Finding "Camp Hilton"
Kayaking the Gunflint Trail By David Rigby Strenuous portages, bug-infested campsites, strong head winds, swamping, and of course bears. These are images many people conjure
in their imaginations when they think of traveling in the Boundry Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) of Minnesota or the Quetico of Ontario. Dripping sweat under the weight of a seventeen-foot canoe balanced precariously
on aching shoulders while jumping over rocks in an effort to find the next lake. Smearing deet-loaded gunk on all exposed skin to keep bloodthirsty, six-legged creatures from feasting on your body fluids. Head winds so strong that waves break over both the bow and stern of
your boat. Swamping in big, open water or capsizing in rapids that should have been portaged. Late night bear raids that destroy food and equipment. These are the thrills, the dangers and the adventures of traveling this watery wilderness. We had none. No hard portages, bugs only at dusk, wind at our backs, we stayed upright, and the fiercest animal attack we experienced came from a pair of otters who entertained us for an entire evening. It was wonderful!
At 6:00 on a Monday morning in early August, my brothers Mark and John, and I had our three Perception Carolina kayaks unloaded and resting in the water's edge at the Gull Lake landing. A dense fog hid our watery pathway to the north. We shook our heads in despair at the mounds of equipment and food that would have to be stuffed into the bulkheads of our plastic boats. I had guided trips for a boy's camp
throughout the '70s and had hardly gone a year without a canoe tripping into the BWCA ever since. Many times in the past I had loaded my Duluth pack into my faithful Grumman and paddled out from this very site. We are still rookies at kayak tripping.
"We were real hungry when we bought the food," explained Mark, while adding bagels and fresh vegetables to the already large food mound. "I just hope our boats don't sink," John added with a half laugh.John took
our Eureka Timberline tent, I had the Coleman stoves and cook gear. With my back bulkhead full, I started putting food in the front. Only half the bulkhead was full when I realized I had no more food or equipment to pack. All three of us had extra space and all three boats still were above water. We even had room for our new camp stools that we had indulged in buying after hearing expert guide, Cliff Jacobson speak at Canoecopia. Fresh fruit and vegetables, stoves and even stools pure luxury.
It hardly seemed possible that just the day before we had left our homes in northeastern Illinois, traveled through Duluth, and had sampled exotic beers at the Gunflint Tavern in Grand Marais. We all had our wilderness border passes from the previous year and had purchased our Crown Land permit from the outfitters on Gunflint Lake. After a good night's sleep in one of the Way of the Wilderness chalets, we were showered, rested and anxious to be on the water.
We paddled out onto Gull Lake and turned north towards the large open waters of Saganaga. The fog hung heavily over the still sleeping woodlands. Silently we passed the outfitters. With the last cabin on the tip of the Gunflint Trail at our backs, we were greeted by a bald eagle perched high on an old burnt pine tree. He welcomed us with regal majesty.
Having purchased only Canadian Conservation fishing licenses, we had
to resist the temptation of fishing until we had paddled out of the BWCA. Few words were spoken as we absorbed the sights and smells of the early morning. The air bombarded our senses with contrasting scents. The dampness of the fog fought the clear crispness of the cool early morning. The sun was struggling to make its presence felt, appearing more like weak moon than a thermal giant. Memories of past trips flooded my mind especially when we passed the island where my
wife and I had spent our honeymoon nearly 30 years previously.
Watches were left behind in the van, but time was irrelevant. We paddled by the Canadian Customs cabin time to fish! We were like gladiators preparing for battle. Poles were released from their bungies, lures selected, and knots skillfully tied. Mark proclaimed a reward of a dollar for the first fish and fired his Rapalla at a rocky point. John's shad Rap was launched at a dead tree whose branches protruded
downwards into the depths of a steep drop-off. I chucked a large buzz bait at an island. I could see the shining spinners through the crystal-clear water far from my boat. A quick flash and a twitch on my pole surprised me. A fish on my first cast? I missed, the dollar was Mark's as he had a feisty smallmouth.
