Bound and Determined to Make It to the Boundary Waters

By Irv Oslin on August 15, 2024

Mackinaw Bridge - The first stop on my BWCA journey. I wrote the rough draft for this column in a motel room at St. Ignace.

I didn't expect to sleep much that night. I'd planned to leave around six the next morning for a canoe trip with the Simpkins family to the Boundary Waters. I'd been planning and preparing for weeks.

This would be a different kind of wilderness trip, not like any I'd done before. I bought new equipment and field-tested it to see whether it would actually work. Packing took twice as long as usual because I had to reduce bulk and weight and account for the Simpkins' approach to paddling and camping on this particular trip – five days and four nights worth. Give or take.

I was psyched. I was ready. Before turning in for the night, I powered up my laptop to see if the Simpkins had sent any last-minute messages.

I wasn't expecting to see the words, "We're thinking of calling the trip off."

Words you never want to see the night before a big trip. The gut-punch of all messages.

I muttered a few expletives, turned off the computer and flopped down on the bed with those words echoing in my head.

"We're thinking of calling the trip off."

I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. My moment of despair was brief.

I opened my eyes, sat bolt upright and said, "Damn it, I'm going."

Even if it meant driving more than 2,000 miles round-trip, tracking down an outfitter, somehow getting a permit to enter the Boundary Waters, and paddling in there on my own. And hopefully paddling out as well.

Come hell or high water … or bears, or mosquitoes the size of sandhill cranes, or ravenous chipmunks, I was going to make that damned trip. And love every minute of it.

I got up the next morning and repacked in case I needed to do a solo trip. I filled a dry bag with extra freeze-dried meals, and grabbed more cooking fuel and a bear rope. I thought to pack a few extra children but figured that, if the Simpkins weren't coming and bringing theirs, I'd do without.

When I hit the road I had no idea whether they'd join me up there. We had planned to meet in Ashland, Wisconsin, and proceed to the Boundary Waters from there. Surely I'd miss the Simpkins' company. And their expertise. Plus the kids are pretty entertaining. And capable of carrying fairly heavy loads.

I won't go into the details of why they thought they might have to bail. All that was compounded when, by mid morning, another potential crisis arose.

I stopped in Toledo and checked my text messages. There was one from the Simpkins. They were headed up after all!

I crossed the Mackinaw Bridge around 7 p.m. and looked for a motel room in the town of St. Ignace.

I had no reservations. Reservations are for sissies. I got a room the old fashioned way; I went from motel to motel asking if they'd put me up for the night.

The first motel I came to had no vacancies. The second one had a room left.

"How much?" I asked a fellow who was seated behind a computer terminal at the desk.

"I can let you have it for $130," he responded.

More than the going rate but I would have taken it to avoid stopping at three or four more motels.

Then he and another man behind the desk conversed in a language I couldn't identify, much less understand.

The guy who quoted me $130 upped the price to $170.

I responded in a language they might not have understood but my meaning was clear.

I drove across the road to a '60s era motel. The office door was open but no one was around. A stack of business cards on the desk identified the manager simply as "Elvis."

Apparently Elvis had left the building.

I finally managed to get a room for less than $100 at a tidy two-story motel called the Aurora Borealis. The couple running it were attentive, polite and, above all, genuine. I regret that I didn't take more time to chat with them. I was too exhausted.

I settled into my room, flopped down on the bed, closed my eyes, took a couple of deep breaths … and fell asleep with a big wide grin on my face.

(To be continued.)

This originally ran as a column in the Ashland Times-Gazette and other Gannett publications.