canoeing Archives - NorthStarNature

Courage of an Explorer

October 8, 2023 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Imagine your life as a lake. There’s a trail around the life lake that allows us to explore, day after day, this gift we are given. There is mystery, uncertainty, beauty, sustenance, and a calling of spirit that keeps us moving onward. Our lives are the ultimate exploration!

Our fourth hike at Savanna Portage State Park encircled Lake Shumway, the lake adjacent to the campground. Curious about the name, I found out ‘Shumway’ is the Americanized form of the French name ‘Chamois,’ which is a metonymic occupational name. In essence, it names a person by what that person does for a living—in this case, a person closely associated with the mountain goat ‘chamois’ or the leather produced from it. Interesting!

The beginning—of our lives or of the day—is pristine and fresh, misty and mysterious as to what lies before us. The colloquial saying “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” is true! Each dawn of a new day reminds us of that.

After our morning Continental Divide Trail hike and lunch, we began the loop around Lake Shumway. The lake reflected the early afternoon sky—a different look from the sunrise sky and water.

Much of the trail was covered in Pine needles which gave rise to the heady, comforting scent of glorious Pine with each step. We passed by the impressive work of a beaver who had felled a large Pine and removed a chunk of it from the trunk—his work was ongoing.

As with many places along the trails of life, we came to a divergence—one trail continued around the lake, another veered off into the forest towards a bog. We took the bog trail, knowing we would need to backtrack to continue around the lake. How many times do we have a choice in life, take a path, have to backtrack, ‘lose’ time or money, and/or find a treasure?

The bog was in a sad state—our Summer drought had taken its toll on the wetland. The mosses were dried up and discolored; luckily the rhizomal roots of Labrador Tea provided enough water to have kept them green. We found a few Pitcher Plants near Bog Lake with red leaves and dried, nodding flowers. The environment matters as to the flourishing of the members in any ecosystem/community. Temporary droughts/setbacks can be overcome, but continued distresses often cause permanent damage.

Spent flower of Pitcher Plant and seedhead of Cottongrass

We backtracked back to Lake Shumway trail and found the lodge of the busy beaver. He had a great place to live in the protection of a jutting peninsula.

We boardwalked over a stream and wetland that still had rosy blossoms of Joe Pye Weed and a bright array of yellow Sneezeweed. Beautiful ‘weeds’ in just the right places.

The trail rose in elevation where Maple trees lined the path. We crunched through red leaves that had fallen in the early Fall. Sunlight dappled the dotted trail.

A stand of Pines lined the shore about halfway around the Lake. It was a peaceful place to loiter, to stand back-to-trunk with a tree to breathe in the beauty.

Two-thirds around the Lake, we left the water’s edge to skirt a wetland area. Again, we climbed up into the forest hill until, again, we came to another fork in the trail. After examining the map, we decided to take the narrow, more rugged trail that would take us by the lakeshore. It would also lead us to a backpack/canoe-in campsite I wanted to see. The campsite was situated on a rounded peninsula, tucked into the cove side. It had a beautiful view of the Lake from a tent area closest to the water. A picnic table sat under the tall trees with a fire ring close by. A three-sided, rough-hewn Oak lean-to with a long bench and peg hooks offered protection for firewood and sun- or rain-drenched campers. I was really excited that the site had its own outhouse, not just a trail latrine! I could live here! I thought.

I didn’t take any pictures of the campsite, but I kind of want to go back and camp there sometime. It was an unexpected find with a special feel to it—that spirit of the wilderness that combines discovery, freedom, peace, and a satisfactory sense of being.

The white sign shows the campsite from the water’s view.

Tree roots made stair steps, ‘like a railroad track’ observed Chris—the ways we get where we’re going.

The bright berries of a Winterberry shrub that climbed close to an old Birch tree help us know that we can be fruitful during any season of life.

