoulders of I-25 to catch up to three pulled over cars. One of the cars' occupants had already jumped out. I suspect road rage incident promoted to a 911 call.
First stop in ABQ is the Ranchito. We giggle at the thought of our parents approaching the place: There are industrial places, garbagey homes, "all ages communities" (trailer parks), and general ugliness. But the Ranchito is an oasis of calm. The last of the road beers is drunk at the motel, and we celebrate arrival with a New Mexican dinner in Old Town.
We meet at 8:30 with the seller at the property to learn about irrigation and which switches control the light over the patio. At 9:30, we shall be at the title company. By noon, we should be trying to figure out where in the world we will be placing all the boxes that should be arriving any minute now.
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August 23, 2005
Wyoming
We decide on Saturday to drive as far as Gillette Wyoming and then look for a place to camp. In Gillette, we see a sign CAMPING: NEXT RIGHT. We take it and follow what appears to be the main commercial street for about 3/4 mile. A sign next to a used car dealership points up a gravel driveway. At the top of the driveway is the office.
There are plenty of vacancies. Most sites are taken up by RV's, but there are a dozen tent sites, two of which are already occupied. Behind the campsites is a grassy knoll topped by a hospital. We see a little bunny there. Selkye really enjoys running around on the grass after a long day in the car.
A tent is set up in one of the RV sites. They are a younger couple who are there, Roomie tells me, to hump. "Look, the windows are zipped up already." The next morning, Roomie occupies the stall next to the woman from the tent at the showers. A tremendous fart and long pee confirm her theory. To Roomie, anyway. I think they may just be a cute young couple out camping.
We are faced with the dilemma of disposing of a used propane bottle. These things typically go to the local hazardous waste facility, but it is common to see them set out next to the garbage at campsites. Dealing with the empties is a large reason we went the white gas route on our cookstove. I dispatch Roomie to the office to find out what the deal is, and she is told "I suppose there ought to be a law, but I guess most people just throw em in the garbage." Done. Hurrah for Wyoming and its environment. I hope the trash compactor does not explode on our account.
There are many many pronghorn antelope here. And much much open space.
We spent the following night in great luxury with Ranger Ted and SuSuBelle and their menagerie, whose feline members provided entertainment for Omega Third Class Selkye, who was otherwise Confined to Quarters in the dining room. We stop by the notorious Cat's Paw in Bozeman for witch juice, which RT adroitly transforms into martini's. The Coq Au Vin is superb. The next morning, RT and SSB send us off with coolers full of ice, a smoked chicken, and a loaf of homemade Challa bread. We consume some of the Challa and chicken in a desolate turn of just north of the Kaycee Rest Stop, which we learn is solar-powered.
The final assault on Cheyenne is marked by the needle on the gas gauge hitting "E." The fuel low light goes on about 200 yards after a "Next Services 42 Miles" sign. We reduce our speed to 60 from 75 (which feels like crawling), turn off the AC, and draft trucks whenever possible. A double rainbow follows us the entire way to Cheyenne. When we do fill up, I learn we still have about two gallons left. Still.
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August 20, 2005
Why Are We Doing This Again?
The movers took bloody forever to get our stuff loaded. Around the 4:30pm, it was heard (after giving the kids a profanity immersion lesson) "We got the door closed a while ago." After much pushing and arguing, the whole tier had to be reloaded. I had to command them to empty out the house so I could give a last check through in advance of the buyers' walk through at 7:00pm.
It is a good thing for us that residents of our block of Ashland Ave. (it will always be our block) as kind, generous, and entertaining as they are. Thank you all for the beer, the sandwiches, the pizza, and the general all around goodness.
Posted by Underblog at 6:06 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
August 10, 2005
Day Seven: Return to Civilization
It seems like we have been on our island campsite for a week, when we have in fact spent only one extra night here. I am actually ready to move on. The place seems too familiar. Base camping is not for me. I am however not ready for our trip to end. We could stay out longer if we did not have only trail mix and beef jerky to eat. (Once again, we—meaning I— brought too much trail mix. We used maybe a third; to a fourth of what I brought, and this is half of what I had prepared. Next time, I shall parse the trail mix by the handful.)
