Lessons from a first-timer on what not to do in the Boundary Waters

BOUNDARY WATERS CANOE AREA WILDERNESS — It was a sunset that campers dream of: perfect shades of red, orange and purple over a glassy wilderness lake.

I could only glance at it over my left shoulder as I paddled deeper into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. On my first-ever night in Minnesota’s famed canoe country, panic was setting in as my group of five raced against the last vestiges of daylight in search of an open campsite.

After arriving in Ely, Minn., from the Twin Cities midafternoon, we passed the first available campsite we saw on Birch Lake because it had piles of stinky goose poop. We pushed onward on our mapped itinerary to Knife Lake, where we found every one of the 16 campsites we floated past were occupied.

I knew our beginner-friendly route would be popular, but I didn’t anticipate we’d have so much trouble finding a place to camp.

For years, I’ve wanted to visit the place where hardiest Minnesotans go — where danger meets beauty in a place that’s truly wild, without the hum of motors. I was hoping to see a bear or even a moose (in non-life-threatening situations, of course). I’d done a fair amount of car camping and kayaking, but this was my first time tenting in such a remote place.

As my arms throbbed from portaging gear and paddling nearly 10 miles, that first open foul-smelling, feces-littered campsite suddenly seemed like a luxurious five-star hotel.

In a last-ditch effort, we mustered our energy to portage our canoes and packs another 40 rods (about 40 canoe lengths, or approximately 0.12 miles), to the much smaller and less scenic Bonnie Lake, hoping one of two sites there might be open.

Finally, to everyone’s relief, my cousin who was scouting one of the sites yelled across the lake from her canoe: “It is free.”

By the time we pulled onto shore, we had to break out our headlamps to set up camp.

First lesson learned: Make sure to secure a campsite early in the day.

I had carefully researched the trip ahead of time, reading all sorts of online forums and even calling outfitters and guides for advice.

I ended up securing a permit for the Moose Lake entry point outside of Ely and mapped out a three-night route. The trip would have an outfitter ferry us by motorboat to our first portage. We would then make our way into Knife Lake, which straddles the Canadian border and is one of the most well-known waterways of the Boundary Waters. The relatively short and flat portages make it a popular place for outdoor schools, scout troops and first-timers like us, said Bob LaTourell, an outfitter at his family’s namesake lodge.

There are lively debates on social media sorting out what equipment is needed, what’s a waste of space and what’s worth the weight.

We tried to go light, borrowing and renting a few essentials.

Besides personal items such as clothes and toiletries, almost everything can be rented from the many outfitters in and around Ely or other areas surrounding the wilderness. At LaTourell’s, three-day packages start at $360 per person for everything, including food.

I had most camping basics, but borrowed a giant portage pack and a dry bag liner for it from a friend. We rented lightweight Kevlar canoes, and my group shared my cousin’s sack to hang our food in a tree, out of the reach of bears.

Even though it was peak summer, I was glad I had packed wool socks and my favorite sweatshirt. They proved their worth the first night when, after a long day, I had an awful headache and the chills.

Thankfully, by morning I felt refreshed. But while others in my group wanted to pack up and move farther into the wilderness, as we had planned, I was too tired. I convinced them to keep our campsite and take a day trip instead.

We paddled miles in search of the home of the late Dorothy Molter, aka the “Root Beer Lady,” the last non-Indigenous resident of the Boundary Waters. Molter had been granted lifetime tenancy there and made homemade root beer for paddlers who stopped by her island in Knife Lake.

When we got to her island, we found tall hills.

“How did she hike up these steep paths?” my fiancé wondered aloud as we climbed.

Turns out, she didn’t. We were in the wrong place.

Lesson three: Mark the map correctly. There is no cell service or internet to help you find your way.

Traveling during the summer solstice gave us ample time to paddle and simply enjoy the outdoors.

I felt like a child again. I caught a crayfish that I intended to use as bait, but it reminded me too much of my pet crayfish that I had in third grade. Instead, I dug for worms and spent hours with my fishing line in the water, hoping for a bite. I needed to prove to myself (and to my family) that I could provide.

See, by the second day at breakfast, we realized we had to ration our food.

We didn’t pack enough, and I felt responsible. I had told my brother and fiancé that we didn’t need to buy more before we left the Twin Cities.

We decided we’d skip lunch on days two and three. Three of us split one packet of risotto for dinner on day two. The package said it held two servings.

I had thought we only needed seven packs of backpacker-style meals. Each had two servings, and with additional snacks and a bag of brownies I figured we’d be fine.

I didn’t anticipate that we’d be extra hungry from all the exercise.

By the last full day, as we started our journey out, my brother and I were fighting like teenagers. As we paddled, we could hear our stomachs growl. At one point, I felt like I was going to pass out under the hot sun, so we broke out the last of our granola bars and a tube of peanut butter.

Again, we were thwarted from finding a campsite where we wanted to stay on Birch Lake. Another group of paddlers raced us across the lake and decided to hold down an empty campsite while the rest of their group looked for, presumably, better ones. We moved on, but other frustrated paddlers yelled at them that it wasn’t a parking space they could save.

I retreated to the only activity I knew would calm me: fishing. I watched as curious painted turtles swam nearby, their noses peeking just above the surface.

Then my line got stuck. Irritated, I dove into the cool water, maneuvered myself to the line and pulled it out.

“We love an eco-friendly fisher,” my cousin yelled. Soon, the rest of my group joined me. We gazed up at the blue sky and marveled at the beauty around us as we floated.

It was moments like those I was chasing: Family time in the outdoors, untethered from our phones.

We tore into our food that night, a pad thai meal I had been looking forward to since we purchased it. Luckily, my cousin and her husband discovered they had packed a little too much and shared their extra with the rest of us.

After dinner, we noticed a swarm of dragonflies above us feasting on mosquitoes. The bugs were out and, presumably, so were the fish. I cast my line and got two bites, but they got away from me.

I was frustrated but happy, surrounded by peace and quiet. I watched painted turtles lay eggs in the sand when I felt another strong tug on the line.

I reeled it in, not too fast and with my rod’s tip up. I slowly walked backwards until I was able to pull the fish to shore: a hefty smallmouth bass.

“Do we want to eat it?” I asked.

“I just did the dishes,” my fiancé replied.

Maybe I could catch it again next time.