On the last part of the trail we passed another beaver lodge that was covered with Jewel Weeds, and beside the lodge was an old, fallen tree that seemed to be a practice log (or maybe a teeth-sharpening log)?

We also passed a random boulder that was at the edge of the Lake—out of place but purposeful, it seemed.

We finished our hike and found the campground had cleared out—it was only us and one other couple in this loop of the campground. Evening on Lake Shumway was peaceful and calm. We had circled the Lake—what more could we see and learn?

The random boulder from the water’s view.

The next morning after some rain and before more rain, we paddled a canoe onto Lake Shumway. There’s more to a lake than a person can see from the shore, and there’s more to life than walking the trail over the years. Our interior life is a whole new adventure to explore, and in most cases, takes even more courage to navigate.

Reflecting on the paths we have taken, the work we have done, the bridges we may have burned, and the special or not-so-special people and places we have encountered is the soul work of our lives. Asking ourselves questions and waiting patiently for the absolute truth of the answer—the answer that wells up tears in our eyes and resonates deep in our hearts and bodies. It takes so much courage to go there, to explore there, to be present there. But therein also lies the trail to freedom, peace, and satisfaction. We may have felt out of place in the world, but after exploring our interior life, we can be like the lake-side boulder and stand in our purpose and dignity. Our soul work is ongoing.

River Dance

September 10, 2023 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Countless times I have walked the riverside trail at Mississippi River County Park. I have seen the River’s bank and the boat launch during the ice and snow of Winter, the overflowing water of Spring, and the drought of Summer. I know where the low spots are that stay muddy and mosquito-laden, where certain flowers grow, and where the deer like to graze. I am also familiar with Bend in the River Park on the other side of the River with its canopy of Oaks on the high bluffs that overlook the Mighty Mississippi. On Saturday of Labor Day weekend, I saw the River from the River’s point of view. Chris, Emily, and I launched our trusty Alumacraft canoe into the softly-rippling water. I was the duffer—not the desirable position, especially for my sixty year old joints, but a needed one when canoeing as a trio. I sat on a floatation cushion in the middle, on the bottom of the canoe, while the more experienced paddlers took their seats.

The water was low from our ongoing drought. Little beaches of sand appeared in places, many unseen from the land above them. While logs that have fallen into or floated down the River could be seen from the park trail, from the River’s view, they became an integral part of the boundary between water and land—they were much more noticeable, more usable, and more artistic.

Some of the shallow parts of the River were a horizontal painting of aquatic plants and algaes that dragged the bottom of the canoe and slowed the competent paddling of Emily and Chris.

Other shallow parts were clear and glowing with golden sunlight that revealed millions of fragments of mollusk shells and often a complete bivalve pearlized shell. A whole new world of underwater life not seen from the land-side.

Beautiful blossoms of Purple Loosestrife populated the islands. It is not a desirable plant for wetlands, lakes, and rivers and is categorized as invasive and noxious. They have thick, woody roots that form a dense web that can block natural drainage areas and outcompete native plants.

Native Willows thrive with their feet in the water and provide shelter for many of the inhabitants that live along the River.

A young Belted Kingfisher flew among the branches along the bank. Her crested head and distinct breast feathers identified the small fish-eater.

Another well-camouflaged water bird, a Green Heron, posed on a fallen log like a museum display. No movement, anonymity, and hopes of not being detected—all natural behaviors to enhance their food-finding fishing.

Joe-Pye Weed grew along the banks, their rosy clusters of flowers an important source of nectar for butterflies and bees at this time of year.

Another late summer flower to adorn the banks is Sneezeweed, a member of the Aster family. Its bright yellow petals and yellow-green ball-like centers make a cheery sight along with sunflowers in the green expanse of riverbank.

We paddled for three and a half to four miles; our goal was the dock of friends of ours who live down the road from us. The downstream current was negligible since rain had been so scarce the whole summer and the southeast wind blew the waves against us. Seeing the landscape from the River’s viewpoint in our relatively slow-moving craft was a peaceful gift in the late-summer morning.