We head up the length of Lake One, seeing bald eagles and fisherpeople along the way. As the lake narrows, we navigate by pointing our trusty canoe in the direction of the oncoming traffic, of which there is much. One small island has a picnic site on it—very cute. We first hear the road, then see a power line, and finally a series of cabins comes into view. It appears to be the Boat Access, but there is in fact a small channel that is the Kawishiwi River. We paddle down it, and into a large bay of water lilies. Another bay follows—apparently another dead end. A family of paddlers has investigated one end of the lagoon and we are at the dead end of the other. CB takes a look at the map and bids us look for another small channel, which we find and pursue. The Boat Access is just ahead. We pull up, remove our packs one last time, and gently lay the canoe on the beach.
The outfitter rendezvous person appears immediately, presumably to pick up the lost paddlers who are now behind us. We debrief him on our trip, and he confirms that moose do occupy Pagami Creek, which is seldom paddled and can be choked with lilies when the water is low. Back at the campsite, we have the outfitter person take a reenactment picture of us with our gear and the canoe. I don't even mind that the yoke pads have been removed.
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August 9, 2005
Day Six: The Ones That Got Away
Lake One: At 5:00am I hear the unmistakable sound of rain hitting the tent. One nice thing about tents is that raindrops are sufficiently loud to wake one up out of the deepest slumber. I jump into my sneaks, unfurl and attach the back end of the fly to the poles, and zip up the vestibule door in the space of about 45 seconds. If that. Shortly afterward, CB comes by with my rain gear. I reach through the ventilation opening and retrieve it. I relax for a while but do not really fall back asleep. The sound of the rain is intoxicating.
I put the rainpants on directly over my undershorts and go out into the rain. Rain is not bad if you are prepared for it. With boots and Gore-Tex, I can handle anything. I lower the foodpack and put it under the tarp next to the gearpack. I put the coffee on under a dry corner of the tarp. My sneaks serve as a little cushion on the dirt. I think at the time that I could spend all day there. But I don't. I prefer investigating the views. The raindrops make a chirping sound as they hit the water. Because the Katadyn filter failed us, we have less water on hand than we would like. Once CB is up and about, we harvest rainwater (about a cup at a time) from the small pools that form on the tarp. It does not quite fill our five gallon reservoir, but it gives us enough to get us home without CB having to sit in the water and pump.
By 9:30, we have eaten our oatmeal-and-fruit and the rain is letting up. We pack up the fishing tackle for our first real fishing expedition of the trip. Because the water is extremely calm, I do the paddling while CB works on catching us lunch. We reckon that smallmouth bass are lurking in the shade near the shore, so CB puts a popper on the line. Making our way down the shoreline of the mainland opposite the Big Isle, we pull into a little bay. A small bass takes a look at the lure but turns away. But just as we are leaving, we get a hit. CB sets the hooks and begins reeling in a Northern Pike which I estimate to be about 18-20" long. It runs under the canoe, and so I backpaddle us. It runs back under again, and I keep backpaddling. Eventually, it bites off the line and runs off with the popper. Moral of the story: Prepare for pike even when you are fishing for bass.
We paddle down toward Pagami Creek, which looks like primo moose-viewing territory [a fact that is later confirmed by the fellow picking us up at the landing]. We decide to try the shady side of the island to the southwest of the Big Isle. No excitement there, and CB suggests we go back to the Big Isle to change out of the rain gear. "No problem" say I "but let's check out the shady side of this next island first then circle back." He agrees and we find another pool on the shady side. A smallmouth bass takes the popper and CB successfully lands him. "At least we won't be totally skunked." We begin exiting the pool and he gets another hit. This time, it is a walleye about the same length as the pike, but noticeably fatter. You can just tell that he is good eating. Unfortunately, CB only lipped him since he got off before he could be reeled in.
