Right about now, my plan was to be putting together our website's first photo gallery: "Eric and Jenni's first 2008 canoe outing" or something with a similarly bland title, featuring photos of us, in a canoe, plying the chilly blue waters of Bear Island Lake. Thinking about those images, I can feel the sun on my face, hear the dip and gurgle of paddles hitting the lake, see the haze of spring green spreading through the woods on shore.
It's all in my imagination.
Like 90 percent of the state's not-living-Up-North population, Jenni and I planned to spend Memorial Day weekend...where else? Up North. At her family's cabin, to be precise, for a weekend with the whole kit 'n' kaboodle - her mom and dad, brother, his wife, and their two children. Thursday evening last week, the phone rang. Jenni answered, and it was easy to infer, hearing her half of the conversation, that the trip was in doubt. When Jenni hung up, she explained: Her grandmother had fallen and broken her hip (not the first time, apparently), was in the hospital and headed to surgery on Friday. This seemed like not the most opportune weekend to head north to an isolated cabin without a phone or electricity. Understandably so.
(Before we move on: Despite suffering through a minor heart attack while under the scalpel, Grandma pulled through and was doing well enough by the end of the weekend to throw a drinking straw at her doctors, presumably because she did not care for them - or the food.)
The turn of events left us with a wide-open weekend. So, as the sun slipped behind the horizon Thursday, Jenni and I cleaned up the kitchen and discussed what our alternate plans could be. Go to the cabin anyway, without the rest of the family? No, that would seem rude and irresponsible, Jenni said. (I agreed.) Have another overnight adventure to somewhere? No, too much work to pack up a tent and all of that stuff just for one night, I said. Go for a really long, adventurous bike ride on the Root River Trail in southeastern Minnesota? Only if we bike the whole length and camp at the end, and ride back to the car the next day, Jenni said. (The trail is 40-something miles long.) Well, see my previous comment about not camping.
We settled on something slightly less ambitious: Sticking close to home. Everything has a silver lining, and the weekend would, too: We still made it out on the water with paddles in hand. With the cabin trip scuttled, we would be home for a kayak demo sponsored by REI at Weaver Lake, just a few blocks from home.
I was anxious to be in a boat again - and to try out the bright blue PFD I'd bought at REI a couple of weeks back. It's a long way from the crusty, dirt-stained armada of life jackets moored in the closet at my cabin. Those are vintage Stearns life vests - first or second generation - faded orange, with industrial-strength zippers, in the design that my grandfather pioneered (you've Maurice O'Link to thank that PFDs aren't still variations of the foam neck-strangler). I'm still proud to wear those old life jackets, emblazoned with the Stearns logo, but they're not very comfortable - or practical - in a kayak. The new vest, however, fits me like a glove, and was thoughtfully designed for the arm movement that comes with paddling and a high-cut back that would fit a kayak seat. And it looks sporty.
Feeling only slightly foolish, I hopped on my bike with my royal blue PDF zipped securely around me, and Jenni and I headed off to the beach Saturday morning. (Jenni's brief explanation to the neighbors that we were headed to Weaver Lake to go kayaking was appreciated.)
We arrived just in time to beat the crowds and tried several boats. The blasting west wind notwithstanding, it was a perfect morning. We slid into 14-foot kayaks, then tried a 16- and 17 footer, to get a sense how they handled differently. The 14 was nimble and easy to turn, while he 17 boat's turning radius felt like I was piloting an ore boat. But the 17-footer was sleeker, faster, and tracked better through the waves. My PDF was perfectly comfortable, and it was thrilling to be on the water for the first time in more than seven months.
The demo could not have come at a better time, for on Tuesday Jenni placed an order with Current Designs kayaks for two boats of our own. We opted for two 17-foot boats, based on their speed, efficiency, and cargo-carrying capacity that will likely play a hand in future adventures. As it turns out, Current Designs is now part of Wenonah Canoe (or "We-no-nah," as you'll see it emblazoned on the sides of canoes throughout the north), a Minnesota company headquartered in Winona. Our boats should be ready for pickup in a couple of weeks. (Though we will assuredly use a canoe for our Gunflint to Ely canoe trip, essential because of the many portages along the route.)
