Chapter Two: Portage
The date marked on the page was June 04, 2045. 1st entry:
I am fifteen, and my name is Jordi. If I am lost in the woods or eaten by some creature, here is a record of my suffering that my Grandpa Harry made me do this summer. I joke, but seriously, come find me if I'm still wandering in the woods.
It wasn't quite a kidnapping, but it felt dangerously close. While every other kid I knew was gearing up for a summer of freedom and fun, I was being *relocated*, thanks to my parents' dubious idea of generosity. Instead of enjoying my well-deserved break, I was shipped off to spend the summer with my grandparents.
Now, don't get me wrong—I love my grandparents. Really, I do. But they live in the middle of nowhere, a place so remote it might as well have been on another planet. To top it off, my friends were a million miles away, and any hope of staying connected might as well have been tossed out the car window. The real kicker? I wasn't just staying at my grandparents' house—I was joining my grandfather on some family "rite of passage" in the Boundary Waters. Apparently, this was a *thing*, though I'd have happily skipped it if given the choice. Spoiler: I wasn't.
This grand adventure wasn't my only misfortune, either. My parents—wonderful people that they are—decided to add some spice to my summer by getting a divorce. My mom was jetting off to Europe with her new boyfriend, while my dad was too buried in work to keep an eye on me. Their solution? Pack me off to Grandpa, because clearly, I wasn't mature enough to stay home alone for two months.
So, there I was, bumping along endless backroads in Grandpa's ancient pickup truck, heading toward what felt like a life sentence at camp. It wasn't just a road trip—it was a slow march toward what I could only describe as the middle of nowhere.
After a long, and I mean long, drive down some backwater dirt roads, we finally arrived at the entry point. We parked the car—if you could call it that—more like abandoned it, surrounded by thick woods. The trees loomed over us, creating this dense, dark green canopy, and it felt like we were miles from any other human. At that moment, we could've been the last people on Earth.
We spent the next few minutes stripping down our packs and removing non-essentials so we wouldn't be weighed down on the trail. Grandpa was in his element, moving with this practiced ease as he tightened straps and repacked supplies, ensuring everything was right. I tried to mirror him, pretending I was as ready for this as he was.
We had the daunting task of portaging at the start of our adventure—160 rods, or roughly half a mile, as Grandpa always reminds me. If you're wondering, a rod is 16.5 feet. I only know that because I asked him every time we started a new portage.
As we gathered our gear and the truth of the challenge became apparent, an overwhelming sense of defeat overtook my face. Grandpa had this way of looking at me with his eyebrows slightly raised, like he was testing me, seeing if I'd complain or give up. I wanted to, but his unspoken challenge awoke the competitor inside me. It was pride.
Grandpa had tied the paddles, fishing rods, and everything else—water jugs, rope, even the lunch he packed for later—all snugly inside the canoe. He insisted that making this trek only once would save us time and energy.
Still, there was a weird thrill at the start of this journey. Yet, another part couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. I mean, I'd been in the woods before—granted, it was usually with my family, and we were never more than a quick walk from a restroom, a shower, or a grocery store. It was a cushy version of "roughing it," but I sensed how different this trip would be.
There was no turning back to civilization for a quick snack or even a Band-Aid if something went wrong. I knew that once we set off, it would just be us and the wilderness. If things went sideways, there wouldn't be help coming anytime soon. I could feel the weight of that reality settling in, like an extra layer under my skin—equal parts fear and curiosity. I wasn't precisely a thrill-seeker; for me, navigating the city as a woman alone was enough excitement most days. Standing at the edge of nowhere, I was keenly aware of how sheltered my life had been.
I wonder, maybe a bit sarcastically, why anyone would want to do this. People invented modern conveniences for a reason, right? Indeed, it was because living without them was miserable. As I took in the empty, silent woods, I thought, *What is this, the dawn of time?* There were strict rules here—no motorized anything, no development, no conveniences. People said it was about "enjoying the struggle" and "connecting with nature," but I wasn't sold on voluntary suffering. It felt a little pointless.