On the way back, the reel makes funny clicking noises when reeling in the line and eventually jams completely. We head back to shore to prep the bass and check out the reel. CB cleans the bass on the spare paddle. At my request, he filets it rather than just tear the meat off. Fewer bones this way. It is not a huge fish, but when pan-fried in bread crumbs and peanut oil, it is the most delicious fish I have ever eaten. Size-wise, it is more of a snack. The smallmouth is really a consolation prize for the ones that got away. CB will endure ribbing about them until I see him land something more respectable. The Italian-made (elegant design, questionable mechanics) reel is hopelessly knackered. We are done fissin' for this trip.
Despite a breeze and some afternoon clouds, we decide to go for a swim anyway. In the murky water, I discover some more fresh-water clams (in fact they are technically mussels) to add to the two that we found the previous day. As CB remarked at the time, "Two clams do not a chowder make." The second day proved to be much more productive. We stopped not for want of clams, but rather out of appetite. We set the critters in the water near some rocks and went out on our afternoon swim, this time to a rock shelf across the channel.
Once again, Selkye waits until we are out there relaxing before she swims across. The cool breeze moves us to take off as soon she arrives. I think she will sleep pretty well tonight. We steam and eat a pot full of clams, using small rocks to separate the water from the clams. They are not as flavorful as saltwater clams, but it feels neat to live off the land. "We should know by 3 am whether they are any good" says CB. The rest of the clams are steamed shelled, cut up, and added to the "Curried Asian Stri Fry" backpacking mix, which is disappointing. Essentially twice-cooked, the clams become edible pencil erasers.
We admire the view once more from the Meteorological Observation Station and turn in for our final night.
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August 8, 2005
Day Five: Lake Two to Lake One
Lake One: The upside of pressing on in the afternoon when the first campsites you like are taken is that you get a jump on the next day's paddling. So we plotted to get to an isolated campsite on the south end of Lake One before noon. CB said "As long as we don't leave too early, we should get there in plenty of time" meaning that we could probably get there before the previous occupants had checked out. I was a little concerned when I saw the neighbor site pull out into the water very early.
But I am glad we stayed. While drinking coffee, a bald eagle leaving his perch overhead swoops low enough over our campsite that we can hear the beating of his wings. The morning light fully illuminates his form. By far the best sighting yet.
Two quick portages (whose traffic indicates that we are close to civilization) are the last of our trip. Completing them is bittersweet. I have come to look forward to portages as a respite from paddling. On one of the portages, I converse with a youngish couple who is fully outfitted with dry bags. The woman carries a gallon of white gas.
—How long are you going out for?
—A week.
—I suspect you will have plenty of fuel.
—I was going to carry two of the bottles, but I wanted to be sure not to run out.
We carried one spare liter and the stove full of fuel. The stove was pretty much full when we returned.
As we paddle into Lake One, we see another bald eagle flying around. He alights on a large tree over the lake and we paddle around to see him perched there. Shortly afterward, we see day-tripping kayakers near the island on which the campsite we are aiming is located. One of them says "That looks like work." And I suppose it is, carrying all you need for a week in a self-propelled craft and on your back through the portages. But it is work I gladly do. The kayakers are the last people we see for nearly 24 hours. Unfortunately, we are closer to Ely now where tanker planes are taking off and landing at a furious rate. We surmise that there is a fire somewhere down-wind of us. [There is, and 1300 acres of it still burns as of 8-16.] As we approach the site, we think we see canoes there, but we are mistaken and the place is ours for the taking at 11:40am.
Many travelers at the end of their trip stay at a fancier place for the last night or two. And so it is with us. The campsite is amazing. Views on three sides, caibo with a lid, excellent tentsites. We quickly give names to the various places: the penthouse, the breakfast room, the meteorological observation station. I take a few pictures and note that I have 33 pictures left.
CB and I swim out to a pile of rocks adjacent to a small island to our southwest. Selkye stays on the Big Island and watches. Once we arrive safely and examine the remains of a bald eagle's lunch (Northern Pike jaw, spine, and tail) Selkye swims over to join us. I suppose she thinks if the pack is going to investigate, she will too. She promptly eats the fish spine. On the swim back, she gives us a head start and beats us to shore anyway. It is fun to be in the water with her. She swims up to me and I give her a push toward shore and a "go on Selkye" and she heads straight for land. Intrepid camp dog with swimming certification? Check.
