The wilderness is no place for stress and hurry, yet that is how I started my recent solo trip to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.
Scarred by our family trip in 2021, I expected a struggle to find a campsite. We’d encountered hordes of other visitors that time, which was less than ideal for our kids’ first BWCA trip.
The first 13 campsites were occupied on one critical day. Frustration was one thing, but I seriously worried about the mental and physical toll we paid with each passing hour.
While my 2023 solo trip was completely open-ended, my one goal was to avoid a repeat of that experience. So, an early start and a hustle seemed like the least I could do.
I was willing to pay dearly in sweat equity to secure a place to hang my hammock. What I found when I crossed the wilderness boundary, then, was a complete surprise.
There were remarkably few people about.
I saw no one paddling on Lizz or Caribou or Horseshoe. The campsites I passed were almost all empty. It was astonishing.
Perhaps my timing — just after Memorial weekend — had something to do with it. Or maybe that permit area doesn’t see as much traffic.
Whatever the cause, there was no question about it: the wilderness was far from capacity that day.
Though my campsite on Horseshoe was poised at a watery crossroads, few paddled past. Many hours between encounters allowed me to pretend I was the first to experience that place.
No crowds, no frenzy, no rude intrusions.
A wilderness the way we’re supposed to experience it, really.
It took at least the first 24 hours for that to sink in. I wasn’t able to adjust to it mentally, or really relax until around the end of the second day. It was hard to shake the expectation that other people would be swarming the place.
The wilderness itself, it seemed, retained a similar memory of our collective enthusiasm from the recent past. It will take far longer than a couple of days, however, for it to recover.
We heard in 2020 and 2021 about general overcrowding, and about inexperienced paddlers andtheir transgressions: leaving trash, cutting down trees, and otherwise ruining others’ wilderness experience.
In a place where changes are typically measured in eons, visitor impacts ballooned virtually overnight. Part ignorance, part pandemic byproduct, but enough to prompt the Forest Service to make changes to the permitting system.
Many entry points saw reductions or other changes to their quotas, as outlined in a memo dated Jan. 13, 2022. Beginning that year, the total number of daily entry permits went from 285 to 248, a reduction of approximately one-eighth.
I wondered ahead of time whether I’d be able to notice the difference. I think I did.
But while that was refreshing, letting fewer people in was the easy thing to fix.
Evidence of humans was still easy to come by, and never in a good way. Vandalism and refuse were abundant.
Somewhere on social media just before my trip, I caught wind of the “2023 Portage North Pack Out,” and decided to participate. It is an effort led by Portage North, maker of outdoor equipment in Ely, to clean up the BWCA.
Participants are asked to remove garbage and lost items that don’t belong in there, as well as their own trash. Once out of the wilderness, they post pictures of their finds to their social media accounts to spread the word.
At the end of the season, there should be a net loss of trash in the Boundary Waters.
It’s a simple plan, and I can tell folks are participating by their photos posted on Instagram.
I made sure to do likewise. Not only was it rewarding, it made me notice how darn much junk there was.
That doesn’t happen when your eyes scan past the occasional torn-off plastic wrapper corner, or scrap of paracord. But when your goal is to pick up every piece you come across, you notice it more and it really accumulates in your pockets.
In addition to garbage, I also encountered live trees cut down and/or damaged at my campsites on Horseshoe and Caribou. Those tree trunks with hatchet scars in their trunks will never look the same — if they even recover.
It made me sick to see it.
Unsightly reminders of other people aside, I had a good and productive trip. And by “productive,” I mean I re-learned how to do less and enjoy it more.
Many times I made a point of sitting on a log or rock and just listening and watching. Attempts at catching dinner were more relaxed than in past trips.
I only bothered to gather wood for one evening fire, but I cooled off in the water at the end of every day.
The culmination of my leisure came on the fourth day, which I devoted to a long day trip. After breakfast, I slid down Gaskin Lake to the portage to Winchell.
The plan was to drift on the wind about four miles, jigging for open water predators (hopefully big lake trout), and stopping at the waterfall and overlook along the way. It took longer than expected due to a paltry breeze, but I made it to the overlook at midday.
The view from up there was spectacular. The wind cooled me atop the cliff, as I snacked on dried fruit and nuts. Thunderstorms opened up over Canada in front of me. Vultures circled on updrafts over the ridge behind me.
When it was time to go, I slinked back down the hill to my canoe. The way out was more into the wind than not, so progress was slow across the rest of sprawling Winchell, scenic Omega and miles-long Henson. The only choice was to lean into my paddle and enjoy the scenery.
But you’ll hear no complaints from me.
When I climbed into my hammock that night — after an extra long soak in the lake — exhaustion settled in like satisfaction. Despite the lack of an agenda for the trip, it felt like I’d achieved what I came for.
The next 36 hours were icing on the cake. It may have taken six days and five nights, but I left a better person than when I arrived.
Better yet, the wilderness left its mark on me, instead of the other way around.
Roy Heilman is an outdoorsman, writer, musician, and ethnic Minnesotan. His adventures take him all over the map, but he’s always home at neveragoosechase.com.