My camping experiment was not going well. After four days trekking through Duluth and its environs, the trail finally led us out into the wilderness. And it was here, marching toward the North Shore's famed Sawtooth Mountains, that I'd decided to try to become a "real" backpacker. That is, one who slept trailside, nodding off to the soothing sounds of hooting owls and gently creaking trees, and waking to the songbirds' reveille.
The idea seemed so romantic. And practical. When you stayed in motels nightly, as I typically did, you needed to shuttle on and off the trail every morning and evening. While motels certainly offered numerous comforts — namely, hot showers and soft beds — dipping in and out of humanity daily disrupted the peaceful rhythm of life on the trail. But I was struggling with the transition.
The first night, we set up camp at Big Bend, a site tucked near a branch of the Knife River. While readying for bed, my husband, Ed, spotted a tick — on my derrière, of all places. Screaming and flailing ensued. Then, climbing into my hammock, I accidentally sat in its unsupported underquilt, promptly crashing to the ground. Now ensnared in the bug net that enveloped the hammock, I thrashed around like a trapped animal. There were more howls, punctuated by one well-placed curse.
We spent our second night at Reeves Falls. While the campsite was attractively perched above a stream with its own pint-sized waterfall, the approach was a rocky, swampy morass, making trips to wash up and filter water unpleasant. And when I opted to bunk in the tent with Ed, I discovered the site's tent pad — a spot of earth cleared for campers — sat at a severe slant. All night I felt on the verge of sliding head-first into the scrub.
Then, on my third attempt at becoming one with the trail, I planned a stop at one of the four Gooseberry campsites, strung in a row along the Gooseberry River. But all four sites were full, so we pitched our tent on a flat piece of ground adjacent to the East Gooseberry site. With no fire ring or bench for relaxation, we tucked in early, only to awake to the light staccato of rain on our tarp. As we dispiritedly began packing up our sodden, muddy tent, the skies opened up in a dismal crescendo.
"We're going to a motel tonight," I said.
We marched downhill in the rain toward Gooseberry Falls, the second of eight state parks linked by the Superior Hiking Trail. Three miles of the Gooseberry River wind through the park and across its rocky ledges, ridges and bluffs, dramatically sculpted from an ancient lava flow. As the water races toward Lake Superior, it plunges 240 feet via five dramatic waterfalls.
The rain stopped when we reached the park's Fifth Falls viewing area, perking up our flagging spirits. And it was there, after snapping countless photos, that I met BlueBerry. The young, dark-haired man was clad in tights, a navy floral skirt and a long-sleeved shirt. A modest pack was affixed to his back, while a long, pink-and-cream scarf was loosely knotted around his neck. Because he introduced himself as BlueBerry, I replied I was Snowshoe. And just like that, we were kin.