We circled around the north side of an island away from the channel where boats and jet-skis were beginning to make waves. I saw a Great Blue Heron standing in the shallow water, and we stopped paddling to watch the Great Bird on this Great River. We watched a slow-motion dance, beginning with a bow. Its long neck and long legs curved and bobbed, lifted and stretched, pranced and turned until it finished with a flair, standing tall and elegant on its home stage.

We left the island performance and concentrated on reaching our goal as the sun shone hotter, the River became busier with boats, and my legs grew stiff and tingly from inaction.

Goose down feathers floating on the algae and water

Our River trek took two and a half hours. Emily expertly landed us beside our friends’ dock. I awkwardly unfolded my legs from the bottom of the canoe and tried to move my uncooperating hips over the canoe seat while ‘staying low,’ in order to get to the ladder. Let’s just say I was not as graceful as a Great Blue Heron. But our canoe trek was the highlight of my weekend. It was wonderful to see this familiar River from ‘the other side,’ from the River’s point of view. There are so many things we miss or even dismiss when we look at some thing or some body or some issue only from the safe, familiar bank we are used to. Even the fast-boat river riders see and experience the River differently than the canoers and kayakers. It is an issue as old as time. Walk a mile in my shoes; paddle a mile (or three) in my canoe; work a day in my job; live a day in my skin. All impel us to live in empathy and understanding of people who are different from us and who experience life from a very different island of reference. I hope the River Dance reminds us all to live in empathy, peace, and grace.

Anticipation

August 29, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

The pandemic birthed the idea. We were having weekly Zoom meetings with some of our kids in the winter of the Winter. Our extroverted daughter Emily was struggling with the isolation and the unknown, undetermined future. She wondered how I could seem so happy in the midst of it all. (Introvert advantage.) She reminded us again and again, ‘We-all aren’t getting any younger.” Her desire for movement, planning, connection, action, and excitement was palpable. I knew how important it was for her to have something to look forward to, and her ‘not getting any younger’ statement hit home with me…so I said, “Why don’t we plan a summer trip to the Boundary Waters?” And the anticipation began.

Anticipation includes preparation, expectation, eagerness, planning, and excitement about something that is going to happen. For me, anticipating this trip into the Boundary Waters also included apprehension, doubts, and a good dose of the big, boogeyman F-word—Fear. While Emily and Aaron had both been guides for many summers preparing for and taking people into the Boundary Waters, this trip would be my first time…. And I don’t swim. And I’m kind of scared of deep water. And I’m afraid of tipping the canoe…and losing my glasses…and not keeping up…and, well, the list goes on. But plans were made, equipment acquired, plane tickets from Texas reserved, BWCA (Boundary Waters Canoe Area) permit obtained, menu planned, food bought, etc., etc. On August 14th, we headed north.

We stayed two nights at KoWaKan, the camp the kids worked at during their college years. We did our last minute shopping (and eating) in Ely and spent time relaxing in the sun and beauty of the northwoods.

We talked about our goals (fishing was high on the list) and concerns. My concern was waves and how to navigate them, so Aaron hopped into a canoe with me on that very windy day, and we practiced.

By evening, the last minute packing was underway, and the non-essentials were stashed in the vehicles for our return. The anticipation was building.

There’s a fine line between excitement and nervousness. As the packs and canoes were loaded on the cars the next morning, I crossed that line. My stomach began to feel ill. I took a few trips to the outhouse. Tears welled up in my eyes. My steps slowed. Now that we were ready to go, I was not at all sure I could do this.

Chris, Emily, and the others gave reassurance that they would help me and take good care of me. I trusted their experience and their words. Deep breaths. We drove to Moose Lake entry point, unloaded the three canoes, five packs, and fishing poles, and we were off on our BWCA adventure!

Fishing began right away—for the humans and the eagles that chattered from the trees alongside the lake.