In the north woods, you paddle in with everything you'll need, and you paddle out with everything you brought. No trace, no exceptions. It felt like a strange survival challenge, like being marooned on a deserted island—only here, we had the benefit of a pre-pack. We read *Robinson Crusoe* in school, but I didn't think I'd need to take survival notes from it. Let's hope we won't be out here fighting off cannibals like he did.
They say everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame, and I had this creeping feeling that, with my luck, mine would be like *Girl Eaten by Bear While Camping.* I didn't know what to expect on this trip or why I had no choice but to tag along. But I was here, and it was too late to get off this train.
If you've never portaged before, it's basically just a trail—but here, because there's so much lake travel in the Boundary Waters, it's got a fancy name. Portaging means going from one body of water to another with all your gear, food, and canoe. You take everything out of the canoe to carry it separately; otherwise, trying to haul a fully loaded canoe would be ridiculous. There's no way to cheat it, either; every item has to be carried, one way or another.
My grandfather was in charge of the canoe, and despite his age, he made it look easy. It was a Kevlar model, weighing around forty pounds—not exactly light, but not unbearable. He'd done this so often that he had it down to a science. He lifted the canoe from the back, balancing it on its front end before sliding his shoulders underneath to position it on the portage yoke, a wooden bar that fit snugly across his shoulders. He kept his hands on each side for balance and angled the front end of the canoe slightly upward to see the path ahead. I couldn't help but watch, feeling a strange mix of admiration and exhaustion on his behalf. He made the process look effortless, but I knew better. There were no shortcuts. I knew everything would be earned the hard way.
I was given the all-important food pack—a fifty- or sixty-pound beast, though it might as well have been five hundred pounds. Strapped on my back, it was enough of a load by itself, but I also had another pack on my front, making balance a whole new challenge. Ahead of me, Grandpa had the clothes bag strapped to his back in addition to the canoe, so I swallowed my complaints. Heavy and uncomfortable, we'd barely even started, and I already felt it.
Each bag weighed about fifty pounds but felt closer to a hundred as I dragged them along. It was mid-summer, hot and sticky, with a humid blanket hanging over the woods. I'd dressed as practically as possible—a pair of breathable khakis, a plain white T-shirt with my red-and-black flannel thrown over it, and sturdy waterproof boots already proving my wisest choice. Out here, blisters could become serious; this wasn't where you wanted to deal with anything that could slow you down. My hair was tied back in a ponytail, tucked under a baseball cap to shield my face from the sun. Makeup was considered excess, so I left it at home. It's not that it would last long out here anyway—the only thing I'd be attracting in this heat and humidity would be bugs. I hoped we wouldn't encounter anyone; this wasn't my best look.
As we started down the trail to the boat launch, I had to stop more than once, my shoulders burning as the straps dug into my skin. Stopping didn't offer much relief, though; I couldn't take the packs off by myself, and getting them back on would require Grandpa's help, so I just had to keep them on. Grandma had warned me this wouldn't be easy, and she was right. I pushed through the pain, focusing only on making it to the water.
I followed him into the dense undergrowth. The trees stood around us like silent, towering guardians, closing us in on either side. With each step, the forest seemed to grow denser and quieter. Only the soft crunch of our boots and the faint shuffle of leaves filled the air.
It was still mid-morning, but the sun was climbing higher, and the temperature was too. I was sure the forest around me was beautiful, but I didn't have the luxury to look around. I was too busy keeping my balance, my focus narrowing with each heavy step. I kept telling myself, *It's got to be just up ahead,* but the trail just stretched on and on.
It was barely more than a glorified bike path, winding tightly between the trees. In some parts, the path was so narrow I wondered how Grandpa was managing with the canoe. The underbrush and low-hanging branches clawed at the sides and top of the canoe, occasionally scraping against my pack as I walked behind him. I knew this was only the beginning of our trip, but I was already questioning whether people enjoyed this.
