Over the river and through the woods, but
nowhere near Grandmother’s House
It’s a frigid January night on the edge of northeastern
Minnesota’s boundary waters and I’m staring into
a small square abyss freshly carved in the ice. From where
I stand – dressed in only a shirt, windbreaker, sweat
pants and socks – the water is framed by a thick sheet
of ice that fades to the darkened horizon.
It’s the start of an Outward Bound course and I’m
about to learn the first of many lessons on life and winter
survival: Trust.
Standing with me are four women I’ve just met. We’ve
been taught how to do a winter ice rescue. Now it’s
time for the rescue drill.
My four companions look relieved that I’m the one who
volunteered to jump in the frigid water.
Staring into the hole, I wonder why on earth I am doing this
and, more importantly, will my new-found friends pull me out
before I turn into a Popsicle.
Anxious but undaunted, I hold my breath and lower myself
into the icy water.
Liquid ice quickly seeps through my clothes, chilling me
to the core. My rescuers throw me a rope and, pulling together;
yank me from the 33-degree water into the -15 degree night
air. I stand shivering as they separate me from most of my
rapidly crusting clothes. Three minutes and 17 seconds after
I’d hit the water, I’m dry, into fresh clothes
and warming in a toasty sleeping bag – overwhelmed with
relief, and positive I’d never to that again.
I arrived at the Voyageur Outward Bound School in Ely, Minnesota
after ten years toiling as a lawyer at a large law firm. I’d
just left the security of a full-time job, and was unsure
of the direction to take my career. Lured by the school’s
motto – “to serve, to strive, and not to yield”
– I was hoping such a challenge might be a positive
influence as I forged a new path.
The Voyageur School is one of Outward Bound’s four
wilderness schools and two urban centers around the country.
The organization was built on the idea that challenging wilderness
experiences help people gain greater understanding and acceptance
of themselves and others. The year-round list of courses run
the gamut from hiking and rock climbing to kayaking and dog
sledding and last anywhere from 4 days to more than 70 days.
While the organization’s traditional market is youthful
-- more than 70 percent of Outward Bound’s participants
are high school and college students – the courses are
available to people of all ages.
My fellow brigadiers had enrolled in the Voyageur School’s
8-day Northwoods Winter Intensive program for a variety of
reasons. Karen was a college student at Colby College in Maine
who had done a lot of camping with friends, but wanted to
improve her outdoor skills and become more self-reliant. Abby
was another college student who was biding her time until
the start of a spring semester abroad. She’d previously
been on an Outward Bound family course with her mom and sister,
and was trying to duplicate that positive experience on her
own. Another woman named Karen (two people of the same name
can be quite confusing in an emergency) is a mid-20s professional
from Brooklyn, NY with no real experience in the outdoors,
who, like me, saw herself at a crossroads in life and wanted
a challenge. The final member of our troupe was Rochelle,
Outward Bound’s marketing director who, despite having
the choice of any course, chose this program to put herself
“as far outside her zone of comfort as possible.”
Winter in Minnesota’s beautifully isolated Boundary
Waters Canoe Area Wilderness is pretty far outside most people’s
comfort zone. This rugged preserve has 1,200 miles of canoe
routes along its lakes and rivers and is a few miles from
the town of Ely near the Canadian border. Our timing was suspect;
to say it was cold is an understatement. We cross country
skied, dog sledded and camped during the coldest week in northern
Minnesota in three years. The days were bright and sunny with
temperatures climbing to a balmy zero degrees. The nights
were crisp and clear with temperatures plummeting to around
- 30.
Charged with helping us meet our varied goals were our guides,
Sarah and Julia, who would spend the week teaching us to survive
the challenges we would face.
Their experience, patience and unbelievable enthusiasm in
even the coldest of temperatures were the key to our successful
adventure. The backdrop for our quest was a 5-day, 25-mile
trek Sarah and Julia had plotted that would take us along
lakes and rivers, over frozen swamps and wooded trails. Because
the dogs and the sled travel best along the ice, the general
plan was to navigate the idyllic, winding South Kiwishiwi
River. The recent cold snap made the ice solid and deep, opening
a route that would take us to places impassable by dog sled
in past years.
