The moon rose above the pines as I walked along the shoreline of Mirror Lake. The name was fitting, but would have easily described the hundreds of lakes I had seen in the past few years of my life. When the moon was full, the nights were open, and though I was by now used to being away from the artificial lights of city life, the beauty of the moon and something in the air did not always allow me to rest. Despite the urge to be out exploring at all hours I did not feel that I really needed to rest since there was an energy that radiated through the night. I was adjusted to living in the forest and the way that being a part of it affected my body and mind, a year and a half previous I was finding my way and ridding myself of the old habits of an unnatural life.
Out in the forest I did not have to awaken to an alarm, and the invention of the Benedictine Monks the clock, that had done so much to enslave men, did not matter to me in the least; I had not worn a watch in at least a year. I was not entirely sure what day it would have been if calendars were still being created either. There was no sound in the still night air except for the hoot of an owl across the water from me. The owl must have wondered what this young man with sun-bleached hair and bushy beard was doing near its perch as it scanned the ground for rodents.
There was no one else around. The silence was so complete that even the quiet rustling of the birds sounded as deafening as shattering glass. There were no roads or trails for miles. I was alone and that was fine with me.
I sat down on the damp forest floor and slowly reclined until I was laying with my hands lightly clasped behind my head. My elbows joined the dark tree forms and stars in my field of vision. A deer snorted occasionally back in the brush, aware of the presence of a strange smelling invader.
Sleep started to slip into my mind as I listened to the sounds of the night. I did not want to drift off quite yet- there was a bog that I still wanted to see in the moonlight. Reaching the bog was the goal I had set for myself that morning; I had the constantly repeated maxim in my head that it is important to set goals to keep growing. The beauty of the night sky and the beacon of the moon kept me enthralled for hours every night. The weather, seasons, and light affected the land in ways that I wanted, no, needed, to see for myself. I got on my feet and began walking again. Near the bog was a giant white pine that I decided to sleep under once I had seen the view.
I had spent the day paddling and working my way up a shallow creek in my kayak. The day had been filled with portaging around downed trees and beaver dams- the kind of activity that sometimes leads to being caught by surprise when I realize the sun will soon be taking leave from me for a while. I had eaten nothing but trout, and a lot of them at that, the whole day, which may not mean much to you, but for a mediocre fly-fisherman such as I standing in waters that I had never fished before, it is boasting. It had been excellent fishing throughout the entire length of the creek- I had never been so successful there, in fact, I had never caught anything there before and had only pulled out my rod and creel for a break from my kayak.
I was in no hurry. I had no schedule. The requirements of life were met if I caught enough fish or gathered enough bullhead lilies for sustenance, there was a tremendous sense of pride involved when I carried the same food with me for days at a time. I had enough water in the land of 10,000 lakes and I was adept at finding shelter when I needed it. I only had to take care not to seriously injure myself- a broken leg or a deep wound could seriously hamper my efforts in “earning a living.” I did not have to worry much about illness, I was not really around humans very much, and ticks were gone until the following spring.
The temperature was still hovering close to freezing at night. I was not quite back to the nights of leaving my sleeping bag rolled up in my kayak when I settled down for the night, but soon I would be able to settle down for the nights comfortably without covering up.
Once I returned to my tree I rolled out my pad and sleeping bag and began getting wood together for a small campfire- I did not need a fire for heat so much, but I wanted to be ready for the morning. Beads of sweat rested on my forehead, the coolness of them once I was finished building my fire and gathering enough wood for the night was welcome relief.
I had grown up in the northern boreal forest of Minnesota but after high school had left what I loved behind so I could earn a degree and try to find a meaningful, high-paying career, something I was assured that I would need to do in order to live a long and fruitful life. I had my doubts all along, but kept an open mind- I waited until I had earned my degree and entered the workforce to be able to say authoritatively that none of it was important to me and I had the experience to back it up. I could not stay in the city; I felt, no, knew, that my calling was elsewhere as surely as I had ever known anything. I could not be happy working for someone else. I had to be doing something for myself- I was tremendously selfish I suppose.