We've had a few calls and e-mails from people asking us if we survived Sunday's storms that tore through the north metro. That caught us off guard, because we hadn't watched the news Sunday evening. In fact, we were out on the Mississippi River when the storms hit, checking out a few canoe landings and campsites with Jenni's boss, Wilderness Inquiry Executive Director Greg Lais. (This was a work-related trip for Jenni; I was invited to tag along.) We had motored from Hidden Falls Park in St. Paul all the way down to the Gray Cloud Island area, and were on the way back when the storm rolled through. As we puttered through the no-wake zone along the downtown St. Paul waterfront, the sky above the city grew progressively darker and more threatening. Tendrils of black clouds hung low and swirled above us. A gust of wind caught Greg's hat and blew it into the river. Spray whipped off the water, and the gusts kicked up clouds of dust on the shore. Half expecting a funnel cloud to drop from the clouds, we gunned the 90-horse outboard and got the hell out of there. This, we later learned, would have been about the time that an EF3 tornado was ravaging neighborhoods in Hugo.
Thankfully, there was no damage in our neck of the woods.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
How a European bike expedition became a Boundary Waters canoe adventure
The plan began as a bike trip to Europe.
This, my wife proclaimed, is how we should mark our first wedding anniversary. Not a quiet weekend to ourselves, not a quick romantic getaway, but a full-fledged, fly-across-the-Atlantic, bring-a-tent-and-make-it-up-as-we-go bike expedition.
I suppose this was her version of payback for our honeymoon. So many newlyweds escape to far-flung destinations after their nuptials. Mexico, the Caribbean, Hawaii, Europe, Australia. Stay in the same state for your honeymoon? Out of the question! My take is different: Why put yourself under the pressure of trying to see a new place while you're spending those first few days together?
Jenni wasn't convinced, at first, but eventually came around to my choice of destination. We returned to the familiar (and spectacular) shores of Lake Superior and cozied up for a delightful week at Bluefin Bay Resort in Tofte, Minnesota. The sparkle of the morning sun on the lake, the crash of the waves on shore, the piney scent of the forest along the Superior Hiking Trail were familiar to my soul. Now I wanted to experience them with my soul mate.
In fairness, our honeymoon was not without adventure. We hiked to waterfalls. We sailed on Gitchee Gumee under fair skies, and motored up the coast in near gale-force winds. We stood just out of reach of the crashing waves in the middle of a stormy night. But within Jenni burns a wanderlust, a craving for expeditions with new scenery. Already she'd biked across the United States from coast to coast, rollerskiied across Minnesota, canoed the Boundary Waters and rivers in Wisconsin and Arkansas, kayaked the Apostle Islands, skied the American Birkebeiner 53-kilometer ski race, and traveled to Russia to spend two weeks working at a summer camp.
Me? A long weekend at the cabin is perfect, thank you very much.
Thus, settling into married life last fall, Jenni proclaimed that we would mark our first anniversary by biking in Europe.
"Sure," I replied, "sounds exciting if you plan it!" My thoughts were somewhat different: OK...but how are we going to pull that off? How will we get bikes over there? Where will we camp? How will we get to and from the airport? It was a subject of conversation on and off in the weeks that followed.
Then one day, out of the blue, Jenni proposed a new idea: "Wouldn't it be awesome to canoe from your cabin to mine?"
Holy crap, that would be awesome. And everyone I encounter will speak English.
My family's cabin is at the edge of the eastern Boundary Waters Canoe Area in far northeastern Minnesota. We've been going there since my grandfather purchased it in the early 1950s. Jenni's cabin - just bought by her family a couple of years ago - is south of Ely. Would a canoe route between the two actually be possible?
I pored over maps, and a route emerged. It wasn't quite from my "home" lake, but traced its way from nearby Poplar Lake, across many more, along dozens of portages, down two rivers, and up a third until, 80 or so miles later, it arrived at Bear Island Lake.
Canoeing from the Gunflint Trail to Ely seemed more feasible than packing up ourselves and boxing our bikes and jetting across the pond. And it smacked of mystique and originality. Sure, we all know people who have biked in Europe. But who do you know who has canoed from the Gunflint Trail to Ely?
"Gunflint to Ely canoe" had a nice ring to it.
The more we discussed it, the more inevitable the trip seemed. In March, we bought McKenzie maps - six in all. When we spread them across the living room floor, the resulting string of lakes and portages was nearly wider than the room itself. I felt I needed to stand on a chair to get a better look. Staring at the maps, the hugeness of our goal was apparent. "How are we going to do this?" I asked, mouth agape. Jenni, too, was surprised. But she was also confident: "We should be able to do it in eight days, if not seven or six."
The ice has just gone out of the Boundary Waters lakes, but I'm already getting set for the trip. I've studied the maps, trying to memorize every detail. I've researched lakes and talked with friends who have paddled them, in an effort to absorb every tidbit about tough portages, good campsites, paddling strategies.