As we left the relative comforts of Voyageur’s base
camp, we developed an expedition routine quickly. A bright
blue sky greeted us each morning. We’d rise, cook breakfast,
feed the dogs, pack our frost-covered sleeping bags and clothes,
take down the cooking tent, pack up the sled and plot our
course.
Outward Bound strives to “leave no trace” on
its expeditions, and much of our efforts each morning focused
on cleaning up firewood, ashes and other remnants so as not
to leave a messy footprint.
Our course chosen, we then divided into two groups –
mushers and skiers. The skiers would leave first, breaking
a trail for the dogs, mushers and approximately 700 pound
sled – named the “Slush Puppie” –
to follow.
I spent four of the five days on skis. I was a bit unsteady
at first, due mostly to the plastic sled tethered to my waist
stacked with my 40-pound backpack and other supplies. I soon
was able to get into a rhythm, gliding one foot in front of
the other along the snow-covered ice. The feeling of being
alone in this vast and magnificent landscape permeates the
senses, with long, unbroken stretches of quiet skiing over
the hushed ice. The quiet provided a perfect template for
being lost in thought.
Surrounded by beautiful snowy forests of Birch and Jack Pine,
I resolved that while my law career had provided me with a
home in Denver and the financial wherewithal to travel, enjoy
good restaurants, and create a nest egg, the long hours behind
a desk were not part of my future. The crunching snow beneath
my skis echoed the unanswered question in my head: “What’s
next?“
This thoughtful silence was usually broken by one of two
things: a loud crack as the ice shifted and settled along
the rivers and lakes or the yowling of the dog team as it
gained ground on the trailblazing skiers.
Once we’d made it as far as we could – either
by design or quirk of fate – it was time to set up camp.
The dogs were cared for first, unhooked from the sled and
fed a soupy concoction of meat, lard and kibble. Enough fire
wood was gathered, sawed, split and stacked to keep us warm
through the night. The canvas cooking tent was raised and
secured, and the sleeping tarps staked. It often took 15 or
more minutes to chop a water hole through 18 inches of ice.
Once the tent was up, the bulky stove was dragged off the
sled and centered just so in the tent to insure that the quirky
chimney could release smoke and ashes without burning the
canvas. Next we carved snow benches near the stove where we
could eat and dry our feet and clothes.
Each night we rotated these tasks. With camp set and dinner
ready, we’d gather in a circle. The chef would recite
the menu and someone would give a reading or words of wisdom.
The first night I selected “The Road Less Traveled”
by Robert Frost, which seemed appropriate since we were in
the middle of nowhere. We spent our evenings sitting around
the fire, talking, laughing and drying out.
As the evening drew to a close, we’d use the remaining
hot water to fill our water bottles. The bottles covered with
thermal socks, we’d brave the chill to throw them in
our sleeping bags. Amazingly, the bottles stayed warm all
night, keeping toes and fingers down right warm until sunrise.
The last thing before bed each night was a long walk. The
waning moon rose in the sky, we’d walk briskly along
a shore trying to identify Orion, the big dipper and other
constellations.
In spite of the cozy warmth the hot water bottles gave the
sleeping bags, there was no getting around the fact that we
were still sleeping outside and it was cold. The first night,
the thermometer dipped to - 29. Our sleeping arrangement was
primitive, yet effective. We laid a tarp on the ground and
staked a tarp above, but the sides were open. While the water
bottles provided some warmth, it was not enough. The key to
staying warm is to allow your body to create heat and trap
it in the sleeping bag. On top of the tarp, we piled two sleeping
pads and cocooned ourselves in two sleeping bags. The outer
bag made of synthetic material, the inner bag of down. With
hats on our heads, warm bottles at our toes and tired from
hours of hard work, we’d sleep.
While on the surface the days appeared routine, the “trust”
lessoned I’d learned in that icy hole the first night
was jointed by another lesson: teamwork. While I don’t
consider myself and outdoorsman, over the years I have camped
a lot, and am used to the chores needed to make outdoor living
comfortable. I was in the minority among my brigade. At the
outset that meant things went s-l-o-w-l-y. It seemed people
were more worried about how cold they were than what they
had to do to get warm. The first day, I was frustrated by
the pace. However, after standing idly with my work done,
I realized whether I was finished was not nearly as significant
as whether the whole group was finished. My legal training,
while helpful in other ways, hadn’t honed my teamwork
skills.
