Boundary
Waters
Birthday
By Becca Manlove
“Hey, yeah! Celin, jump in! But go
over closer to the swamp, would you?
Then I’ll pull the leeches off you and use
them for bait.”
Celin’s answer to her 14-year-old
brother’s taunt was to laugh and do a
cannonball off the rock, trying to splash
him.
“Missed!” Joe teased as he swiped
water off his shins and shorts. “I’m going
down to Grandpa’s spot, Mom.”
“I hope all the fish she just scared off
head that way,” I said. He smiled at me
2010
and then moved down the shore with his
pole and a container of crawlers. I sat
down on the overturned john boat, the
aluminum nicely warmed by the sun.
“Come in, Mom!” Celin coaxed.
“I’m thinking about it. How cold is
it?” This was our first swim of the
season.
“You don’t want to think about it.”
We laughed together. She clambered
up the knob of rock that served as our
ladder out of the lake. I tossed her a
sun-warmed towel. When she was
39
wrapped up in it I motioned to her to sit
in front of me on the boat bottom,
where I could wrap my warm arms
around her gangly, shivering body.
“What do you want to do for your
twelfth birthday?” Her birthday is in late
summer and we often celebrated it with
outside parties.
“I want to do a canoe trip in the
Boundary Waters.”
Slowly, I took hold of her shoulders
and turned her around so I could see
her face. “What?”
Camping was my idea of a party,
but not usually Celin’s, so we discussed
the idea for a few more weeks. I
discovered that her plan was to canoe
and camp with four or five friends. Joe
and Mike, my husband, quickly bowed
out of the whole deal. They had their
own canoeing adventures planned, and
camping with a party of young girls did
not appeal to them. I called a friend of
mine who had a daughter Celin’s age
and asked her if she wanted to join us.
We had worked at a camp together
before we had kids and had
experienced ‘age group’ trips. This
strong, brave woman said to me, “Brin,
your portage does not go all the way to
the lake!” and flatly refused. I went
back to Celin and told her a day trip
might be possible, but I was not willing
to be the only adult trying to herd two
40
Kids, left on their own, find creative ways to learn
about nature that adults would never think of.
canoes full of 11-year-olds on a
camping trip. For that, her guest list
would have to be pared down to one
friend.
“OK,” she said. “Let’s take Alex.”
She and Alex had been best friends
since they were 3-year-olds. Alex was a
sweet little girl who had camped with her
own family. Celin’s choice made perfect
sense—except that Alex had never
managed an entire night at our house.
She always became homesick. Her
mother and I had made more than one
sleepy-eyed ‘kid exchange.’
I called Alex’s mother. We decided to
sit down with the girls and make it clear
that no late night returns would be
possible. Alex assured us she would be
okay.
Preparations began. The girls
planned the menu with my help. The
first night would be spaghetti, cooked
and frozen ahead of time; pancakes for
our first morning; and the second night’s
supper would be macaroni and cheese,
of course. Since it was Celin’s birthday,
we brought a cake mix. Marshmallows,
peanut butter, jelly, pita bread, gorp with
M & M’s, and cheese slices were tossed
into the food pack, too. A friend loaned
us a Kevlar canoe. Celin was delighted
to find that it was light enough for her to
portage. We picked up our permit the
The Ely Summer Times
day before our entry date. The girls
were eager to show off their knowledge
of the Leave No Trace rules.
I worked until noon on the day we
were to start our trip, then collected the
girls. We did some last minute
organizing of our gear and drove out to
the landing. The girls were energetic
when we got to the parking lot. Soon
packs were loaded and we were zipping
ourselves into our lifejackets, ready to
take our places in the canoe. Celin
volunteered to paddle in the bow first,
while Alex settled into the ‘duffer’
position on a boat cushion in the
bottom of the canoe. We were just
getting started at a time I would have
liked to be looking for a campsite.
2010
Silently, I whittled back my plan to
reach the next lake that day.
When we drew close to an island,
the girls asked to get out and explore it.
I negotiated a short, floating rest in the
lee of the island with a promise of
stopping on the way back. When we
were halfway across the channel
between the island and the shore, a
loon and its baby floated close to us.
Luckily there was not much wind, so
we floated nearby watching each other,
the parent loon murmuring now and
again to the baby and nudgeing it
farther away. The girls and I murmured
to each other, too, until I picked up my
paddle and pushed us on. Despite
handling a paddle that was a little too
41
With good instruction,
patience, and a
willing attitude (the
hardest part to come
by sometimes), kids
can learn to portage
a canoe properly and
are darn proud when
they do it. Kevlar
helps, of course, and
carrying the canoe is
much easier than
getting it into position.
Don’t be shy about
asking a guide or an
outfitter to teach.
They’re good at it!
big for her, Celin kept up a steady
pace. I aimed for the campsite nearest
the portage into the next lake.
