With Paddle and Packsack

 This story was featured in a 1924 issue of "National Sportsman," a publication for those interested in outdoor life.  It was written by Walter E. Paul.

With Paddle and Packsack

Through Superior National Forest

by

Walter E. Paul

(National Sportsman, Vol.LII, No, 5, May 1924; p.9)

“Yes Sir-ee, if you fellers are headed for Lake Saganaga you are going into some wild country, believe me!” With this interesting bit of information from the outfitter at Winton still ringing in our ears, Charley Kincaid and myself shoved our canoe out of the little boathouse, waved a farewell to the three or four men who had just wished us a pleasant trip, and dipped our paddles enthusiastically as we headed down Fall Lake on our first trip into the Superior National Forest in Northeastern Minnesota.

The day was ideal. A brisk southwest wind to our backs sped us on our way to the lower end of the lake where we made our first portage―a quarter mile carry into Newton Lake. Reaching the north end of Newton Lake about 5 P.M. we made camp at the head of a rapids cut through a rocky gorge, heavily wooded on either side. The old trapper and his son, whose cabin was close by, made us a friendly call at suppertime, and chided us good naturedly about the company we kept when a skunk hurried out of our tent after exploring the contents of our grub sack.

Next morning found us astir early in eager anticipation of the new day before us. After breakfast, a quick clean up, packing the outfit, and a short but rocky portage, and we were again afloat on Pipestone Bay with rugged rocky shores on both sides and numerous islands of all sizes and shapes.

Studying the map, we headed for the portage across the neck into Basswood Lake reaching it about 10 A.M. On the other side of the portage we spied a canoe approaching around the nearest point, so waited to help the party across and incidentally to gather a little information about what lay before us. Saying goodbye to our brother voyagers, we made our way through a large rice bed where paddling was robbed of its usual charms and for a while it looked like a case of get out and wade. Soon however, the weeds were passed and we landed for dinner on the south arm of Basswood Lake proper, where we immediately noted a striking difference in the water as compared to that in Fall and Newton Lakes, this being so clear that we could look down in it to a great depth, sometimes getting the impression of being suspended by some invisible force.

After dinner and a brief siesta in the shade, we again headed Northeast out into the big lake, keeping generally along the right shore because of the strong wind to our backs which carried us along on rollers a little too big at times for a peaceful state of mind. As the afternoon slipped away we began to wonder what could be done for a camp spot, as the shore was entirely solid rock, covered with pine and cedar, with seldom enough soil to drive a tent peg, or make a comfortable bed.

Late in the afternoon a small island of about two acres in extent, heavily wooded and with two camp spots all ready for use, greeted our eyes. Seizing the opportunity we landed on the lee side and started culinary operations at once with visions of a big supper and a place to stow it. This pleasant occupation was just reaching its climax, with the bacon, spuds and coffee disappearing at a phenomenal rate, when another canoe drifted around a point of our island, and a friendly “Hello” greeted us. Recognizing a family party which left Winton only an hour ahead of us the day before, we asked them to take advantage of the extra camp spot on our island which they promptly proceeded to do. Wheeler, a prince of a man, as we afterwards learned, two young daughters and a son.

After supper dishes were done, and our tent up for the night, Charley and I unlimbered our fishing tackle, pushed off in the canoe and made for a rocky bay half a mile distant, meanwhile making boasts as to what each had to show the other in regard to this business of fishing. Using a medium-sized red and white bassoreno, and putting it away down deep, the fun commenced instantly. Mamma Pike, Papa Pike and all the adult members of the Pike family were there for the evening, with the children safely home in bed. Putting them back soon as caught, we kept two of the best ones which were taken back to camp and shared with our friends for breakfast.

Next morning breaking camp and saying good-bye to our neighbors, we continued up the lake reaching Prairie Portage at 9 A.M. where we were soon overtaken again by our friends who accompanied us until after noon, when we separated, they heading into Canada for Emerald Lake, Charley and I continuing along the Boundary. After portaging into Carp Lake we began to realize that we were now entering upon the original primeval backwoods. A couple hours paddle on Cypress Lake brought us to another moderate portage where we ate dinner and did a little exploring before proceeding through a chain of small lakes beyond, with short portages in between and the first signs of beaver. The water continued to get clearer all the way, and often in the little connecting pools we would rest on our paddles while we peered into the crystal depths below to study the rock formations, or perchance to catch a glimpse of some wary member of the finny tribe.

