From the Late August 2013 North Woods Call
The spirit of the north woods lives in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area of northern Minnesota and the Algoma Country of northern Ontario.
I haven’t actually seen the Boundary Waters—they’re on my list of things to do—but I’ve read about them often in the writings of Sigurd Olson and others.
Olson, a back country guide for more than 30 years and tireless advocate for protection of the wilderness, was influential in saving the Boundary Waters and helped draft the Wilderness Act of 1964. President of The Wilderness Society from 1963 to 1971, he helped establish Voyageurs National Park in Minnesota, the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska and Point Reyes National Seashore in California.
Olson called the Quetico-Superior country northwest of Lake Superior “The Singing Wilderness.” It has to do, he said, with the calling of the loons, northern lights and the great silences of the land. “It is concerned with the simple joys, the timelessness and perspective found in a way of life that is close to the past,” he wrote—noting that he has “heard the singing in many places.”
I heard it for the first time myself nearly 40 summers ago when I accompanied three high school friends on a journey into the wilds north of Sault Ste. Marie. It was supposed to be a quiet week-long canoe outing, but we found a bit more adventure than we had anticipated.
To begin with, the drive north became somewhat less than melodious when the large Oldsmobile 88 in which we were riding flew over an embankment and into a stand of small trees at a dark, fog-shrouded T-intersection less than 50 miles from home. We managed to extricate the car—with the help of a nearby resident and his tractor—and reattach the two canoes on top. But the trip appeared doomed 20 miles later when all the motor oil had leaked out and the V-8 engine seized up.
Not to be deterred, two of my companions hitch-hiked home to get other vehicles and we were again on our way several hours later. We finally crossed the International Bridge into Canada and reached the Algoma Central Railroad station early the next morning.
Although none of us were expert canoeists—me in particular—my friends wanted to challenge the Batchawana River, which in Ojibwe means “turbulent waters.” Fortunately, I read about the dangers that the Batchawana posed to inexperienced canoeists and talked them into the more serene Sand River—which is a good thing, given what came later.
We loaded our canoes into a baggage car and settled in for the 140-mile train ride to Sand Lake. Within a few hours, we launched the canoes into the large lake several yards from the railroad tracks.
Ah, peace at last.
We paddled effortlessly across the calm water in search of Sand River, but didn’t find it that afternoon. Instead, we camped on a small rock formation—which someone had dubbed “Whiskey Island”—one of several such havens dotting the pristine lake.
That’s when the wilderness began to sing, even though it was difficult to detect any audible sounds. There was music in the silence itself, punctuated by the occasional call of a loon, splash of a fish, or unnatural cannonballs of four weary compadres jumping into the cool, fresh water.
The next several days were like that—lots of silence, occasional banter between occupants of the two canoes, welcome physical activity and the indignant snorts of moose that were surprised by human invaders while foraging along the Sand River.
In many ways, it seemed like heaven on earth. Plenty of time to paddle, portage, fish and fry up the day’s catch over an open fire. Time to reflect on life, absorb the relaxing sounds of nature and scribble notes about things I wanted to remember.
Sadly, the time came for my canoe mate and me to return to Central Michigan University for the start of fall classes, so we bid adieu our traveling companions, who had decided they wanted to follow the Sand River all the way to Lake Superior. We paddled back upstream, across Sand Lake and flagged down the next train that passed by on the tracks to Sault Ste. Marie.
Our erstwhile friends, meanwhile, pointed their canoe toward Gitchee Gumee. But instead of portaging around some of the dangerous whitewater further downstream, they decided to shoot the rapids, bending the aluminum Grumman around a large boulder and stranding themselves in the singing wilderness. If not for a Canadian Forest Service helicopter happening by and discovering their plight, they might still be there today.
But all is well that ends well and our search for the music goes on. It may be in the soft guttering of an open fire, Olson said, or in the beat of rain on a tent.
“It seems to be part of a hunger we all have for a time when we were closer to lakes and rivers—to mountains and meadows and forests—than we are today,” he wrote, “Because of our almost forgotten past, there is a restlessness within us, an impatience with things as they are, which modern life with its comforts and distractions does not seem to satisfy.”
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