| TWO TRIPS TO SAWBILL
Much has changed yet much remains the same in the 20 years between visits to the BWCA
By Chad M. Hanson, Ph.D.
When I was a boy, my father built a canoe, a 17–foot "Guide," with plans he ordered from the Minnesota Canoe Association. The smell of cedar filled the yard that year, 1976. My ears were treated to the steady sound of jigsaws, sanders and staple guns. I could hardly believe my eyes as the
canoe began to take shape. I helped lay fiberglass cloth over the cedar strips, then we basted resin over the whole thing to make it seaworthy. When all the pieces were in place, we took the canoe on its maiden voyage down a stretch of the Rum River through my hometown of Princeton, Minn. – and it worked! It was beautiful, and we built it ourselves. For the next two years, we paddled with pride on the rivers and lakes near our home. Then, in 1978, my parents took the boat north
to the legendary lakes of the Boundary Waters.
The following season, I turned 10 years old. This was the year we agreed I could tag along on a trip to the BWCA, so my father and I planned a trip in the fall. We decided to paddle out of Sawbill Lake on the eastern edge of the wilderness, 26 miles west of Tofte, Minn. When the day arrived, we set out in dad's 1970 Volkswagen microbus, loaded with all of our gear and crowned by the 17–foot cedar–stripper. As we rolled
along Highway 35 toward Duluth, visions of the north country danced in my head. My mind was filled with names and images from Minnesota's Lake Superior shore three years before, on a family vacation. This time, as we made our way north, my thoughts were wandering through places with names like Flood Bay, Two Harbors, Castle Danger and Gooseberry Falls.
The trip was to last for three days. Our "entry point" was Sawbill Lake.
We planned to make Cherokee Lake in one day, rest there for two nights, then return to Sawbill along the same route. That didn't leave us much time to spare, so we didn't waste a minute when we arrived at the outfitter's store at the end of the Sawbill trail. We loaded the canoe, parked the car, restocked our supply of beef jerky and were on our way.
I still remember the scene from the bow of the boat. I stared at the
waterline where the canoe carved its way through the lake, laying ripples back into the cool glacial water. We pointed ourselves toward an island so large it seemed like a unified shoreline to me. L Island actually parts the water into two narrow canals – beyond either one of those canals, you are on your own. L Island marks the wilderness area boundary. I believe it was the experience of slipping quietly through the east canal, the one
locals call "the first narrows," that instilled a love for the silent sports in me. It was a love that was to lie dormant for some time, but today I look back and see that my earliest appreciation for travel in the outdoors was forged there in the bow of our canoe, cutting quietly through the Boundary Waters.
However, I did not develop a fondness for carrying Duluth packs over mud–soaked portage trails on that trip. In truth, I have yet to develop an
affection for that. Our trip wasn't perfect; it rained the second day and a strong north wind made the trip home a perilous adventure for a 10–year–old. I was tired, and even though I was going through the motions, I wasn't bearing down on my paddle. When he had to, Dad cajoled me into adding a little "oomph" to our effort, and with luck, we managed to make it safely back to the van. I was asleep before we left the parking lot.
It seemed like when I woke up things started to change. That same year, dad switched careers, and I became obsessed with ice hockey. What began for me was a long drift away from paddling and eventually away from Minnesota. After a year of college in my home state, I moved to Arizona where I spent a total of nine years. I finished my education there, and then out of necessity, I made my first career move – east to El Paso. I wasn't sure what to expect when I moved to Texas; the job was
promising, but I was moving a long way from Arizona and not much closer to anyplace I'd ever called home.
Luckily, when I arrived in El Paso, I met Derek Weatherly. Derek worked in my department at the University of Texas, and it turned out we had a lot in common, including an interest in canoes and paddling. Soon, he and I began a ritual of taking our lunches down to the basement of the library to pour over the college's collection of maps. In the map room, we
reminisced about old adventures and daydreamed about places we longed to see.
During one of the lunches, Derek asked me about Minnesota. He hadn't been to the upper Midwest, but he explained that he read about the northwoods in books by Sigurd Olson. I reacted by rummaging through a stack of maps three feet high until I found the Superior National Forest. I spread the map out on our table, pinpointed Sawbill Lake, and started
telling the story of the trip I took with my father in the boat we built ourselves. Derek was delighted, a paddler himself.
After lunch, walking back to our offices, I asked, "Who was that Sigurd fellow you mentioned?"
"Sigurd Olson," he said. "He wrote The Lonely Land, Listening Point, and The Singing Wilderness, among others."
"You are from Minnesota aren't you?" he asked.
"Well, yes," I said, "but understand – it's been a while, and I was pretty young."
