- The Mungers
(Posted June 2, 2010)
The week before Memorial Day weekend. The final push. For a couple of weeks, I’ve worked my tail off, getting new tires on the Pacifica (tired of having to put air in them every few days; at 50,000 miles, it was time for them to go), picking up camping supplies, a new tent for Jack, creating a menu for five, checking the BWCA website to make sure my reservation for the trip is still valid. Two days before we leave, I spend four hours making last minute purchases, buying the food for our weekend, making it home at 10:30 from Super One to collapse into bed. I make it in to work on Thursday and check to make sure no one has filed against me in the upcoming judicial election (jubilation, no one did!). That night, Matt, our eldest son, and his wife, Lisa, arrive at the house with their four dogs. Only Johnny Cash, a black dachshund of questionable intellect but loving disposition, is going with us for our four days in the wilderness. The other dogs are going to a local kennel to chill. We pack food, personal items, cookware, tents, lanterns, the single burner LP stove, and by 10:00pm, it’s lights out. Tomorrow is the big day. Tomorrow we drive to Isabella, take a right on a forest road, and head to Hog Creek.
Friday afternoon. The Pacifica and Matt’s red Nissan truck, both sporting “canoe hats”, slide into the primitive parking lot overlooking Hog Creek. Our destination is a three hour paddle downstream; Perent Lake. Not to be confused with “Parent Lake”, another BWCA lake which is “paddle only” (no motors allowed), Perent is a nice destination if you’re not into portaging a whole hell of a lot. I don’t mind humping packs over rocky ground. My boys, Matt included, on the other hand, prefer getting into a lake and fishing rather than trying to recreate the era of the Voyageurs. Lisa, our new daughter-in-law, is on her first camping trip to the wilderness. Perent seems like a good choice to test her mettle.
We load the two canoes until every crevice of the boats below the gunwales is stuffed full. Matt and Lisa push off in our green Old Town Discovery. Rene’, Jack and I follow in our red Coleman. Jack is the “odd man out” and sits on the floor of the Coleman, holding onto Johnny who wants to launch himself into the water and pursue the lead canoe. The dog, for as small as he is, is pure muscle. Jack battles him for most of the first hour of the slow meander down the tannin stained creek.
There’s a short portage over rocky debris a few minutes from the parking lot. We heft packs and canoes, cross the isthmus, and put in on sandy ground sloping gently into a wilderness pool of black water. Mallards take wing and quack. The sun is high and bright. There is no threat of rain. We paddle on, marveling that there are no mosquitoes or black flies to bring us misery. It is too dry. The fetid pools and backwash of the land, the places bugs like to propagate, have vanished in drought. There’s enough greenery to forestall a fire ban. We’ll be able to have a campfire at night, in the fire grate supplied by the U.S. Forest Service at whichever campsite we are lucky enough to snag. But that’s the limit of the rain this country has had: just enough to allow us the pleasure of a fire and not enough to hatch bugs.
The scene at the parking lot had been foreboding. The lot was packed with cars and trucks, some with trailers capable of carrying a half dozen canoes. As we float the creek, I am worried about two things: One, whether we’ll find a campsite on the lake, given the number of folks who “beat us to the punch” and put in ahead of us; and two, our return trip upstream. It’s not the current that gives me pause. Hog Creek is a winding, marshy meander, where alder lines the water course for three or four miles through moose country. The flow of the creek, even in a normal spring, is marginal and not a problem when going upstream. But the beaver. My, my those rodents have been busy! As we paddle, we end up sliding over dam after dam in progress. The water is shallow. Our canoes have little clearance over the sticks and twigs bobbing in the current.
Coming back is going to be a bitch.
“I want an island campsite, Dad,” Jack bemoans as we break onto the open water of Perent Lake.
“Maybe. We’ll take whatever we can get,” I tell him in a stern voice, worried about the number of campsites available on the lake and the volume of parked cars back in the Hog Creek lot.
The islands are all taken. We settle on a campsite on the mainland that boasts a rocky overview of the lake, a protected cove for landing canoes, and plenty of space for three tents. In no time, the tents are pitched and their lines are staked, bed pads and sleeping bags are unrolled, and camp is made. Dinner is simple: hot dogs and polish cooked over a roaring campfire, accompanied by Bush’s baked beans (Always thought George W. was full of beans; didn’t know he sold ’em too!), Pringle’s (traditional chips would have been mashed to smithereens during the trip in) and Kool Aid.
The weather cooperates. The sun shines. A light wind blows, bequeathing a “walleye chop” perfect for drifting over reefs and rocks. The fishing is slow but steady, with each of us catching walleye, the occasional snaky northern pike, a few perch, and Jack landing a rock bass to boot. The highlights of fishing are: Jack catching two seven pound pike on Lisa’s pink “lady’s only” rod and reel (he’d already broken the tips on two of my three fishing rods and caught hell for it); and the guide (me) forgetting to tie off the stringer, which allows Sunday dinner (three nice walleye) to escape while Matt and I ponder the universe on rolling water.
We witness a pair of bald eagles do their spring dance, eerie cries echoing over calm morning water. We see mergansers speed low over lapping whitecaps, intent on finding fish to feed their young. We see no moose or bear, but catch a glimpse of a solitary muskrat chugging through water, find the occasional toad and painted turtle intent on sun, and stumble upon one whale of a surprise in the mossy woods just a short walk from our tents.
White cedars tower above our camp, their soft whispers echoing the past. A short distance away, a bed of wildflowers seeks the sun. I find the bed while searching for dead fall to feed the campfire. I am fifty-five years old and I have never seen wild orchids like these. Never. The pink lady slippers were discovered by someone else, someone with a more observant eye than mine. A path has been laid to their niche and the forest canopy opened to allow in the sun. I call the others to see the miracle. It is indeed, the highlight of the trip.
Sunday evening. Our last night. Rain threatens but never materializes. The walleye and pike (Matt, Rene’ and Jack supplied fish to replace those I “set free”) are excellent cooked over a slow wood fire. In the morning, we eat a hearty breakfast of hot oatmeal, the last of our bagels with cream cheese, hot coffee, and Tang, before striking tents and loading canoes. We police the campsite. “Leave no trace” is nearly impossible but we are packing out everything that we brought with. There are no plastic bags, no twist ties, no debris left to spoil the next party’s visit to this marvelous spot.
Hog Creek is indeed a bitch. The slight gaps in the beaver dams we were able to cruise through paddling downstream now impede our progress. No less than a dozen times, Rene’ and I, and Matt and Lisa, are forced to clamber over the gunwales of our canoes and tow them over the beaver dams. The going is slow. But the sun is high. There are no bugs. And Johnny sits contentedly on Jack’s lap, waiting to be reunited with his canine pals.
We clamber out of the canoes at the portage, reload them after hefting packs and tents and gear over rocky ground, and paddle to the landing. On aching, tired legs, the five of us climb from creek to parking lot carrying dusty load after dusty load. We pack gear into our vehicles, hoist canoes onto racks and tie them down, take one last look around, and motor home.
It’s a perfect Memorial Day trip and Lisa, the newest member of the family has proven she has “the right stuff”.
Peace.
Mark