In the months prior to our trip, I had a BWCA map laid out on a bed, and I looked at it every morning. I had no idea at first how far we would go, so I concentrated on Moose Lake where our entry point was and hoped we could get to Horseshoe Island in Newfound Lake, the lake after Moose.

Little did I know at the time that we would be eating our lunch on the first day on Horseshoe Island! It’s strange not knowing the time at any given time of the day. We looked to the sun and our stomachs for clues, but as the days went by, it mattered less and less what the actual time was since it had no bearing on our day. But it was hard to let that time-structure go.

Food preparation was planned and executed by Emily who had done the same process for numerous groups over three summers. She made a menu, we bought the food, she measured it out, bagged it up, and labeled everything. All the food has to be carried in and contained in ‘bear barrels’—plastic barrels with metal closures that protect the food from bears. Since it was a drought year, and wildlife were hungrier than usual, the bear barrels also were required to be hung in trees at night and during the day when mealtime was over.

She had different stuff sacks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to help organize the barrels. As plastic food bags emptied, they were used for trash, as it is required to carry out all trash. (Which has to go back into the barrels, so it doesn’t attract bears.) Lunches were bagels or pitas, summer sausage, cheese, or peanut butter and jelly. We had one apple each for the week so could choose which day we wanted it. Carrots were our ‘fresh’ vegetables. A handful of trail mix or a homemade granola bar were for dessert or a needed snack.

After lunch we paddled through Sucker Lake until we reached…Canada! We turned to Birch Lake where the low-horsepower motor boats were no longer allowed as they were on Moose, Newfound, and Sucker Lakes.

We paddled with Canada on our left and the United States on our right until we found a campsite on a peninsula that was hanging by a five-rod portage to the mainland. The almost-island campsite was our home for the night.

We unloaded the canoes, set up tents and hammocks, and hung the bear barrels. The fishermen got serious about fishing. The nappers got serious about napping.

The hazy sky of afternoon turned smokier—we could smell it, and the smoke seemed to settle on the water. Because of the drought and Canadian wildfires, there has been a fire ban in the BWCA and most of northern Minnesota. So no campfires for us or anyone. We cooked over a small white gas backpacking stove—our first supper was macaroni and cheese with polish sausages. So good! The largest fish of the trip was caught by our son-in-law Shawn just as evening settled around us. The feisty 30-inch Northern was the one who got away before a picture could be taken—but the excitement of the ones who saw him will stay with us.

We traveled for about eight miles this first day with no portages (as we determined by the map and key after we returned from our trip.) I was getting used to the water and waves. The process was intriguing, the landscape incredibly beautiful, and the companionship of our family comforting.

Because of the drought, there were not many wildflowers blooming, but down by the water in a little boggy area beside our tent, the showy Jewelweed brightened up the dry and dusty landscape. It’s a native plant of the Impatiens genus whose sap from the watery stems has been used by Native Americans to relieve pain and itching from hives, poison ivy, and insect bites. A jewel to look at and a jewel for relief.

My anticipation of our Boundary Waters trip was like the Jewelweed—part jewel and part weed. I loved the excitement and planning of it over months of otherwise difficult times of pandemic and political unrest and uncertainty. It is a priceless gemstone to engage with adult children in a common love and endeavor. But there were definitely weedy things about it—even though my decision to suggest the trip in the first place took much thought and can-do self-encouragement, I still struggled with my fears when the time actually came. If only our fears could be plucked out like weeds and tossed into the compost pile. But they reside with us until they are respectfully encountered and challenged. As I stared up at the stars in our unflyed tent, listening to the calming, flute-like calls of Loons and hoping for a breeze on the stuffy, smokey night, I decided that it had been a pretty great first day.

This is the first post in a series of five that chronicles my experience of five days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA). It is best to read the whole series from the beginning (Anticipation) in order to understand certain things I refer to in my other posts.