It took forever to paddle through a narrow channel that led out into the main body of Saganaga. Smallmouth after smallmouth was caught and
quickly released. We trolled slowly next to the lichen-stained shore, waiting for our poles to arch and tug at their secure anchor in the rod holders. The fight would be on. Some of the larger fish even ferried our boats through the water in their efforts to escape.
The sun had proven its superiority over the fog, and the deep lake water glistened. I paddled ahead and pulled my boat up on a granite island. Stripping in the hot sun I dove into the cold clear water feeling my body
temperature instantly plummet. Pulling myself back up on the rock, I sat and dried in the sun, watching my two brothers catching fish while working their way slowly towards me. The dark-blue waters were matched only by the blue of the crystal-clear sky. High rugged cliffs topped with pine and birch formed the northern shoreline. I sat and munched on a granola bar, my body absorbing the radiant energy and my mind the shear rugged beauty of the land.
A gentle breeze developed from the west and it pushed us past the pine-covered rocks of Eagles Nest Island and into the northeastern portion of the lake. We trolled at the base of towering cliffs straining our necks to try and see the tops. The drop off into the water was just as sheer. My depth finder showed readings of 30 and 40 feet, hardly a kayak's length from shore. Finding a rock point and campsite, we decided it was noon and time for lunch. After a quick skinny dip we
munched on hard salami, cheese and gorp. Blue-green mold on our just purchased taco shells surprised us, but we had plenty of food.
The wind increased and pushed us more forcibly past the narrow tumbling waters of Horsetail Falls and the end of the lake. With eight knee surgeries and a hip replacement between the three of us, we had selected a route almost void of portages. Shadows began to lengthen as our boats entered the bay leading to the Railroad Portage. Mark and I
slipped a piece of beaver wood through the carry handle at the front of the kayak. Using this as a yolk, two of us carried the front of the kayak and the other brother carried the back. Three short trips and the boats were ready to be paddled again. We headed out onto the northeast arm towards an abandoned ranger cabin looking for a campsite. Passing by several so-so sites, we pulled in on an island. It was grassy, just average.
"This is a Hotel 6." Stated John. "I'm not staying at any Hotel 6. I want a Hilton!" Not knowing where we might find another site, I laughed and reluctantly got back into my boat. Partially hidden from our view, less than a hundred yards across the water, was a rock ledge with a beautiful stand of red pines. The closer we got the more promising it looked. Heavy paddles became light and we raced towards its beckoning
landing. Flat rocks were perfect for docking and unloading the kayaks. A solid piece of the Canadian Shield gently sloped up into the pines. At the peak of the point was a flat tent site, soft with inches of tuft. A short rock ledge made a table and cook area for our stoves. At the shore the water bottom dropped straight down from the rock making a perfect swimming hole.
"This is a Hilton. We are staying here," John proclaimed.
Camp was soon set and a dinner of tacos with a fresh salad was eaten slowly in the dimming light. Darkness crept up the opposite shore, the sun setting behind our backs. Two loons swam by our site cautiously checking us out. Their melodic call echoing through the bays and islands of our solitary lake. Dishes done and packed away, food hung, darkness and mosquitoes soon engulfed us. Retreating to our tents, John and I read quietly with the non-melodic snoring of brother Mark rumbling
softly. We soon dozed off anticipating a day of base camp filled with the business of fishing, journalizing and reading.
The days melted by all too quickly. Sunrises together with hot coffee and granola; sunsets with tea and supper. Walleye, northern pike and smallmouth sautéed and garnished with Mark's special Cajun spices were eaten at every dinner. The rugged shoreline of Trafalgar Bay, the islands of Savage Bay and the dark-green forests lining Moose Bay all were explored and captured in our memories. Our biggest worry was that an especially large aggressive northern pike would decide to feed on one of us while we were skinny-dipping. We were living the words of and old Shaker hymn:
It's a gift to be simple.
It's a gift to be free.
It's a gift to come round where we ought to be.
All too soon our kayaks were sliding up on the landing back at Gull
Lake. No hard portage had been conquered. No rain had dampened our spirits. The wind had stayed at our backs and we had remained upright. Three brothers had built new memories and reconstructed and strengthened old bonds. We had shared a nonadventuresome adventure. It was wonderful!
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