The last portage of the day was a long one, but brought us into the lower end of Knife Lake,a―lake well named, as it is eight or ten miles long and averages not more than a mile wide. Reaching a very small island near the east shore about 6 P.M. we made camp for the night. Putting up the silkoline tent we could not find places to drive our stakes for lack of soil, so had to carry rocks to weight down the edges and bolster the end guy ropes. Making things as shipshape as possible, we tucked our weary bodies into the blankets and were soon dead to the world, only to be awakened about 2 A.M. by a terrific gale, that whipped our tent, threatening to tear it to shreds. The rocks we had so carefully placed were rolling off the tent edges, and for a time things looked as though the only way to stay with the tent would be to make a nocturnal balloon ascension.The lake now whipped to a fury was sending huge rollers up on the rocky shore, necessitating a pajama parade in the dark to look after the safety of our canoe. The storm subsiding as suddenly as it had come, left us a couple hours of sleep before time to start the new day’s activities.

Reaching the north end of Knife Lake at 3 P.M. we made a short lift out and passed through a narrow water way into Cypress Lake, one of the most interesting and beautiful bodies of water on the whole trip. Here the shores were even steeper than any we had seen thus far, in places being sheer cliffs from 50 to 200 feet high, of various colors and with stunted pines and cedars growing from every nook and cranny, while the more level places are covered with a heavy growth of virgin timber. Everywhere were signs of beaver. Thousands of poplar trees, some 18 inches in diameter, cut and felled in every direction. Peeled sticks and poles scattered along the shores with here and there the beginnings of a dam or a completed house, but only once did we see hide or hair of the owners.

Finding no suitable camp place, we paused late in the afternoon to discuss the advisability of using a rather high point in front of us for a camp over Sunday. While we were still undecided what to do, two or three forms appeared on the spot we were contemplating, then subdued voices floated down to us, then more excited ones, followed immediately by loud and insistent demands from our friends of the day before to come up and make camp. Acting on the invitation, we packed our outfit to the top where there was fairly level ground, plenty of dry wood and a most wonderful view of the lake, with a high cliff directly across about a quarter mile. This cliff proved to be a most sociable one, as we could talk to it and it would answer us, especially in the still morning and evening air, when a call or whistle would come back with startling distinctness.

Next day being Sunday we decided to take a much needed rest and rid ourselves of colds contracted two days before. After breakfast and a shave we went exploring along the rocky shores and cliffs, stopping now and then to pry loose some large splintered boulder and watch it roll and bound downward with a roar that awoke the echoes, finally to plunge with an almighty big “kerplunk” into the quiet water below. The last one we rolled uncovered a large and well- populated colony of yellow jackets who seemed so peeved at our form of merriment that we were immediately reminded of some very urgent business elsewhere that would admit of no delay. Monday morning with a good substantial breakfast under our belts, we paddled on our way in company with the Wheeler party. Passing out of Cypresss lake into a chain of small lakes, we finally brought up at a fairly long portage with a floating bog at the other end. This portage was marked at each end and in the middle with a stone and cement monument, all three of which were inscribed with the names of other parties who in passing had left their names, and sometimes remarks, more or less complimentary to portages in general and this one in particular. Most of these portages, being on the International Boundary, are easily distinguishable from a considerable distance, because of the American fire caution signs on one side, and the Canadian signs on the other.

For the past two days and for the following four days, we saw no one except two or three Indians at a distance in their canoes. A silent country. No sound of living things, except the loud cackle of the loons in considerable numbers, the occasional splash of a fish, or the splashing of a flock of ducks taking alarm at our approach. Our only disappointment was in our failure to see any large game, although moose signs were plentiful everywhere, and one of the first canoe parties we had met, reported seeing a bear.

About the middle of the afternoon we crossed a rocky reef, barely deep enough to float the canoes, passed out into Saganaga Lake and turned northward into Cache Bay over the Canadian Line. Reaching an island of about 40 acres extent we located an ideal camp spot, with a fireplace already built, and abundance of blueberries for the picking, and plenty of good bedding close at hand. A few spruce hens feeding nearby, were so tame that we were able to approach very closely and examine them at our leisure.

Supper over and camp made for the night, our packs were overhauled, and with dirty clothes in one hand and soap in the other we selected large flat rocks sloping at the right angle into the water and set up our own Chink laundry. Not overparticular about the thoroughness of the work we soon had a brush line out and the clothes drying in the evening breeze.