As we pulled up to the site, I
suggested that the girls go check it out
while I stayed with the canoe. They ran
up, clambered around a little, then
came back and pronounced it
wonderful. I asked them to hold the
canoe while I checked it out. This was
2000, the year after the blowdown, and
the site had been affected. There was
not a decent place to hang a food
pack. The firegrate was mounted on a
small ledge. Ashes had washed down
off the rock and formed a black puddle
in front of the pit. There was a berm
blocking any view of the lake from the
main part of the campsite . About the
42
only things attractive to me were the
tent pads (no hazard trees!) and the
gently sloping rock landing. I went
back to the girls. “I don’t know. I think
we could find a better site…” The
indignation on their faces stopped me. I
was insulting their new-found home.
We set up our tents—a two person
tent for me and a four person tent for
the girls, with about 30 feet between
the two. We peeled a piece of bark off a
fallen log and made a dust pan to
scoop the muddy ashes out of the
cooking area. The spaghetti had only
partially thawed, but my companions
were going through growth spurts and
were desperately hungry. I tried thawing
it in the pot over the camp stove and
ended up burning some on the bottom,
The Ely Summer Times
but the girls didn’t mind. We had to
wash the spaghetti pot before we could
bake the cake, as it was part of the
steamer oven. While they waited for the
small pan of cake batter to cook, the
girls ate the leftover batter and dubbed
it ‘cake in a bucket’. By the time the
cake was done, not one of us was
hungry. After more dishwashing, I
packed up the food pack while the girls
went for a swim. Then we traipsed back
behind the campsite looking for a way
to secure the food pack from bears.
There was a snapped-off tree with a
section of trunk remaining that was
about five feet higher than my head. I
tossed a rope across the top of it, and
we pulled the pack up as high as we
could. Then we balanced paddles and
pots and pans on rocks beneath the
pack, hoping a bear might knock
something over and give me a warning
to come chase it away.
We decided we didn’t want a fire
that night. Instead, we lay out on the
ledgerock landing and watched the
stars emerge. Then the girls crawled
into their tent. I lay in my tent, reading
and listening to the girls’ giggles. Their
tent grew quiet and I fell asleep.
A few hours later I was awakened
by Alex’s timid voice at the door of my
tent. “Becky, I’m scared.” I was
amazed. This frightened little girl had
gotten out of her tent and walked over
to mine in the dark all by herself. I
gathered up my sleeping bag and mat.
We scooched the soundly sleeping
Celin into the middle of the tent to
make room for me, and all of us slept
comfortably the rest of the night.
The next day the girls were not at
all interested in breaking camp and
moving into the next lake. I reminded
myself that as much as I wanted to see
the other lake, my main agenda was to
spend time with these two kids. We ate
a leisurely breakfast of pancakes. The
day was warm and bright. The girls
spent most of the morning in the lake,
breaking up swimming sessions with
2010
card games, naps on sleeping mats,
snacks, and reading. One swim was
enough for me, but I enjoyed lounging
on the shore watching my two otters
dive and chatter. After lunch, I did talk
the girls into making an exploratory trip
into the next lake. We took the food
pack with us.
The portage was about 180 rods.
Celin proudly claimed turns at
portaging the canoe. I was grateful for
the opportunity to walk parts of the
portage without the canoe over my
head. This trail had been affected by
the blowdown. What had once been a
path through the woods shaded by a
mature aspen canopy was now a footworn track up and over a sunny ridge.
43
(Ten years later, it is again shaded, this
time by young aspen.)
Toward the end of the portage, a
little overlook gave us a good view of
the mosaic the blowdown had created.
Ridge tops looked raw where rock was
newly exposed. One hillside had a
young stand of aspen all bent in the
same direction, looking like fur stroked
to lie smoothly. Most of the trees
appeared dead, but here and there an
individual raised itself a few degrees
and bore green leaves. Much of the
shoreline cover remained intact. A
person floating on the lake in a canoe
would see very little change for this
lake.
Finally, we climbed into our canoe
but hadn’t gone far before the girls
spied a jumble of rocks that needed to
be climbed, and then an island with a
wonderful south-facing rock slope
where we left nothing but the damp
footprints of young swimmers. The
circle of ground my ambitions covered
was sharply reduced by my young
companions. I noticed that the detail
and joy we found within that smaller
space was an abundant exchange for
my shriveled ambitions.
We made it back to our campsite
eventually, roasted marshmallows, and
all shared the same tent. The next day
we explored the island on the way out
44
and still made it to Ely in time for lunch
at the Dairy Queen.
The campsite the girls claimed still
ranks as one of the ugliest sites in my
30 years of camping. At the same time,
it is one of the most beautiful sites I’ve
ever used. Seated before the awkward
fire pit, the berm blocks the view to the
lake but what I can still see are two
gangly, young girls, awkwardly poised
between childhood and womanhood,
perched on a Thermarest®, slapping
down cards between them, one tipping
over from laughter at some silly remark
her friend has made. There is not a
more beautiful sight in all the Boundary
Waters.
© Becca Brin Manlove, 2010
Becca’s new book will be
available soon. Hauling
Water, Reflections on
Making a Home in the
North Woods is a
collections of essays, most
of which have been published in the Ely
Times. Orders can be placed online at
www.ravenwords.com or by calling Raven
Productions in Ely, 218-365-3375.
The Ely Summer Times