The path dipped downward slightly as we walked through a marshy patch, and I silently thanked whoever was responsible for gravity. Birch and maple trees surrounded us, mixed with towering evergreens, their branches stretching like fingers reaching to snag at us. Shrubs and dense plants filled the spaces between the trees, pressing close. The forest was testing us as if saying, *You're not ready for this.* I tried to shake off the doubt, reminding myself that it was just the strain of the hike and the unfamiliarity making my mind wander.
I began to wonder—are physical burdens ever really just physical? It seemed like the weight on my back was only half the struggle; the other half was the grind of pushing my mind forward, step by heavy step. At a certain point, the body gives up on protest, leaving you stranded in your thoughts, where determination, grit, and sheer willpower become a kind of meditation. The trail forced me inward, and I realized that maybe this was what Grandpa meant when he talked about "connecting with nature."
The path dipped into a shallow valley of birch trees, then rose into a steep climb. Every part of me wanted to turn back, to throw down the bags and make for the car. But I knew Grandpa would have a few choice teases if I backed out, so I dug my heels in and pushed on. The sweat was a constant now, dripping down the back of my neck, and every step felt like it required a whole new reserve of energy. When I thought my legs might give out, the trail sloped down again, and I heard the faint sound of running water. *Finally,* I thought, *the river!*
At last, we reached the launch. I stood still as Grandpa unbuckled the packs and lifted them off me, practically collapsing onto a log as I sank beside him, my legs shaking with relief. To our right, the terrain sloped into an endless sprawl of thick and shadowed forest, hiding most of the sky. The Moose River lay just ahead—a narrow, winding channel that looked more like a glorified puddle than a river, but I wasn't about to complain. I could finally breathe without the weight pressing into my shoulders, and I was grateful for any water, however small.
I was exhausted, and we hadn't gotten to the central part of the day's work. Whoever said it was fun out here needed their head examined.
"Need a break already?" Grandpa's eyes glinted with the mischief I'd been expecting. Of course, he wouldn't let me off without a jab. "Don't worry, it's mostly paddling from here on out. After that, every other portage will seem easy. And we'll try to keep them short—until we have to come back through here on the way out."
Grandpa reached into one of the packs and pulled out two breakfast bars and a couple of water bottles. While he loaded the canoe, it was already positioned for launch in the water. Grandpa placed our gear precisely in the middle to balance the weight and let me rest a bit longer. He wouldn't press me just yet, saving some of my nerve for later. He seemed to enjoy the unhurried pace. The minuscule snack was dry, so I washed it down with some gulps of water. I put on my best enthusiastic face as I could manage. I wasn't sure how convincing it was, but Grandpa just grinned and didn't comment.
Our first destination was way downriver—Nina Moose Lake, where we'd set up our base camp for the night. I settled myself in the front of the canoe, using my flannel as a cushion against the warm seat, paddle at the ready, as Grandpa gave us a steady push off into the river. As the canoe drifted forward, I felt a subtle thrill; *this* felt like the real beginning of our journey, closer to the adventure I'd imagined.
Around us, the river meandered through a stretch of swampy lowlands flanked by dense forests that rose and dipped with the hills. It was quiet, a deep kind of quiet that felt like another world. Grandpa mentioned this could be good moose and deer territory, but he suspected it was too late to see much. Still, I couldn't help scanning the riverbanks, hoping for a glimpse of something wild.
We began to glide along, finding a rhythm—or trying to. My paddling was a bit erratic; my head was on a swivel, taking in everything I could see. The water was glass-smooth, mirroring the trees and sky so perfectly that it felt like we were floating between two worlds. There were no sounds of cars or people, no distant hum of engines—just the quiet splash of our paddles and the occasional bird call in the canopy above. I felt a strange calm, something more profound than expected. It was just us and the wild here, and somehow, even in its vastness, I felt safe.