Next morning finding that the wind had subsided very little during the night, we debated the wisdom of starting out, but after a council of the two parties decided we could reach the north shore of the bay if we lost no time for the wind to get stronger. Hustling the break up of camp, we loaded and got away by 7 A.M. in a somewhat heavy sea, and with the wind a little on our beam, giving considerable swing and roll, but suffering no mishap we reached the north end of the bay in less than an hour and commenced to search for a waterfall said to be not far away.

Cruising among the islands and back into the arms of the bay we finally distinguished the faint roar of falling water, and after another half hour of husky manipulation of the paddles were rewarded with a view of one of the most beautiful waterfalls one could wish to see. A drop of about 30 feet of crystal pure water, against a background of moss covered rocks, cedars, and pine, was a sight not soon to be forgotten. After taking some pictures of the place and making our portage, we rested awhile, then embarked again, only to find another portage just around the bend, and still another just beyond that one, which brought us into Saganons Lake.

After spending a couple hours looking for a portage into Other-Man's-Lake, which we learned afterwards was almost impassable,―we turned southward on a different route back into Cypress Lake.

The first portage being a long and rather hilly one, we stopped half way over for dinner, then finished the packing and embarked again on a small lake with very swampy shores all the way around, and with the appearance of high water. After considerable trouble in finding the way out of it, we discovered that the portage was flooded, and a path had been cut through the brush, through which we proceeded to paddle our canoes, here pushing on a trunk of a tree, there pulling on the brush to help us over some shallow spot, or sunken brush pile. After thirty or forty rods of this kind of navigation through a crooked brush road, we came out on top of a large beaver dam, extending entirely across the ravine, and so tightly was it built that only very little water trickled through. Dragging the canoes over the top and down the side we started again in backwater below, only to get temporarily stuck in the brush further down just before reaching a second large dam. After more tugging, pushing, chopping and precarious maneuvering on slippery logs we finally had to unload and carry the outfits the remaining distance to open water below the dam, where we found ourselves back into Cypress Lake far enough down to make camp that night on our old camp spot of two days before.

All our way up the lakes the wind had been to our backs, and we had things figured out this way;―after about so many days from the southwest the wind should change in time to blow us back home again when we were ready, but nothing doing. So for the following three days we bucked it down through Cypress, Knife, Carp and into Basswood, with a little respite while we changed our course up around American Point to a camp on the west side of the point.

There we camped in the middle of a big blueberry patch and gorged ourselves shamefully. Next morning before breakfast all hands were off on a hike to the top of a high barren rocky hill just back of us. The view from the top was magnificent, the sun rising in the east, while a thunderstorm was trying to start something in the northwest, and as far as the eye could reach in all directions nothing else but islands, bays, and the blue haze beyond, and our tents like white specks at the base of the hill.

After breakfast Charley and I bade farewell to our friends, packed up and started for the entrance to Pipestone Bay just in time to get caught in a rainstorm. The wind had now come up, and in little rain squalls we bent to the paddles, in places barely able to make headway, and with the sun obscured it was necessary to use the compass continually in order to find our way among the many bays and islands. Stopping at noon in the lee of an island in Pipestone Bay, we ate dinner, had a short rest, then started on, only to find the wind so strong and the waves so high that it was necessary to land again and await more favorable conditions.

While I was taking a cat nap in a little sheltered nook, Charley did some exploring of our tiny island and brought to light an old time Flobert 22 and a muzzle loading shot gun, both in an advanced stage of decay, with the stocks rotted and the barrels partly chocked with rust. This island we were afterwards told, was once the home of an old Indian who died alone during the flu epidemic.

About 4 P.M. the wind having somewhat subsided, we ventured forth and by dint of hard paddling reached our first camp spot and pushed on to the portage on Fall Lake where we made a good camp and settled down to await Monday morning when we could get the first train out of Winton for home.

Next day, Sunday, we hobnobbed with eight different canoe parties going over the portage, starting on different routes into the big outdoors. The first of these parties, a couple of young fellows were very sociable, and just before they left us we asked them if there were any special news of the outside world. “No,” they said, “Nothing much in the papers now, they are all full of Harding’s funeral.” “FUNERAL!” Charley and I both exclaimed. “When did Harding die?” “Oh, about ten days ago,” they drawled, “where have you guys been anyway?” Feeling foolish we walked slowly back to camp and sat down to think. Finally Charley spoke up. “Walt, it sure is heck to be ignorant, isn’t it?”

Next morning found us paddling with more enthusiasm than ever down Fall Lake to Winton, where we knew letters awaited us from loved ones, and more news from what had been to us, for 12 days, an unknown world.