I was getting to new places while exploring the woods of Northeastern Minnesota. I needed to be out in the wilds-what was left of them. I had felt the pull and when I responded to it I knew there surely was no other way. Some go backpacking around Europe after college; I backpacked through the forest and slept in the dirt. The Canadian Shield and the lakes and rivers had taken over my dreams and my imagination; they called out to me nearly every waking moment of my life. My dreams were not much different from waking life-save for the occasional dead friend or relative taking part in my adventures and I often found myself awakened from a dream and wondering how it got to be dark in the middle of my adventure. I was restless in life and it was only when I was under the open sky away from the crowds that I felt I could breathe. The forest was a necessity. I could do without material comforts if I had the real experiences of life in nature. The struggle against the elements and the need to survive in the forest presented hardships that were worth going through for the sake of adventure.
I found more comfort drenched in sweat with muscles aching than I found in temperature controlled buildings and artificial surroundings. More was provided for me from the forest than could be purchased in the supermarket, there was food, but there was also a reason for living that came along with it and the satisfaction in securing it for myself. I had begun living as a hunter / gatherer in the midst of a country that was moving to post-industrialism and getting natural resources from other countries. The artificial stimulants and entertainment manufactured to keep man’s wild nature in check and incapacitated held nothing compared to seeing an osprey diving into a lake and coming up with a northern pike gripped tightly in its talons or the earth shaking power and beauty of a thunderstorm from the hollowed out remains of a centuries old white pine.
Provided I have enough space and am not stuck in crowds all of the time I do not mind being around people; this is not a trait exclusive to me, many of those that live in the northwoods share a similar feeling. Despite being very courteous and friendly, many northwoods folk are not the type of people that you want to catch in a crowd. In a city this type of feeling would, provided the person afflicted with it had enough money, typically be diagnosed as a type of neuroses and pills would be dispensed to cure the affliction.
Anyone I came across in the woods was guaranteed to know a few things about survival. The harsh seasons of the north bred a people that were better prepared to face any hardship than most and who could survive on sheer determination. Those who could not handle life in the north left; there are plenty of much more hospitable climates further south that would accept them.
I knew, before the fact, that these folks would survive if the economy ever collapsed. If another depression came, they knew how to use guns and could provide food and defend themselves. They knew how to plant subsistence gardens. They knew how to build shelters. They could make any necessary repairs or figure out what needed to be done to fix a bad situation. The men of the north “hommes du nord,” speaking of the group of men and women, were the skilled, resourceful types. They would accept adventure and could handle hardship.
In spite of, or perhaps because of all that the people of the north faced, they were the most considerate people you would ever meet.
I wondered how it was that I had felt this pull so strongly to be outdoors all of the time while everyone else seemed content enough with their lives and distractions. I guessed that many felt the pull of the outdoors in different degrees; some were content to have plants and pets, some went to golf courses or parks, some went fishing, some went hunting, some camped, and some left civilization for weeks or months at a time- all different degrees. Those that felt the pull were the ones that survived and were able to escape. They were more realistic about survival and often knew enough to figure out how to keep moving. Starvation happened slowly- if someone could keep their wits about them they would learn and grow- that is the most amazing thing about humans- the ability to adapt and survive.
I had grown up in the woods and moved to the city to go to college and to see bands play, to be in the scene where things were supposed to be happening. Concerts, bookstores, museums- the creations of man. The city was where people made their way. Where the money came from. To the generations of kids in the woods that had grown up poor, at least officially under the poverty line, the lure of money and careers seemed like a big deal. There was a growing disconnect between the necessary and the dreams. We had television- we absorbed the ideals of the television culture- which advertised itself as the real pulse of America. It was sort of a youthful rebellion to move to the city. There were undercurrents in the small towns for the youth to stay there and grow old, never to see the world- that was a city stereotype against country folk at the very least. It was hard to know what was really going on for someone born in the information age, every television show promised other things and many had never seen it.
Once I was away and living in the city I started to miss the quiet- the space, the trees and the lakes. I started to visit the parks around the city. I went back up north whenever I had two days off in a row either staying with friends or camping. The rest of the time I had to get away to the State Parks. My love of history and geography started to fully become part of my life as I read more and traveled around the state. I began trying to immerse myself in the maps and in the history of the land on the map.