After dinner, we take pictures of the Hannukah miracle like tube of Pepsodent toothpaste. We discuss whether Pepsodent even exists any more.
Night: I awake again at 11:00pm to flashing lights. I get up to investigate. They are coming from the south. Could be an intense electrical storm down there. See a satellite fly by. Back in the tent, I hear distant rumbling. Is it time to unroll the fly and prepare for rain? The breeze picks up again. We'll see about that fly.
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August 7, 2005
Day Four: Insula to Lake Two
Lake Two: Long day of paddling. Started very calm from Williamson Island. Morning headache is less severe, though I still have to thoroughly wash the bandana of the green stuff ejected from my nose. The map shows a narrows between a large island and the mainland, but when we paddle over to it we find it unnavigable. We lose about 15 minutes on the venture. On Insula, we encounter two other groups: three aluminum canoes of boy scouts and two canoes and a kayak. One of the canoes has a Labrador Retriever aboard, who causes Selkye some consternation.
We go off the main channel mostly to have more lake to ourselves. We get ahead of the kayak flotilla for good. We continue to run into the boy scouts, passing them up at portages, they passing us while we break for trail mix or to have the navigational discussions of which CB is so fond.
This day on the route is odd in that the sites on Hudson Lake are too close to Insula for a decent day of paddling, and the sites on Lake Four are too far. We notice that the portages are getting more crowded, a reminder that we are getting closer to civilization. Today's portages of 25-35 rods, and even one of 100 rods, go very quickly. By this point we have loaded and unloaded the canoe 40 times and we are real pro's.
On a no-name lake between Hudson and Lake Four, we see a moose. Rather, we hear it. I hear a tremendous amount of crashing in the woods and prompt CB. "What?" says he. "Shh." Then we hear it again. Evidently, moose do not jump daintily around the brush like deer. They simply crash through everything. The moose (a cow) comes down to water's edge where she drinks from the lake. With the morning sun at our back, she appears mostly in silhouette. I backpaddle us for a closer look, and silently alert the otherwise noisy boy scouts to the moose's presence. Meanwhile, Selkye begins to moof. After crashing through the woods for a bit she reappears on a high spot overlooking the lake. Now in full sunlight, she gives us a good look at her profile. She then lumbers off into the woods again. Seeing her is the best birthday present ever.
By the time we arrive at Lake Four, we are too close to civilization and it is too late in the day for us to get the primo campsites we wanted. We paddle across Three and pause near some occupied sites for a drink. We are tired, hot, and ready to quit for the day. CB mumbles rather than speaks. My part of every conversation begins with "Pardon?" After a while, I just give up. As he tires (or perhaps gets more concerned about the availability of campsites) he appears to looking at the map even more intently than usual. Sites are filling up. The scouts (whom we learn were shooting for Lake Two) stop at Four.
On the larger lakes, we hear and see airplanes for the first time on the trip. I had thought the BWCAW was off-limits to recreational flying.
We give up on finding "the site" and make a course —one with many sites along the way—for "a site". Entering Lake Two from Lake Three, a bald eagle takes off from his perch, circles directly above us and flies off in the direction we are headed. It is the best look we have had yet at one. We pull ashore on yet another sun-baked site, albeit one with shady tentsites across a channel from another site where young people are making lots of noise. Fortunately, they quiet down early.
Funny how when you are overheated and exhausted a campsite can look lousy. Then once the tents and tarp are up, you have some jerky and some water, and go for a swim everything looks about a thousand times better. And so it was here. By the time we left the next morning, I was finding all the good in the site, and seeing none of the bad. The swim is excellent. We swim across the channel to the opposite granite shelf, where we find that benches project out, providing us with a seat upon which to rest for a while. Selkye eyes us suspiciously.
Vertical cloud columns appear on the horizon and more of them appear to be moving closer to us. The tarp may finally see some action. As far as the BWCAW goes, we are overdue for some weather.