The water was a deep brown and could look almost black at times. All the organic material the river swept through on its winding path. It had a sepia-toned quality as if the scene were an old photograph, untouched by time. Though murky, the water's richness was teeming with life around it. Trees and shrubs crowded the banks, their branches arched protectively over the river, filtering sunlight and casting patches of shade.
It felt like we were paddling back through the centuries, with only the pure sounds of nature around us. Birds darted from branch to branch, their songs filtering through the trees, while insects zipped around, ignoring our intrusion as they went about their busy lives.
Our journey was peaceful at first, the soft gurgling of the river blending with the rhythmic plunge and lift of our paddles. Each stroke sent a small spray of water into the air, creating a soothing beat. My shoulders reminded me of the strain from earlier, but even with the new ache from paddling, I almost found the repetition relaxing—though I wouldn't admit it out loud. Every so often, my paddle would clunk against the canoe's edge, breaking the rhythm, but Grandpa just grinned at me, letting me figure it out on my own.
Just as I thought we'd left the portages behind for the day, we came upon another one. Like so many, the landing seemed guarded by an uneven scatter of rocks, adding a bit of adventure to docking but nothing too tricky to maneuver around.
"Don't worry, it's just a short one," Grandpa said, sensing my apprehension.
Paddling into a portage landing required a subtle shift in our strokes. Instead of pushing forward with each dip of the paddle, we had to reverse the motion, slowing down and easing the canoe to a gentle stop. Grandpa called it our "brakes." As we glided toward the rocks, I felt that rare, fleeting calm again, like we were slipping between worlds, the one on the water and one back on land. I wondered what other surprises were in store as we journeyed deeper into the quiet, untouched heart.
Back at the portage, we reloaded our gear in a now-familiar routine. The packs were still as heavy as I remembered—maybe even heavier, now that they'd absorbed some water from our paddling mishaps. Every time I switched paddling sides, a splash would inevitably trickle down my paddle and settle in the bottom of the canoe, dampening our bags. I was pretty sure Grandpa was doing the same in the back, but he wasn't about to admit it.
The short portage was just enough to bypass a rough patch of rocky rapids, and soon enough, we were back in the water. As we paddled on, I quickly realized my inexperience was catching up. Each time I got distracted by the scenery and lost my rhythm, my paddle skimmed over the water's surface instead of slicing through it, sending a spray of water backward toward Grandpa. This "water slap," as I'd started calling it, was met with his gruff reprimands that, despite his tone, had an edge of humor in them.
This stretch of river was curvier, and I struggled with each bend. The current was picking up just enough to make navigating tricky, especially with the loaded canoe. Every corner we tried to round, we seemed to drift too wide and clip the bank or rocks. We had to back up, reposition, and push forward each time with renewed determination. With each scrape and bump, I could feel Grandpa's patience wearing thin.
"Jordi, you *have* to be paying attention," he'd say, exasperated, as we rebounded off the bank again.
"I am! It's just... not easy. The canoe is heavy," I defended, although I knew I was out of my element. Steering required finesse, and I had yet to quite get the hang of balancing force with timing. But part of me bristled at his criticism, determined to get it right.
Grandpa steadied himself and explained, "My job is to give us the push and momentum. But I can't do that if we get hung up around corners. Your job in the front is to steer—anticipate the turns early. If we're turning left, get your paddle on the right side to help angle the nose to the left. We will make this harder if we don't work together." His voice softened as he spoke, his tone shifting from frustration to patient clarity.
"Yeah, Grandpa," I replied, gritting my teeth, frustration mingling with exhaustion. I wanted to get to camp, not argue. So, instead, I tried a little humor to lighten the tension. "You know, if we die out here and someone stumbles across our bones. It will be normal for me, but for you, they'll think they'll need an archaeologist."
He let out a surprised snort. "Is that a crack about me being old?" I nodded, and he shook his head, a slight grin breaking through. "Good to know."