I violently kicked my way out of my sleeping bag, a cramp had seized my calf in my sleep and I was jumping around and howling in pain. Once the attack settled I calmed a bit and relieved myself next to a tangle of dogwood. The air was cold and still, it was still very dark out.
An owl hooted.
I walked to the tree I had been cutting up that evening- it was a downed jack pine, good for firewood. I stopped to respond to the bird.
“This thing of ours, huh? You doing all right for food? I’ve got some trout here if those mice aren’t cooperating.”
Hoot- oo-oo-ooooo
“We’ve got it all figured out, don’t we?”
When I awoke for the day and slipped out of my sleeping bag I looked down hill to the creek and saw a cow moose standing among the willows on the bank below me. I sat and watched it through the wisps of smoke from my fire, which was ripe to be stoked back up. It was a perfect morning already.
I made coffee and oatmeal in preparation for paddling further north along the creek. It had snowed a little during the night, enough to gather in the cool places. There were still flakes on the ground after I was done with my first pot of coffee for the day, but they would not last past mid day.
First I would be paddling around Mirror Lake though; it would be a nice easy paddle before the continued struggle through the shallow spots where I would be scooting over the creek bottom and the beaver dams. I would be portaging over many of the dams that were too high.
I kicked dirt over the remains of my fire and dumped out the coffee grounds over it for good measure. I took one final look through the camp, gave a sigh, and said to myself “perfect morning” an exercise to burn it into my memory.
Making my way along the stream I watched for signs of the cow moose that I had spotted earlier.
As the sun broke above the trees I stopped to climb up a steep rock to a ledge. A gnarled cedar was growing between the cracks of the rocks and it made a good backrest while I whittled at a piece of wood and stretched out my legs.
The sun provided some heat added to that from my exertion from paddling. A game trail snaked off through the brush to my left. There was fresh wolf scat nearby- a good sign that no one else had been around recently.
Everywhere in the forest were deer trails and the paths that the animals followed. If you knew where to look they would lead you to streams and lakes- food and a sort of shelter. You did not need a map if you knew what you were doing and were able to calm yourself from panic when the realization that you had been walking in circles- which happens to everyone from time to time- hits.
I got back in my kayak and sang to myself as I paddled, “I’ve been working on the railroad, all the live long day.”
When I stopped to eat I had a view of the winding creek extending back to where I had flushed a pair of wood ducks as I came around the bend and far ahead where the creek was straight for about a half-mile; of course I could have just as easily turned around and it would have been just fine with my schedule. I did not have anyone but myself deciding where I should be going or exerting any sort of influence- no one, that is, except the authors of the books I had along in my bags.
Thunder rolled across the sky and I was suddenly seeing small splotches of water appear on my clothing. Rain came down in spurts- a drenching rain, and I hastened to secure a tarp and dug in while I waited for the storm to pass. Then it stopped as abruptly as it had appeared. The sun came out as the thunder continued to roll across the sky in unseen waves. I got out and retrieved the bass filet still sizzling in my frying pan.
The rain suddenly came down hard again, soaking everything- cursed trickster Loki. I flung my tarp open and huddled underneath it.
A few hours passed after the rain stopped pouring and the sky was back to a cloudless light blue. Droplets of rain clung to the spruce branches and the changing colors of the forest as a reminder of how quickly things could change.
The wind was howling as the dark of night approached. I was lucky there was not much rain in the air. Before building a fire I had to set up a windbreak. I hauled a fluffy downed spruce over in front of the fire to block the wind and huddled with my back in front of the pile of wood and kindling I was attempting to light to give myself a little more ease in keeping my matches dry and lit.
I worked my way up through a long ravine. There were several large boulders covered in pine needles spread throughout the length of it- very fun to climb over. I looked down on a bog. A beaver run cut through the bog and the black spruce. There was a bit of blue signifying a lake to the west.
Beyond the bog was a huge stand of aspen. I walked through the stand and saw an elevated rectangle about twenty feet by thirty feet in size covered in moss. The remains of an old foundation, not a concrete foundation, but a leveled patch of flat ground with decayed logs around the edges. I imagined a logging camp had been set up here at one time. The stand of aspen had probably taken the place of towering white pine cut down by the loggers.