Later: Katadyn water filter broke while CB was on water-filtration duty. He has taken over that chore, and I let him. I feel bad about it, but I think he is sympathetic to the extra effort I have been putting into the paddling. He suggests that I contact their customer service department. At first, I am just pissed that it has failed, but I cool down a bit once we figure out that we can still use it—as long as we hold the unit under water while pumping. Selkye has no problem getting into the tent. She is exhausted. Where she had found a little sleeping spot between some rocks I placed the sleeping pad. I think it is the first time on the trip where she had really appreciated it.
Took a somewhat ill-advised solo paddle across the channel to try and see the Northern Lights. No luck this trip. I kept thinking that I could see something flashing in the distance. It may have been weak Lights or it may have been a hallucination because I so wanted to see them. In any case, I feel bad for clunking around noisily in the middle of the night, but I figured if there was any time to see them, it was going to be now. The lake is so calm that the stars are reflected on its surface. Beautiful.
During the launch, I figure out the proper way to enter a canoe when soloing: Step into the back where you don't have the land leg pushing against the water leg. It is much more stable to step into the back where it is narrower. On the whole, my paddling is really improving. I am competently J-and prow- stroking. We pass dozens of hacks along the way, but I think that says less about our competence and more about their lack thereof.
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August 6, 2005
Day Three: Thomas to Insula
Thomas Lake: Since the beginning of the trip, I have been battling the cold that CB has given me. I appear today to be losing the battle. Slept maybe an hour or two. My teeth ache, my nose drips, my head feels as though a thick fog envelopes it tightly; and yet the beauty of this place compensates for my physical suffering. Selkye is getting progressively more tired with each passing day. I frequently say that "a tired dog is a happy dog": Selkye is deeply happy. She has me place her pack on her while she lays down, and remains there until the canoe is loaded and she is bid to climb aboard.
Williamson Island, Lake Insula: Beautiful island campsite. After a short portage into Kiana, and a longer somewhat grueling portage into a channel of Insula, we arrive into the open water in the face of a headwind. Paddling into it tires us out quickly, but not as quickly as the scouts whom we pass on the portage: They make camp inside the channel just before the open water. Foodwise, the Tang supply which I reduced when CB said to reduce the weight is running out. We could have drunk twice as much. Trouble is, I am a morning Tang drinker and he likes to have his in the evening. Next time, less trail mix, more Tang.
At the Kiana-Insula portage, we make a rookie mistake. We are half unloaded from the canoe: I have handed off the paddles to CB, but I want to grab some trail mix to fuel up for the portage. This is most easily accomplished with the food pack unloaded from the canoe. We chat for a minute when I see that the headwind has pushed the canoe off the rock into the water about four or five feet. I shout for a paddle and step into the water. The granite beneath is almost deep enough to grab the canoe but not quite. I lunge into the water and grab the canoe. While attempting to stand back up, I slip and bash my shin. No worse of a bruise than the mysterious soccer bulge I obtained ten days earlier. Now it is time for a break. I empty the boots of water and wring the water out of my wool socks. One of the boots actually managed to stay pretty dry. Sitting there on the rock shelf, I spy a camoflage bandana, which is added to the food pack.
Once underway, we hear the unmistakeable crash of an aluminum canoe being dropped in the woods. Portages for us are by this point routine and pretty quick: I hand off the paddles and PFDs, place the map under a pack flap, help CB on with the food pack, put the gear pack on, launch the canoe onto my shoulders and start hiking. During the uphill portion, I can feel my heart beating and breathing get deeper. It may be the cold or the exertion, or perhaps both. In any case, we do not break on portages but before or after them. The aluminum canoe is dropped again. I am close enough to see three teenage girls in beachwear struggling to lift it. I wish they would let us by, since it is harder to stop and start than to simply keep going. On the third drop, they do let us by. They remark as many others do on the pack Selkye carries. "Next time, she carries the canoe" I say. At the end of the portage, two well-rested and properly attired parents rest in the shade. "They are on their way," I say needlessly. "Builds character." "We hope so" is the man's response. I gingerly lower the canoe into the water. The girls (two of whom are overweight) quite literally throw the aluminum canoe into the water. I am sure that the next five campsites can hear the launch.