Before I left campus that day, I snuck back over to the library and found a dusty old copy of Olson's 1961 volume, The Lonely Land, on the shelves. At home, flipping through the book's yellow pages, I discovered that my experience in the bow of the family canoe 20 years before was what Olson's comrade, Omond Solandt, would have called "ironing out
the wrinkles in my soul." Even as a boy, I could feel my spirit lifting as we paddled past the wilderness boundary on Sawbill Lake. It was there, for the first time, that I felt a sense of wonder in the natural world. I could see and feel the glory of untrammeled wilderness and it took me to a higher place. Of course, there is no way I could have put words to the experience as a child. I find it difficult today as an adult, but it was clear as
I sat in my El Paso apartment that I had to find a way to return to canoe country.
Luck was on my side. Before the year was out, I was able to make another career move, this time to Wausau, Wis., well within a day's drive of the Boundary Waters. As soon as we landed, my lady–friend Lynn and I started laying plans for a return trip to Sawbill Lake. Last summer, our wish came true. Lynn and I retraced the trip I took with my father more than 20 years before.
We waited for months anticipating our departure date. By the time we left, our map was covered with pizza, peanut butter and many other reminders of past meals. The map was open so often that a guest in our house mistook it for a tablecloth!
When the day arrived, we started north, just as my father and I had before, although this time I was startled and somewhat disheartened by what I saw on the shore of Lake Superior. For example, I was surprised
to see that Flood Bay has been developed as a residential area, the tiny cabins at Castle Danger gave way to a mega resort, Two Harbors has been oriented almost entirely to tourists and Gooseberry Falls is now home to a visitor's center, complete with a parking lot the size you'd expect to see at a large shopping mall. Tiny Tofte even changed considerably. However, when we turned west on the Sawbill Trail and the pavement ran out, it was like coming home; the drive was just as I
remembered. When we finally pulled off the trail at the Sawbill campground, I was happy to discover that the area was largely unchanged. The outfitter's store even stood the test of time.
Lynn and I were both on a "can you believe we're really here?" high, so we didn't dally. We, too, restocked our supply of beef jerky; we stuffed all our gear in the canoe and lit out for the far end of Sawbill Lake. When we shoved off and starting taking paddle strokes, I fell into a quiet reverie.
As we paddled past L Island, through the first narrows, and out into the lake beyond, I was simply taken aback by the beauty and silence. Both of us found solace in the idea that there are places like this left on earth; places that remain free from the steady march of "progress" and development
Even so, while I was fussing with the map trying to find a suitable campsite, I looked out over the canoe full of Duluth packs and dry bags
and realized that my present experience didn't quite match the memories I logged on my first trip to canoe country. I began to think that even though the Boundary Waters have stayed the same, maybe I had changed. It had been more than 20 years since my first trip to Sawbill; I was no longer the boy in the bow. Instead, I looked out at the Boundary Waters through the eyes of an adult, this time from the stern. During the time since I last plied
these waters, I had become a man, living in a much different world than the one I knew as a boy. I have seen countless changes in those 20 years. Paddling through the lakes and waterways of canoe country gave me time to reflect upon those changes. The Boundary Waters gave me the peace to reflect upon where I've been, where I'm going, what I've accomplished and what is left to be done.
I even added something new to my "to do" list. As a silent sports
enthusiast and frequent traveler in what remains of wilderness in the upper Midwest, I felt the pull of responsibility in this magnificent place. I put "do what you can to protect this" on my list. I asked, "If not us, then who?" As runners, bikers, skiers and paddlers, we make a ritual out of spending time in the natural world. I reasoned, "If those of us who run, pedal, ski and paddle through places like this won't protect them, then who will?" I
couldn't think of anyone at the time, so when we made it home, I went online to see what I could do. It turned out there was plenty: groups to join, letters to write and projects to begin.
As a boy, the experience of paddling the Boundary Waters left me with a sense of wide–eyed wonder. My return trip 20 years later offered me something different, but equally valuable: the serenity to reflect upon life's changes. Both trips were significant to me, but the best thing about going
back was discovering that the Boundary Waters have stayed essentially the same. Thankfully, Sawbill Lake remains a place where young and old can "iron out the wrinkles in their souls." If you haven't already, visit the Boundary Waters; revel in the grace of the wilderness and work to ensure that our grandchildren may do the same.
FOR INFORMATION ON WILDERNESS PRESERVATION IN THE BWCA
Friends of the Boundary Waters Wilderness
1313 5th St. SE, Suite 329
Minneapolis, MN 55414
612/379–3835
www.friends-bwca.org
Northeast Minnesotans for Wilderness
P.O. Box 625
Ely, MN 55731
218/525–5098
www.nmw.org
CONTACTS FOR ENTRY PERMITS AND OUTFITTING
BWCAW Reservation Center
P.O. Box 462
Ballston Spa, NY 12020
877/550–6777
www.bwcaw.org
Sawbill Canoe Outfitters
4620 Sawbill Trail
Tofte, MN 55615
218/663–7150
www.sawbill.com
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