Wild Notes

If your schedule allows, September is the perfect month for canoe camping in the Boundary Area Canoe Area Wilderness in northern Minnesota. With kids back in school, groups tend to be smaller and campsites more available. The blackflies and no-see-ums are entirely gone, and the few mosquitoes remaining restrict themselves to “mosquito hour” at dusk. No matter which entry point you choose, beauty will surround you!

Moose tracks sink deeply into muddy spots along portage trails, leaving hearts split in two next to the tread patterns of hiking boots. These are easy to spot even when it’s my turn to portage the canoe, and I can only see what’s below the umbrella of yellow Kevlar. Weighing in at up to 1,500 pounds, moose are the heaviest species of deer in the world. It’s no wonder that they sink into soft spots, even with their big, snowshoe-like feet. In the summer, they love wading and swimming to access tender, salty aquatic vegetation. Through the winter, they browse on twigs. Like most herbivores, the result is piles of round pellets that can appear to be filled with sawdust when dry. While they may seem like primeval beings living in an ancient landscape, moose need fresh young shoots of trees and shrubs for nibbling. They are therefore most successful when there are fires, blowdowns, and even timber harvests to reset the process of forest succession.

Is it weird that portaging is one of my favorite parts of a canoe trip? It’s hard work, but also a great chance to be immersed in the forest. At the top of a steep hill, when leg muscles are burning and suddenly the trail crests at a sunny rock outcrop with widely spaced white pine trees scraping the sky, the smell of sun-warmed pine needles delights my nose. Never mind the name evergreen, most pine needles last about three years before they are replaced. Then they fall to the ground and become part of the rusty brown, sweet-smelling duff. In life, chemical compounds called terpenes prevent fungi and herbivores from eating the needles. In death, these chemicals waft upward on tiny thermal air currents and may have anti-inflammatory effects on us.

The scuffle of white-throated sparrows in the underbrush is a friendly sound on a portage trail. Although their stripey brown bodies camouflage perfectly, their movement gives them away. First, it’s a two-footed hop forwards and scratch backwards, then a quick toss of a leaf to see who’s underneath. Seeds and insects are what they seek. If you get a good look, you may notice that on some individuals, their heads have black stripes alternating with pure white stripes, and a glowing white throat patch, while in about half the population, the stripes and throat are tan instead. White stripes are more aggressive, but tan stripes are better caregivers. Males and females of each color morph mix and match. Hopefully, passing through the low, brushy habitat they prefer means I’m getting close to the next lake.

Shimmering dragonflies dip their ovipositors lightly into the water among rocks and mud at the portage landing. Autumn Meadowhawk is a fitting name for these late-season beauties. As if matching the fall colors, both the red-bodied males and the brown females have orange legs. They seek food and love away from the water—in meadows—then fly in tandem to the lake. We watch, transfixed, while she first strikes a mossy or muddy rock, then aggressively dips her large egg spout in the water to clear it for the next round. Although the adults will become food for migrating birds, the eggs overwinter in safety out of the reach of hungry aquatic beings. Next spring, rain and high water will trigger the eggs to hatch. We push off while they continue to make ripples in the shallow water.

Pulling up at a campsite, we assess the potential accommodations. Fire grate with a view of the lake—check. Swimming rock—check. Semi-flat tent pad—check. Thimbleberry bushes lining the latrine trail—check. The giant, maple-shaped leaves on this northern plant are downy soft as I run my hands along them. Just a few weeks ago, these stems bore big, red, raspberry-like fruits that would melt on your tongue and then bite it with tartness. The leaves bear a passing resemblance to Charmin. This is quite useful if the plastic baggie protecting your two-ply was less than waterproof during that thunderstorm.

The tight embrace of cold water forces air from my lungs. Once I can take a breath, I let it out with a yell, then switch to laughing maniacally. The campsite has passed inspection, and it’s time for a swim before the Sun goes behind a cloud. Plunging into water 50 degrees or colder has been shown to improve cognitive function, balance the nervous system, and increase mental well-being. I don’t need a thermometer to confirm that the lake has made me happy.

Stretched out on the smooth slope of the swimming rock, I examine the interlocking crystals in shades of gray, pink, and black. This smooth granitic rock solidified from molten magma deep inside the Earth about 2.8 billion years ago. Eons of erosion removed miles-thick layers of other rocks between it and the sky. Finally, the most recent glaciers—which scoured their way down from Canada mere thousands of years ago—brought it to light. In the process, rocks frozen into the base of glacial ice gouged grooves into the surface. My cold bum is just grateful that it’s still releasing a bit of warmth from today’s abundant sunshine.

A mug warms my hands as I inhale the indescribable scent of white cedar tea. Recipe: Harvest one lacy green sprig of white cedar, with care and gratitude, from a confidently identified tree near the lakeshore. Place the sprig into your mug. Fill the mug with freshly boiled lake water. Inhale the fragrant steam. Once the tea has cooled enough to drink, remove the cedar sprig and add it to the duff on the forest floor. Savor with sunset.

Through the thin walls of my tent, Canada geese and trumpeter swans honk loudly. We paddled past them by day, as they foraged for wild rice. Well fed, they now have the energy to make a ruckus. Eyes closed, I try to identify the different honks. The geese’s voices are higher-pitched, and they often bark or squeak. The swans sound more hollow, lower-pitched, like a clown with a prominent horn. What will they do to my dreams?

Then a red squirrel scolds earnestly. It’s dawn. These little rodents are on edge because they store all of their nuts in one midden. Larder hoarding, as this strategy is called, requires them to defend their food supply constantly, loudly, and aggressively. Sometimes the stress is so intense that they vibrate. I chuckle. They are a good reminder of what I’ve chosen to leave at home.

But home still calls. We paddle south, toward the road, with sunshine and a tailwind. High above, the clear, whistling tse-seeee of a broad-winged hawk interrupts my thoughts. Glancing upward, I spot the wide black-and-white stripes of their fanned tail against the blue. Against the few puffy clouds, I see another, and another, all circling gracefully as they allow the sun-warmed air of a thermal to carry them upward. Once the natural elevator peters out, the hawks will glide south with almost no effort, traveling several hundred miles in a day.

Migration, canoe trip, pilgrimage. Call it whatever you wish. I go on one every September in my favorite place on Earth.

Emily M. Stone is a naturalist by birth, training, profession, and passion. She explores the Northwoods with an eye toward using science to make stories come alive.