The Twin Cities State

Minnesota is perhaps one of this nation’s greatest playground states. Hoyle and I (of Hoyle,Tanner) decided to pay her a little visit, and as she opened up to us like a delicate Japanese lotus, we experienced her unending pleasures in several stages. Though what was left unaccomplished is great (trout fishing, Isle Royale National Park, a visit to the Mississippi River’s headwaters in Lake Itasca) what we were able to get done in our time there was still fulfilling and much. Below is an outline of those very above-mentioned stages…

Stage One: The City

Red Dead Redemption and Miami Vice on the big screen. Scotch on the rocks. Showers and the end of American hope in this years World Cup. Cedars in the parking garage chasing squirrels on his long walks beneath the shadow of the Somali crack-towers looming ever present in the distance across the interstate. The old immigrant women dressed in their native shawls stare at him suspiciously as we pass, unfamiliar with the custom of keeping dogs as companions in their West African culture.

Huevos Rancheros at Hell’s Kitchen and super friendly racer taxi drivers downtown. Gay Pride Weekend and unguided police horses. Jiu-Jitsu at night and joint pains the next day. Blake Powell, as always, was a gracious and most kind host. We slept in late each morning on the floor of his living room, washed our clothes in his convenient washing machine and stacked pizza boxes high in his kitchen. It feels good to wake up and have no itinerary and nowhere to go. You let yourself live in the present for a moment, forgetting that this life cannot sustain you, that you are only spending money and not making it, and the illusion, though short, is certainly sweet. It’s good to let time drip by every now and then, instead of the way it flows often enough.

Stage Two: Backcountry

Upstate on the Superior Trail – a fairly level footpath that winds its way in the forested hills above Lake Superior. The radiant blue waters, sadly too cold for swimming, follow you to your right in the distance behind the birch trees as you meander northward on the trail. Deer tracks and black bear scat underfoot. The nights are chilly but perfect for campfires under countless luminescent stars and the sweet oaky smell of authentic Cuban Romeo y Julietas cigars. 

We selected a shorter route that allowed us plenty of playtime over the three days and two nights with no need to hurry our pace or feel pushed toward a deadline. The sun does not fully set until after ten o’clock, which kept us up late and made us slow to rise in the morning, lazily soaking up the warm rays like three goose down slugs squirming on the forest floor. Cedars was the only one who defied this behavior, always up with the rising sun, but unfortunately he hasn’t been trained yet to start the campfire or cook us breakfast.

Walking up on secluded lost crystal clear lakes. We shed our packs, and often our clothes, compelled to swim for a while, and sunbathe for just as long. We detour from the trail and follow a lonely road to one such lake. There is no one else around for miles. The lake is rimmed by tall conifer trees and sits inviting us, its surface like smooth glass. Better yet, floating out in the middle is a dock with a slide and diving platform. For several hours, that lake was completely ours’. Treasures like these along the trail are always hard to give up, but alas, the mystery of what lies beyond the next bend compels us ever onward.

Stage Three: Back Backcountry

The Boundary Waters. An interconnected system of lakes and streams that spans about three million square miles along the border between the United States and Canada. This is one of the most secluded places left in this country – a place where black bears, moose and timber wolves outnumber the human beings who decide to enter their territory. This place is wild, untouched, and exists today not very different than it did a thousand years ago. The water is as clean and clear as any freshwater I have ever seen, dotted with rocks and soft green tress and islands. Loons sound their eerie call all night – that lonely cry echoing across the moonlit distance is quite beautiful in its solitude. Eagles loft by overhead riding the currents of the wind that cross the lakes. Entry into this paradise is heavily restricted, permits are required and only so many people can be in the area at any given time. It’s a secluded world. Guarded. Enchanted.

We learned, however, that the Boundary Waters is an expedition kind of place. Our idea of spending a few nights paddling its byways is like a man who extends his big toe into a lake to feel how cold it is. He may certainly feel a chill, but he will never experience the real stinging bitter cold if he does not jump fully in. To really get a sense of what this place offers, we realized, will take two or more weeks – a trip long enough to gain its most interior spaces, far away from the parts of it that are already far away from civilization and the touch of mankind. 

As it was, our short trip got cut even shorter when an unexpected rain shower swamped our campsite for several hours the first morning we woke up there. Water logged and with insufficient gear to handle anymore wet camping, we decided to pack up and head on out. Afterall, even though coming to this area was one of the most anticipated moments of our road trip, neither Hoyle or I felt justified with only spending three days in this place. We would leave before we saw too much, tasted too much, making plans to return again someday to see the Boundary Waters as it should be seen – an extended trip of multiple weeks with well-packed gear specific to the needs of that particular journey. After a mid day swim and a lunch of peanut butter tortillas, we packed up the canoe and paddled out.