Everything in the wilderness seemed to take longer and demanded patience we didn't need back in civilization. But there was an unexpected reward in that slowness. As I watched the river ahead, a sudden flurry of motion caught my eye—a sleek beaver swimming by, his wet brown coat glistening in the dappled sunlight. He swam past us without a care, like we were just another part of the scenery, his paddle-shaped tail slicing smoothly through the water. It was strangely thrilling to see our first non-bird creature of the trip, a reminder that this was his territory, his home.
Floating over some broken branches, remnants of a recent beaver dam, we could see a whole world unfolding around us if we took the time to notice. The soreness gnawing at my arms and shoulders faded as the sense of wonder crept in. Sounds of birds and the chatter of hidden creatures filled the air, hinting at a life that thrived in these untamed woods, primarily out of sight yet ever-present.
Grandpa decided to make an unscheduled stop, keen to show me a scenic overlook he remembered. We pulled the canoe ashore and set out along a steep, rocky trail, and for once, walking without the weight of those packs felt like floating. The climb was tough, but at the peak, the landscape rewarded us—a sprawling view of the river valley unfurled beneath, and beyond it, Nina Moose Lake, glinting like a promise. Seeing the lake where we'd camp filled me with fresh energy. This was a real adventure.
Back in the canoe, we made our way toward Nina Moose Lake, where the riverbanks shifted, becoming dense with tall reeds that swayed like dancers in the breeze. We had a gentle wind at our backs, and my aching muscles faded into the background, lulled by the easy rhythm of paddling on the widening river. Lost in the scenery, I thought of stories like *Huckleberry Finn*, and though I wasn't running from anything or riding a raft, it was a strange, quiet freedom.
As we neared the lake's entrance, a gusty wind greeted us, bending the reeds that grew thick and wild at the lake's edge. They rose tall around us, obscuring the view just enough to tease. It felt like the lake was both welcoming and guarding its secrets. The reeds brushed against the canoe, bowing back in the current as we drifted forward. Grandpa held his map, studying the markers to find our way, but the world felt boundless, almost surreal for me. Here, on the edge of the wilderness, I felt light-years away from humanity.
We pushed through the last patches of reeds, and finally, the lake opened before us, a vast, breathtaking expanse. The color deepened to a vibrant blue, contrasting sharply with the evergreens along the rocky shore. The distant hills looked like sentries standing under a vast, pale sky, with hardly a cloud in sight. Grandpa kept scanning his map, tracing invisible lines to navigate the lake, but I was content just to be.
I couldn't shake the feeling we were like Lewis and Clark, tracing the paths of explorers who first mapped these wilds. We hadn't seen another soul since we set out, and as we drifted in the breeze, Grandpa suggested we let the lake carry us while we rested before battling the wind. We are alone in this vastness, allowing the stillness to settle around us.
Grandpa had a campsite in mind—one tucked into the far end of a secluded bay on the right side of the lake. Getting there, though, was no easy task. Paddling against the gusts, I was unprepared for the wind and wave resistance; it felt like every stroke barely inched us forward. We tried hugging the shoreline, where the water was a little calmer, but soon, I was paddling with all my strength, too focused to admire the lake's beauty anymore.
As we passed a stand of tall pines, a bald eagle burst from its perch, flapping powerfully before disappearing over the treetops. Grandpa paused, watching it go, and I saw the same awe in his eyes that I felt—there's something magical about creatures like that, something that calls to a wilder part of you.
With its sprawling shape like a moose's head, Nina Moose Lake had a few campsites around, but Grandpa led us to one tucked into the "right antler" of the imaginary moose. After consulting his map, he spotted our landing—a tiny stretch of bank dotted with rocks, barely enough room to maneuver. I was so eager to get out that I almost toppled over myself, trying to jump ashore.
Once we pulled the canoe entirely onto the land, I felt the ache in every muscle, a soreness I'd only half-registered on the water, now coming alive. I stretched, savoring the relief. This was our little piece of the wilderness for the night, a world of towering trees and rocky shores, isolated and all our own. It was time to make camp, Swiss Family Robinson-style, and let this wild place feel a little more like home, if only for a night.