Williamson Island is extremely windy, and the black flies are persistent. During our circumnavigation of the island, we note that the caibo resides on the high spot of the island. Trails connect all the nice views. We filter water in the shade.
While quasi-napping in the tent, I notice the instruction that the Sub-Alpine UL likes to be pointed into the wind for maximum ventilation. I unstake the vesitbule door-flaps, re-orient the tent, and climb back in for another quasi-nap. On this night, I finally make use of the Sub-Alpine's "convertible fly" feature. I do not put the fly's two rear grommets on the pole ends and instead roll up the fly to the high-point on the front pole. There, a conveniently placed loop and bar hold the back end of the fly in place. This greatly improves ventilation, and the view of the stars through the mesh ceiling is terrific.
I give myself an "A" for the tarp hanging. I use the adjusters to move the fabric evenly between the three trees and the ground guy-out (for which I use two stakes). While hanging the tarp, I notice a tent stake high (30 feet or so) in a tree. After the high winds blow through, we look on the ground for it: finding it would make up for the loss of the far-flung Jordan stake. Many minutes are spent at various junctures searching. The bear-proofing also merits an "A," though Smarty-Pants would say that it is too close (about 4 feet away) to the trunk. CB really loves looking at the maps. I become increasingly annoyed at CB's propensity for staring at the map when paddling. His effort diminishes when he sees something of interest. I find myself J-stroking quite a bit. Then I remind myself that he has entered his eighth decade of life.
I feel hot. Sun-burned perhaps, febrile. Not miserable though. The high wind feels excellent on a shady rock still warm from the sunlight. In that spot the interconnectedness of sun and wind are palpable. Adding to the delight is the fact that aside from campers who were breaking camp just as we had arrived, not a soul has been seen. We own Insula for the next 18 hours.
The rock shelf on Williamson makes for excellent jumping into the lake. The swim feels excellent, as always. Our dinner of Ramen with foil-packed salmon is excellent. Definitely would have that again.
Selkye lobbies me to spend the night outdoors. She appears to be saying "We are on an island, for chrissakes. Where am I going to go. Out here, I can keep an eye on things." I am adamant however. In she goes, where she immediately curls up and goes to sleep.
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August 5, 2005
Day Two: Jordan to Thomas
Jordan Lake: Perfectly quiet night. Many stars out. I awake at 4am for the second day in a row and return to a fitful sleep. The rest of the night I sleep solidly. I have a headache, probably as a result of the cold that CB has given me. It is much cooler in the morning than it was when I fell asleep. Incredibly quiet in the morning. We speak in whispers. Canoe loaded and we are underway by 9:15am.
Thomas Lake: We cross Jordan Lake and a canoe full of Boy Scouts points out a bald eagle in a dead tree above the lake, practically right above us. I reckon that it is the same individual from the day before. The channel connecting Jordan and Ima lakes is beautiful, and an easy paddle as well. Before long we are in the open water of Ima Lake. We see a few other morning paddlers, mostly making their way back to Ensign. Between Ima and Thomas are some lily-covered swamps. Short (and thus level) portages connect a series of swampy channels. At one of these portages, we encounter a group of girl scouts. At another, we meet some boy scouts from the Bay Area. I am sure that this is moose country, though I suspect that they are farther north this time of year. One of the portages looks navigable. As I investigate its runnability, I step in mucl nearly to the top of my boots. They protect me well. Eventually, the pools become larger and we enter Thomas Pond. One last short portage and we are into Thomas Lake.
Ima and Thomas are both large lakes: excellent for fishing I suppose, but not so intriguing for paddlers. I work on my J and Prow strokes as we encounter some headwinds. In general, though, it is very calm and we feel as though we are making excellent time. I begin to insist that CB and I do our consulting with the map outside of the sunny areas. Shade is somewhat hard to find in the middle of the day, since as a rule only shorter trees grow along the shore.