Camp set up became quicker each day as people became more
familiar with what needed to be done and whose skills were
best utilized where. The first night camp set up took nearly
four hours of daylight. By the last night, we’d set
camp in the dark in less than two.
The teamwork concept fully ingrained in my head, another
of life’s lessons was not long from being learned.
While the seven humans formed part of the team, the dogs
were just as crucial – if not more so – because
they pulled the sled carrying all the supplies needed to make
camp comfortable. The six Alaskans driving the Slush Puppie
were born to run. The dogs displayed personalities as varied
as their names. Rainier, the lead dog, was proud and forceful,
typically jumping and bopping heads when you weren’t
expecting it. Ingrid had a perpetual smile and loved to hear
her own long plaintive wail that went from endearing at the
start to less so by the end of the trip. Metiq was the beauty
of the team, small and quiet but probably the hardest worker.
Moses was the enthusiastic youngster. Burlap embodied the
word “husky,” big and strong, but with an unsettling
penchant for sticking his head between the legs of anyone
approaching to offer a scratch behind the ears. Kunik, dubbed
the “misunderstood artist,” was the moody one.
These distinctive and independent personalities worked together
with gusto when in harness and given the command: “Ready,
let’s go.”
The task facing the dogs and the mushers was daunting. Scooting
along the good, thick ice was easy enough. We encountered
places along our trail where there was no ice or it was too
thin to support the sled. At these spots, the team would direct
the dogs across land, emerging down river onto more stable
ice. While many of these portages were uneventful, one defined
the trip.
Two miles into our second day we encountered a portage that
could have been our undoing. Prodded to take the portage on
skis, not by foot like everyone else, I set off on my long
thin blades, making it up to the top of the hill. Thinking
my intermediate-level downhill skills would carry me, I headed
down. I steered clear of a rock, but hit a tree in the middle
of the trail, bouncing into the woods. The Slush Puppie was
not far behind. Soon after I’d removed my skis and walked
– humbled – toward the rest of the skiers, the
sled reached the apex of the portage. One musher fell off
the sled. Another jumped on trying to take control. She grabbed
the snub line trailing the sled, just as it crested the portage
and hurtled downward. The dogs, running and smiling, headed
for the left side of the same tree I’d just met up close.
The sled, unfortunately, went right. Suddenly the tow line
snapped, releasing the dogs on a gleeful sprint up river.
About 100 yards up stream, Julia stepped into the careening
jumble of fur, legs and leashes and tackled the whole team.
Amazingly no one was hurt. After counting fingers and toes,
it became clear that our day of travel was over almost before
it started.
Rattled, but thankful the only thing broken was a rope, we
made camp in a little cove and settled in. As the stars brightened
in the sky, it became clear that we’d learned yet another
of life’s lessons: Adaptability. The crash seemed to
crystallize the group; we realized that we’d made the
best out of some challenging circumstances and could handle
any bump in the road.
On the fourth day I got my crack at driving the sled, which
was harder than those highlights of the Iditarod make it appear.
You have to watch the dogs -- stopping when they get tired
or have to go to the bathroom. The line must be tight to prevent
the dogs from getting tangled and fighting. The Slush Puppie
was cumbersome to turn, often requiring the driver to “hang
ten” off the side of the sled. At least twice I was
tossed like a rag doll into the bushes. Sarah was a patient
teacher and by the end of the day I was traversing the “S”
turns of a portage with confidence.
Each day we had settled into an increasingly comfortable
pattern: eat, pack up, harness the dogs, travel, unpack camp,
feed the dogs, eat, talk, a long walk, and then sleep. But
the trip was much more than routine. We had become a team,
learning the skills to survive, learning how to help each
other get through tough stretches of cold and wind and the
surprise and adversity of the North.
After returning to Voyageur’s Homebase, we went for
a celebratory sauna and, one-by-one, were lured back to the
icy water where we’d started a week earlier. Only this
time I wasn’t the only one taking the plunge. We each
took turns hopping into the river and scurrying back to the
warmth of the sauna.
As the sun set over the frozen South Kawishiwi that last
day, we found ourselves as a closely knit team, bonded together
by lessons learned on the trails and our successful encounter
with the elements. We laughed about our missteps along the
way, agreed that the trek was worth the effort and talked
of our next Outward Bound trip – later in the year when
it’s a bit warmer.