I had built my fire in a shallow gulley. I lay out my sleeping bags uphill from the fire so the sides of the gulley and my slightly higher position allowed a little more heat to come my way. I just made sure to clean up the duff between the fire and my toes so I did not wake up to smoldering socks.
I thought of Sigurd Olson, he said “Whenever a man engages in any activity, be it the building of a house, the painting of a picture, or perchance the shooting of a mallard, if that activity gives him peace of mind, makes him less of a menace to his fellow men, then it is justifiable and worth any sacrifice.”
The next morning I sat down on a large rock and sketched the scene in front of me. The creek continued to flow by, cascading over rocks. I could make out the brown backs of trout in the cold, clear water.
I had spent months exploring the woods before I really started to consider taking up full-time residence there. There were many that considered it a waste of time, many of my friends and co-workers included; I could have been doing something productive- I could be finding a career, getting married, having children, buying a house, talking about sports, or making contacts, but none of that was what I wanted.
That earning lots of money meant freedom seemed preposterous. Freedom to do what? Having a house to pay for meant you could not live anywhere else and you had to maintain it. It seemed that every dollar spent just meant you were locked in to spend even more. You had to have insurance, upkeep, property taxes…all to keep you rooted to one place- where was the freedom in that? No, it meant ownership of a small portion in the world at the expense of not seeing what else was out there. How could you know if the place you were settling for was the best for you? By what you could afford?
Going out and getting lost was a rite of passage, it showed you who you were and gave you a reason to keep going. Getting lost turns into the best stories of life. The times when things go wrong are the most memorable and what keep a person feeling young.
In the woods it was possible to know myself. I was not faced with pressures of living up to anyone else’s expectations. Things had gotten out of hand as my generation grew up. We were assaulted with product ads and possibilities of doing anything we wanted, but there was so much advertising and so much doubt drilled into us that we really could not tell what we wanted. There were a lucky few who had a chance.
Everything was focused on the image. I had grown up in the woods, grown up going for hikes and riding my bicycle on dirt paths, swimming in lakes, and camping. When I went into ‘outdoor’ stores I just saw a lot of people milling around that expected that by purchasing a new expensive pair of boots they would somehow experience things more fully. Equipment was a small part of the equation; the most important thing about being in the woods is what you took away from it- not souvenirs, but your physical experiences and the things that you learned about yourself. Just going out backpacking for three days would teach you what it was that you actually needed to have with you, the weather would give you more to think about, and a ‘bad weather’ trip is more beneficial in the early stages of finding an identity than a week of clear blue skies and comfortable temperatures. When you returned from the woods after realizing just how little you need to actually get by and enjoy yourself you have a different mindset- after several days of following your instincts you quickly become a different person. Being out in the wood with no distractions also brings the important thoughts to mind. What never crosses your mind when you are out in the woods is probably not really that important, but it is often those things that keep us frustrated and depressed when we are surrounded by people milling around and faced with careers and unessential obligations.
The chores that beg our time cause the important things, the dreams, to be set aside and pressure builds up by our lack of fulfilling those dreams; those dreams are then spoken of as unattainable and diminish in importance as they become more and more distant. When you are tied up in your life and not doing what is important to you it becomes easy to succumb to addiction- alcohol, food, television, gambling, shopping, video games, and on and on. To some people addiction becomes an identity, but there are those who do not want to live like that, those who cannot give up on their dreams.
I am never bored when I am out of doors. I can be doing the same repetitive task over and over again and I do not mind.
When I stopped that night I opened up my food bag to find a mouse nestled in with my peanut butter sandwich. One thing about setting up camp for any length of time is that mice find you. I did not have to resort to eating mice like in ‘Never Cry Wolf’ but every time I saw one the thought crossed my mind that I was wasting food. I tossed them out though and figured my owl friend would eat them. It was nice to have owls around. Their hoots were pleasant company. The mouse had gorged itself, but I was not overly angry- there was still plenty to eat.
Peanut butter is a great energy food for long hikes. A jar of peanut butter was about the best, most compact power food around. Going out for days at a time the hunger starts when you settle down. I usually do not feel hungry until I have been sitting idle for a half an hour or so, no matter how much exertion I have put my body through.
I was in Paradise, I could not ask for more out of life.
