It was a perfect late-summer week in the woods Up North. Even the mosquitoes were quiet.
"No rain, little wind, gorgeous and peaceful," Peter Paine recalled. "We watched bull moose running after females. Geese flew overhead. All the gorgeous things of a coming fall in the north country."
An international lawyer and bank chairman from upstate New York, Paine and his wife, Patty, had staged a 10-day canoe trip out of Ely at their favorite longtime outfitter, Piragis Northwoods Co.
Gear packed, a floatplane strapped with their canoe sputtered into the air and dropped them off on Lac la Croix — a meandering, rocky-cliff waterway that straddles the Minnesota-Ontario border.
It was Monday, Sept. 10, 2001. The Paines were 1,500 miles and light years away from the chaos about to explode in lower Manhattan.
"With one paddle stroke, we were in Minnesota, and the next stroke put us in Canada," Peter said. "There's not much difference. It's all so gorgeous."
A couple of days of crackling camp fires and blazing sunsets later, gently steering their canoe along a 70-mile circle deeper into the lake-dotted woods, the Paines stopped for lunch on a rocky point.
That's when Patty asked: "Where are the planes?"