CB makes a navigational error which takes us a little off course. It is no great difference, just that we head into more open water than is necessary. We had targeted the south end of Thomas for a campsite, and pick one on an isthmus. Indeed there is a trail all the way to the other side. The isthmus is so small in fact that the caibo [sp?] is closer to the campsite than any others I have seen in the BWCAW. CB is much more enamored with the site than I. The tentsites are none too level, and the site is at once surrounded by pines (giving it a cramped feel) and sun-baked. I suppose mid-day Minnesota in August is just like that. I again feel somewhat overheated. A mediocre site in the BWCAW is still far better accommodation than I have ever experienced elsewhere. It is remarkable to paddle out into the wilderness for a couple of days and see only the best side of humanity. There is little garbage at the sites, adults are teaching their kids stewardship and appreciation, and the sites are developed just enough to make a minimal imprint on the environment. Personally, I think the fire grates and caibos are nice touches. I think that leaving mid-week was smart too. It gives us the chance to be several days out while others are just leaving.
Stepping out on the rocks in the water, I spy a large (three treble hooks) Rapala lure wedged under a rock. I suspect a child was using it since it is a deep water lure too close to shore. I hold my breath, retrieve it, and make a gift of it to CB. The following swim feels excellent. I notice while out there that there is a small mole-like acquatic mammal living under the rocks directly below my tentsite. After a swim, I feel much better. I notice that my t-shirt is looking rather ratty.
I notice that the site is noisier than Jordan on account of the wind blowing through the pines. While CB beachcombs, I erect the tarp. I give my tarp hanging an "B+" mostly because I use an extra guy to stake down a side loop.
CB makes some casts from shore. Nothing bites. I take several photographs of an interesting butterfly that is mysteriously attracted to the canoe. I quote myself "It is true enough that the Boundary Waters belongs to all Americans, or the bald eagles or the moose. But anyone who has spent any time here can tell you that it really belongs to the loons."
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August 4, 2005
Day One: Moose to Jordan
Jordan Lake: We plan to meet the tow person at 7:30 and show up 15 minutes late; it takes another 15 to get everything made ready. The tow from Moose Lake to the Splash Lake portage is always fun. Once on the water, we enjoy a tailwind the length of Ensign. The only paddlers more competent than we are two forest service paddlers with bent-shaft paddles. They are a pleasure to watch. After Ensign, there is a well-hidden portage that is fairly long (100 rods = 1600 ft ≅ 1/3 mile). Ashigan and the other lakes are fairly small with short portages connecting them. I like getting the long portages over early. In fact, I like getting the paddling over early as well.
We snag an excellent campsite. Worth the early start and finish to be able to claim it. Private beach, bluff with cross-breezes. Tarp-pitching rates a "C-." It fell down once due to my lousy knot and later pulled a stake up and flung it somewhere. I am feeling a bit overheated in the sun, but after a swim am feeling much better. The bluff above the lake where I have pitched the Sub-Alpine UL protects the beach and makes it ideal for swimming.
The Sub-Alpine almost got away from me while I was pitching it. I was placing the pole-tips in the grommets when a gust lifted it up off the ground entirely. I managed to grab a pole and keep it from blowing off into the lake altogether. I have since guyed down the tent on the sides and rear. It performs well now. While we swim, I spot a bald eagle soaring across the lake. Very nice. Carrying both the pack and the canoe is more effort than one or the other, but I realize that I am carrying about 10 lbs. "extra": CB's tent (4.x lbs) and heavy clothes (probably about the same). I am surprised by the weight of his clothes bag, since he has just come from a weeklong backpacking trip in the Sierra. Clouds appear to be moving in. I predict rain.
This spot is so perfect that even if the rest of the journey totally bites, these few hours were memorable and special enough to make the trip worthwhile. Times like these are rare even here but are extremely powerful and euphoric. The desire to experience them again is strong, akin (or so I imagine) to an addict's need for drugs. Evidence of the 1999 4th of July Storm is everywhere. Downed trees everywhere you look. Yet the young trees are picking up the slack. It is true that we had the wind at our back today but we made excellent time, especially at the portages. We were aiming for the east end of Ensign or perhaps Ashigan; we are now half a day ahead of the itinerary. I have a little sunburn on my wrists. I am too hot in the sun, too cool in the shade. In the late afternoon, we see paddlers looking for a spot too late in the day to have any fun. If they are unfortunate enough to find the three sites on Ashigan full, they will have to take what they can get on Ensign.