Until now, the longest canoe trip I've taken was three days. Jenni has more canoe days and paddled miles under her belt, but this trip is still sure to challenge both of us. Our plan is to pack light, travel at a good pace, and complete the distance in about a week.
As we continue our preparations, we hope you'll come along for the ride here on our blog and at our homepage, GunflintToElyCanoe.com.
We launch September 6.
This, my wife proclaimed, is how we should mark our first wedding anniversary. Not a quiet weekend to ourselves, not a quick romantic getaway, but a full-fledged, fly-across-the-Atlantic, bring-a-tent-and-make-it-up-as-we-go bike expedition.
I suppose this was her version of payback for our honeymoon. So many newlyweds escape to far-flung destinations after their nuptials. Mexico, the Caribbean, Hawaii, Europe, Australia. Stay in the same state for your honeymoon? Out of the question! My take is different: Why put yourself under the pressure of trying to see a new place while you're spending those first few days together?
Jenni wasn't convinced, at first, but eventually came around to my choice of destination. We returned to the familiar (and spectacular) shores of Lake Superior and cozied up for a delightful week at Bluefin Bay Resort in Tofte, Minnesota. The sparkle of the morning sun on the lake, the crash of the waves on shore, the piney scent of the forest along the Superior Hiking Trail were familiar to my soul. Now I wanted to experience them with my soul mate.
In fairness, our honeymoon was not without adventure. We hiked to waterfalls. We sailed on Gitchee Gumee under fair skies, and motored up the coast in near gale-force winds. We stood just out of reach of the crashing waves in the middle of a stormy night. But within Jenni burns a wanderlust, a craving for expeditions with new scenery. Already she'd biked across the United States from coast to coast, rollerskiied across Minnesota, canoed the Boundary Waters and rivers in Wisconsin and Arkansas, kayaked the Apostle Islands, skied the American Birkebeiner 53-kilometer ski race, and traveled to Russia to spend two weeks working at a summer camp.
Me? A long weekend at the cabin is perfect, thank you very much.
Thus, settling into married life last fall, Jenni proclaimed that we would mark our first anniversary by biking in Europe.
"Sure," I replied, "sounds exciting if you plan it!" My thoughts were somewhat different: OK...but how are we going to pull that off? How will we get bikes over there? Where will we camp? How will we get to and from the airport? It was a subject of conversation on and off in the weeks that followed.
Then one day, out of the blue, Jenni proposed a new idea: "Wouldn't it be awesome to canoe from your cabin to mine?"
Holy crap, that would be awesome. And everyone I encounter will speak English.
My family's cabin is at the edge of the eastern Boundary Waters Canoe Area in far northeastern Minnesota. We've been going there since my grandfather purchased it in the early 1950s. Jenni's cabin - just bought by her family a couple of years ago - is south of Ely. Would a canoe route between the two actually be possible?
I pored over maps, and a route emerged. It wasn't quite from my "home" lake, but traced its way from nearby Poplar Lake, across many more, along dozens of portages, down two rivers, and up a third until, 80 or so miles later, it arrived at Bear Island Lake.
Canoeing from the Gunflint Trail to Ely seemed more feasible than packing up ourselves and boxing our bikes and jetting across the pond. And it smacked of mystique and originality. Sure, we all know people who have biked in Europe. But who do you know who has canoed from the Gunflint Trail to Ely?
"Gunflint to Ely canoe" had a nice ring to it.
The more we discussed it, the more inevitable the trip seemed. In March, we bought McKenzie maps - six in all. When we spread them across the living room floor, the resulting string of lakes and portages was nearly wider than the room itself. I felt I needed to stand on a chair to get a better look. Staring at the maps, the hugeness of our goal was apparent. "How are we going to do this?" I asked, mouth agape. Jenni, too, was surprised. But she was also confident: "We should be able to do it in eight days, if not seven or six."
The ice has just gone out of the Boundary Waters lakes, but I'm already getting set for the trip. I've studied the maps, trying to memorize every detail. I've researched lakes and talked with friends who have paddled them, in an effort to absorb every tidbit about tough portages, good campsites, paddling strategies.
Until now, the longest canoe trip I've taken was three days. Jenni has more canoe days and paddled miles under her belt, but this trip is still sure to challenge both of us. Our plan is to pack light, travel at a good pace, and complete the distance in about a week.
As we continue our preparations, we hope you'll come along for the ride here on our blog and at our homepage, GunflintToElyCanoe.com.
We launch September 6.
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