The Light of Our Better Angels

October 25, 2020 by Denise Brake 7 Comments

I’m reading a book entitled “The Friendship of Women” by Joan Chittister for my church group. One line jumped out at me as I read it: “It requires us to surround ourselves with people who speak to the best part of us from the best part of themselves.” It sounds simple. I believe in seeing the best in other people, giving them the benefit of the doubt, perhaps even to my detriment. My ‘best part’ doesn’t always show up when I speak—I react from old patterns of fear even as I daily try to change them. When I read that line, my first thought wasn’t about my personal life, however; it was about our public life as a nation. What if the election season ads came from the ‘best part’ of each party to the ‘best part’ of all of us? What if Congress and the White House gave their ‘best part’ to one another in service to the people of the United States?

The negative ads, memes, comments, and daily talk on the news and around the kitchen table is like a slow, insidious fog enveloping us, blinding us to common decency and connection. It draws a line in the sand, wants us to pick a side and come out fighting. It is detrimental to our bodies, minds, and souls. In our late September trip to the Northwoods, we cleared the air. We pledged not to talk about politics. We had no tv or social media. We had better things to do and more important things to talk about. (We did inadvertently land in the lap of politics two times, but we quickly pivoted away again.)

We had rain at various times each day and night when we stayed at KoWaKan. Our hike to Secret/Blackstone trail in Superior National Forest was under a blue sky and bright sun. By afternoon, the clouds started rolling in. Four of us went canoeing and fishing at a nearby lake, while the rest of us stayed at camp and canoed. Emily and Chris got rained on when they were out. Those rain clouds passed, and the sun shone again.

Emily and I got rained on when we went out, but we also saw what happens when rain and sun collide!

We dried ourselves and our socks by the campfire. The fishermen returned with stories of a small catch and a beautiful rainbow.

We prepared hobo dinners—ground beef, onions, carrots, baby potatoes, the last picking of green beans from the garden, butter and seasoning, all wrapped up in a double layer of aluminum foil—and placed them on the coals of the fire. We ate our campfire-cooked meal around the fire as the sun slipped behind the trees, and the sky darkened. We looked for stars between the clouds.

My day had started with a welcome from the eagle across the lake, progressed with a challenging, breath-taking hike in the National Forest, continued with a canoe ride bathed in rain and a rainbow, and ended with a delicious meal—surrounded by people speaking from the ‘best part’ of themselves. The ‘best part’ of me declared that this was the best day I have had in years! “Better than the Super Bowl weekend?” they challenged. That was very good and fun, but this was better. “Better than our trip to Wisconsin last year before Covid?” I loved that, but this day was better. Part of what was better was just how much ‘better’ I was on this day than on those others. Part of the better was being in the unbelievable beauty of Nature. Better was being in such a special place with so many good memories and stories. Better was being away from the negativity and stress of the pandemic and politics.

The next day we did a little more canoeing and fishing, packed up our things, and got ready to leave.

I am not delusional enough to believe that we can exist in a utopian world. I know unresolved hurts and traumas in our lives affect how we view the world, how we treat other people, and how we act and react. I know that my best self doesn’t show up all the time. I also know that drawing a line in the sand and tossing bombs of hate and disrespect do not make a United States of America. It does not make us a better country or better people. Our lives right now are stormy and messy. Our spirits are dampened. I wish you could all feel the way I felt at the end of that wilderness day—deep satisfaction, joyful happiness, and peaceful contentment in my body, mind, and soul—all wrapped up like the promise of a fleeting rainbow. I now know how ‘better’ feels. We can have a new beginning with each sunrise. Like the eagle, we can call out a welcome to others. We can place our feet on the Earth and see her beauty. We can glide on water and feel the blessing of rain. We can make a promise to do better. We can nourish our bodies with good food and nourish our minds and spirits with people bringing the ‘best part’ of themselves to the fire ring. We can look for the light of stars and the light of our better angels.

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