See the pics here.
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August 3, 2005
Farewell to Ely
Moose Lake Campground: It is raining. Why does this cheer me up? I rehang one corner of the tarp to create some additional headroom beneath it. The coffee from the Snowpeak Titanium French Press is excellent. I have been following the good walleye. My mom and stepdad (hereafter Camping Buddy) had Walleye Almondine at the Lex in Saint Paul and it looked excellent. I tried it at the place where they are staying and it was not nearly as good. Or at least it did not look as good. I was also a little bummed that the campsite I was told in town was available (the one where Roomie and I stayed our first time at Moose Lake) was not. This campsite is actually decent, larger than the site I had wanted. The site is higher up and thus still has a lake view, though the gravel driveway lies between it and the lake. The site is isolated with its own parking area. The rain this morning is no more than a drizzle, for the most part. The tarp keeps the drizzle off the stove and packs. Today is the day we are supposed to be entering the BWCAW; I reckon we are close enough. If CB joins me at the site tonight, we will get at least an hour's earlier start.
Some lightning now. Innocuous thunder too, though the raindrops are noticeably bigger. I told my mom yesterday that I had no plans for the day, since I had expected to be away.¹ The tarp is really coming in handy now. So SO glad to have it up over the picnic table.
Later: Spent the day driving around Ely with parent-folks. We circumnavigate Shagawa Lake and have a nice lunch. The power goes out while we are there, and when it comes back on, we pay the tab and race back to the site just in time to zip up the tent-fly. Back in town, we buy some provisions at Zup's where we purchase three bottles of locally-made blueberry soda. After we procure a bottle opener or two, we head for the dock on Shagawa and watch the sun lower. We have dinner at a mediocre greasy-spoon place, return to the site, and then go through all the gear and food that we do NOT need to bring: About half the sugar, half the tang, and half the hot chocolate, as well as a the sixth night's dinner and seventh day's snacks.
This evening I finally allow myself to feel nervous about the trip. It feels strange to be so close to actually be doing this after planning for so long. Once in the tent, I kill a large blood-filled mosquito. I think I am catching the cold that CB brought down from the Sierra.
¹ The plan was to spend the day paddling with my mom in the hope that I might learn a thing or two.
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August 2, 2005
Off
Off to the BWCAW for a week. I think this is the route we will be taking. If you have bears, please keep them at home.
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August 1, 2005
What I Dreamt When I Fell Back Asleep at 4:15 am After Waking Up at 2:45 and Working On a Paper
I was walking on a farm set on some rolling hills. A hearty young woman with pigtails¹ and her grandfather or older uncle are unloading manure from a flatbed truck. Numerous metal rakes are arranged in the same direction on the ground, tines up. They appear to be using them to measure the depth of the fertilizer they are applying. I walk behind the two of them as they walk away from the truck and rakes. I overhear the woman say "After the wedding, _______ and I will . . ." Grandpa, the woman, and I are in a model kitchen of the sort you might see in a Home Depot. A small stream of milk flows from the bottom of the fridge. I listen in on their conversation as I mop up the milk and pretend to check out the cabinetry.
— [sneering] Like in that movie you were in. . .
— I wasn't in any movie!
— You know, that thing with what's his name, Har-Mar. . .
— You mean the Har-Mar Superstar video!
At this point I interject "I know that video! Har-Mar is great!" We converse excitedly about Har-Mar and I say "He used to live just across the road here."²
— Really?
— Or his mom did. His dad died. Or his folks split and he lived there with his mom and step-dad.³
The three of us leave the model kitchen and adjourn to the main house. From the window, I see on the other side of the fence three Border Collies on the bed of a flatbed truck. They are barking at the three dogs with us. "Those are real cattle dogs" I point out. And though the Border Collies barked and jumped around with some vigor, they remained on their side of the fence until a cat crept up from behind them.
¹ An older version of a friend's niece from Fargo, perhaps.
² I have no idea where Har-Mar used to live, though I hear he now resides in West Hollywood.
³ At a friend's house last night, I heard tell of a young girl whose father died.
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