Sometimes the Wind can be a tough paddling partner!

Rugs loves bologna sandwiches. by Tom Heinrich/Hayward, Wisconsin

Rugs loves bologna sandwiches. So when we drove into the Holiday Gas Station in Two Harbors, Minnesota he naturally assumed that I would buy a loaf of bread, and a pack of Oscar Meyer bologna. He was wrong: we were in a hurry to get to Brule Lake in the Boundary Waters before the Old Lady, the wind, kicked in. This was only a gas stop; besides Rugs already had parts of a blueberry muffin from Bailey's Stop and 'N Go in Brule, Wisconsin. He could put off his hunger for awhile or at least until the bakery in Lutsen.

Now, Rugs wears his emotions on the exterior so when we drove out of the station without the hint of a sandwich he moaned--at first a real soft a purr that grew into growl that either he was in need of a rest stop or his legs hurt from the confines of the trip. After seven years of traveling together, I know this Labrador pretty well, so I ignored him the best I could until he put his head on the console between the front seats and muzzled my right arm as I down shifted when we approached Beaver Bay. Between glances at the road, I looked down to see Labrador eyes fixed on me, trying to seduce me into stopping for a sandwich at the next Holiday Station. Beyond Beaver Bay, he let out such a sigh that I thought an air hose broke in the heating system of the truck. By Illegen City, he gave up and turned his back to me in a tight ball of fur.

His game continued until we turned up the Caribou Trail towards Brule Lake. Once, he sensed gravel underneath truck tires, felt the vibrations of third gear bounce across the cab, he sat up and
stared out the back window. The gloom in his face from the lack of food turned into a wild look: his eyes narrowed, became intense as his nose pressed against the back window, his posture tightened as he checked the trees, listened to the wet road splash off the truck. The groans stopped--food was off his mind. When we turned down the Brule Lake road he was completely up, leaning from one side of the truck to the other checking out Tomash Lake, the Homer Lake parking lot, and the Brule hiking trail.

Finally, the Brule Lake parking lot--only one car. The BWCA--no people, late October, just Rugs and I. While I untie the canoe, Rugs checkes out the lake with a quick swim, marks his territory to frighten off (amuse) the sled dogs practicing up the road, and searches every bush for food By the time the canoe is loaded, he finds place in the canoe and focuses on the mergansers floating in the middle of the bay. The north wind smashes us as we enter Brule Lake. Brule runs west to east for eight miles, but leaves a two mile wide swath of open water for the north wind to greet our canoe. Rugs has overconfidently decided to stand in the canoe, but as the waves push the bow he struggles to keep his balance, and finally agrees to sit rather than stand in the canoe: thanks Old Lady. A half a mile out from the canoe landing, Brule strikes you: a long view of water to the west, jagged, popple and spruce covered hills beyond the fetch,and distance to paddle. It swallows your thoughts of duties, needs, and ethics of the previous campsite.

Important needs change: the angle of the canoe into the wind, the clouds forecast the weather and your life in the next two hours. The Brule, the Old Lady, and the landscape have swallowed your existence from the previous hour: you're home in the wilderness. So Rugs humbly sits and checks the landscape,
snaps his head as a loon surveys our canoe. As we reach beyond the middle islands of Brule, he faces me. At first, it is just a curious "what is going on look" as I set up to troll a bait, but then he breaks out into a thank you embrace: he climbs the Duluth pack separating us, licks my face, and starts talking in small yips. I use the canoe paddle to push him off the pack, but he returns to the same refrain, I push him off and continue paddling. By now we have completely cleared the islands and have a mile of water between us and the shore. Somehow I try to convince him that his actions are dangerous: he shows teeth, a Labrador grin? yips again, and mounts the pack. The Old Lady puts him down. She gusts, Rugs looses his balance, and sits in the bow. She gusts again, moving the bow eastward and he sits on the canoe floor. This is serious business: the wind is cool, mist forms in the Cherokee hills and then strings out over the lake. The waves grow and pound the canoe. A simple two day trip is becoming a problem. No longer can we just wing it: paddle around the lake, fish, explore, and sleep on the shore. A plan is needed: where do we camp, where will we be protected by the wind, can we find a quiet bay to fish?

These are summer concerns, farther north in Bloodvein River country. But, it's fall in the BWCA and cold so I check the map. A campsite, on an island about a mile away, at the mouth of "Cone Bay" has a campsite marked on it. Or at least there was a camp when we bought the map in 1988. I squint, assure myself that something looks like a campsite in the distance (the binoculars are safely tucked in a pack at home), tell Rugs to sit quietly in the canoe, and dig the paddle into Brule Lake. It is a mile of open water, room for the waves to build across the lake, mist to grow on my jacket, and cold to seep into my body. The hills before Cherokee Lake disappear as clouds merge with the birch on the rock faces. Rugs recognizes our plight, curls in the bow, dropping his head on a thwart to view the trip. The wind rocks the canoe, slaps water across the nose, and pushes small streams of Brule Lake on us. We troll a large spinner bait hoping to attract a northern or large walleye. It runs deep, snags on the numerous rock bars that mark the bottom of Brule Lake, and ignores the fish. The wind dies halfway across our fetch to the island, the hills clear away the clouds, and an island comes to our canoe. I'm hoping, and Rugs is anticipating a grand campsite on the island: a flat rock for the tent, spruce to block the wind, and a deep fire pit with a long view of Brule Lake. We get: an open grassy site for the tent, a few birches to block the wind, and a fire pit that looks into tonight's wind. A hundred feet out from the camp, Rugs lurches in the canoe, sniffs the air, and whines as if anticipating a sandwich, a grouse, or a warm tent. But he waits patiently as I slip the canoe between two rocks, "waits" while I steady the canoe and then jumps to the shore. Newton's laws hold and I readjust the canoe, step into the water, and slowly drag the canoe on shore. Home for the night and home, hopefully, for the fishing explorations around the islands and the north shore of Brule.

We search the camp. I look for a tent site, Rugs for food. Neither is immediately around, but a grouse explodes from a fallen popple, stopping in a spruce to tease Rugs and entertain me. Satisfied that the grouse is safe, the tent can be had somewhere near the lake, we hit the food pack. Both Rugs and I haven't eaten since we shared three donuts purchased in Beaver Bay. So we divide up the trail mix, I eat the M and M's, he takes the nuts, peanut butter, and other health food snacks. To calm my conscious, I leave out his food dish. He ignores it….paddling trips for him is sharing food and I guess he is offering me his fish oil, soy pellets in return for more trail mix. I decline.

The wind recharges, brings in more mist and cold air. While I would cherish telling the story of camping in snow, my wet feet and hands tell me to put up the tent. I do…an easy task after the last two months of canoe camping. An easy task until the rain fly spins around with the wind gusts, tangling in the rings for the tent pegs. By the time I'm finished, the wind is stronger, the mist grows into rain, and my body cools with the fall temperatures. I crawl into the tent, roll out the air mattresses, the space blanket, and curl into the sleeping bag. We've been traveling since 5 a.m. and it's at least 3 p.m. now, we will nap until the sun comes out. I awake at dark, a black ball of shivers stares at me in the silence of the tent. Dinner: A bologna sandwich would taste good; I opt for noodles cooked in stove top stuffing. The wind battles my stove, removes the flame from the burner twice, I add too much stuffing, too little water, and have a grand meal. Rugs shares the stuffing, ignores the tea I drink, and volunteers to clean up the pan. Any plans of fishing tonight are blacked out by the clouds. Tired Rugs and I crawl into the tent battling for the warmest place.

We end up in a tie. Rugs shivers until I cover him with a space blanket. He hates it, but accepts its warmth. I put on dry, wool socks over my neoprene socks and toss a stocking hat on my head. Together we sleep in a corner of the tent dreaming of the warm, August nights in the Woodland Caribou of northern Ontario. There, nightly, we both left the tent for the cool evening breezes, northern lights, and interpretation of loon poetry. Now, three hundred miles south of our summer paddle, we stay in the tent all night. By dawn, the moon and the sun have broken the clouds. Fog lifts from Brule Lake and the wind has quietly moved to the northeast. We paddled out into the wind and will paddle back into the wind.

Our idea was to paddle around Brule Lake this weekend, stop and hunt the shores, fish the bars, and emerge into the BWCA. Ideas often evaporate in the woods. The long sweep of open water reminds me of past, battered attempts to paddle off Brule: hours to paddle a mile as the winds created a lake of ugly, grey, white waves. The cold air warns of snow. I temper my plans and paddle the safe route: to the north shore, sneak behind some islands, dash across a half mile stretch of open water into the protection of the bay where the canoe landing is. In the process, I will catch fish. We do none of the above. Somehow on our trip out we spotted a strange looking shoreline: Rugs sniffed and barked at its direction and I imagined a long sandy beach. So we paddle at this place: no sand, no grouse; only rocks washed by the lake and pushed a hundred feet into the woods by spring ice. Chickadees claim the spruce and birches beyond the rocks. They challenge Rugs, he accepts their invitation and while I pace the shore, he plays tree the birds in the woods. Tired of the contest, we softly get into the canoe and head east trolling our spinner bait. Again, no fish, only the occasional boulder. We stop to eat and explore: peanut M and M's at the campsite on point of the bay leading to Winchell Lake. The wind has picked up and I watch a stream of waves sail past our canoe. Now, Rugs and I will battle two foot crests to return to the landing.

It's only a mile on the map, probably 100 miles in our minds. Brule is strong now: cold water, white capped waves, tall pine shores, a long east to west fetch to intimidate my canoeing skills. In less than twenty four hours it has swallowed up our thoughts of life in Wisconsin. It has forced us to think about clouds, wind, rain, rocky shores, chickadees, moon rises, and sun sets. We swallow the last of the treats and duck the canoe between the islands. For a half mile I battle the wind, now spitting snow at us. Rugs sits low, imitating a bobsled teammate not tempting the air friction, leaning into every wave for balance. I fight for the turn: a place beyond our intended route where I can swing the canoe with the wind and sail the last distance with the Old Lady at my back. It takes awhile; probably an extra mile, but we have a free ride home. The mist is gone….replaced by large snow flakes. The canoe wobbles in the swells that we dance over. I laugh, Rugs climbs the Duluth pack and barks. A thanks to Brule Lake.