Dorothy's epiphany on the Saganaga

Neophyte

by Dorothy Jenkins Combs
Copyright, 1992

On Mother's Day weekend when the 1970's were yet in their infancy, I was near the Gun Flint Trail in the Boundary Water Canoe Area (B.W.C.A.). I was lying in my sleeping bag on the lodge floor of Saganaga Outfitters, owned by Carol and Don Germain. Listening to the inharmonious snoring of the other adults from various localities in the United States, I reflected on how it came to be that Bob Hunter, youth minister at “my” church, Christ United Methodist in Rochester, Minnesota had signed me up to be among them. We had gathered to go on a short camping trip in this wilderness to be trained as leaders of groups on camping excursions.

During the nine hour drive to this area, I had again reminded Bob that: (1) this kind of experience would be foreign to me; (2) ladies of the South, when I had grown up there, would not have been permitted to do such a thing---certainly not unless a member of their own family were present; (3) I had never slept outdoors; and (4) my emotional preparedness was lacking. Deep in my naive thoughts, however, I derived solace from the fact that Bob would be present and would “look after me”. I repeat, I was naive.

Shifting my body within the confining bag, I reconciled myself that there was no softness to be felt. If my three children could see their mother now! I deliberately diverted my thoughts to my friends back home, who had warned me about the bugs unique to this area. I was told they bit with both ends because they were a crossbreed of mosquitoes and wasps. Of course, I knew it was a joke, and that these people were entertaining themselves with my ignorance and inexperience. But, were there actually different bugs way up here? Did bears really come into camp? Ye gods! Was there a bus back to Grand Marais?

Breakfast in the lodge the next morning consisted of juice, a variety of cold cereals with milk and Carole's delicious homemade bread. Afterwards, we excitedly gathered at the waterfront, where we became acutely aware of the cold mid-May temperature. When transferring personal belongings into a Duluth pack, I was given assistance because my attempts at cramming contents therein were ineffective.

Our modes of transportation were perched in the water’s edge with the front ends---I later learned to call them bows---moving slightly to and fro in the current. In the middle of each vessel was stashed our “survival” gear. I stood nearby with my son’s borrowed “waffle stomper” boots on my feet, a life preserver over my clothes and a paddle in my gloved, cold hands.

(That morning I had been informed twice to use the term paddle, not oar, and canoe, not boat.)

“Does everyone have their canoe partner? Don’s authoritative voice queried. In chorus, all replied affirmatively, except one. Sheepishly I responded, “I don’t, Mr. Germain.” For the first time in my life, I knew the feeling of being the last one chosen for the team. Our leader quickly glanced skyward as if offering a prayerful plea, then with a resigned sigh said;

“All right, get in my canoe.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Crawl along the gunwales.”

“What are they?”

With the patience of a pastor, he taught me. How silent the others were as I balanced myself to the bow! Then off we shoved.

Within three strokes, Don had to commence my second lesson: how to “feather” a paddle, as well as how to execute other essential strokes. Fine!...for about thirty minutes, by which time I felt tired, tearful and slightly terrified. I was angry at myself for being “up there”. “They” should have known this would not be a suitable mecca for me. Having no viable option, I continued with the group on this “oceanic” voyage across BIG Saganaga Lake to our first portage

Truthfully, I did not know the meaning of the word portage until that moment. Quickly, I learned! With assistance, I was loaded with a pack weighing fifty to sixty pounds. I weighed a little less than one hundred. Humped over, I trekked the path, having no idea how many miles (rods?) to go. For a short rest, I sat on a log and was totally astonished when I could not get up due to the heavy pack! A fellow camper came along muttering as he passed me, “Having trouble, eh?"

Some gentleman he was! Another portager was more compassionate by asking if I wished help.

He gave me the needed tug to get me on my feet. So I continued “camel” fashion, feeling quite determined. Much more paddling took us to an island for lunch. By this time, I was weak and trembling from need of nourishment. Wasting no time to step on land, I stepped in water first! No matter! Food was in my near future! Food? Don was trying a new dried food---dehydrated peanut butter!

Mixed with water, it entertained my perplexed gastric juices. A unanimous vote determined this option should be deleted from outfitters’ menus.

After lunch, feeling better and more comfortable in this brave new world, I tried to ignore my aching arm and joined Don in easy, rhythmical paddling. My senses were jolted, however, when I saw WHITE WATER in the distance! It was then l made prayerful pleas, mostly to Don. For at least ten minutes I commented, coerced, vowed and warned.

“Mr. Germain, I don’t like white water.”

“Mr. Germain, I am very frightened.”

“Mr. Germain, may we go around it?”

“Mr. Germain, PLEASE!”

He responded with total silence, like the tar baby in the children’s story, until the white foam at the foot of the falls was kissing the bow. ‘PADDLE!” he yelled! Never since I paddled more firmly or harder!

We beached the canoe just on the other side of the peril for another portage. Surely, my face must have been as white as the foamy froth over which we had just glided. Making my way to the crest of the hill, I stopped, stood and stared at the cascading torrents and let the feelings of awe, pride and humility play tag in my soul. My transformation had further progressed.

The afternoon floated on as did we. I listened to the sounds of the paddles gently-rippling the water. Occasionally a small iceberg drifted lazily by. I became more aware of my surroundings, as intermittently Don shared experiential wisdom of the wilds. An ongoing love affair with loons started that day for me as they introduced their amazing uniqueness. They seem to have such a schizophrenic personality with their cackling and wailing. The trees in the North Woods looked different, somehow, than any I had ever seen. The clear water mirrored bottom scenes which made me feel like a “peeping tom”. I considered myself a respectful guest in the home of animal inhabitants. What an honor!

We traveled about ten miles that day before setting up camp at an ideal site on Alpine Lake. (The next summer is was closed due to overuse.) I noticed firewood had been left by previous campers and was told this in an expected courtesy. Quickly the other two women and I put up our green tent that was huge and heavy. To secure it tautly, we axed points in small pieces of wood to serve as pegs to insert in loops at the bottom of the canvas. We pounded the pegs at an angle into the rocky ground. Doing this chore so effectively gave me a sense of satisfaction. I then unpacked necessary items, including my unnecessary pajamas, and unrolled my sleeping sack.

Preparation of supper was on the agenda. Soaping exteriors of pots so soot would wash off was another first for me. After reading directions as to how much water to add to the dehydrated food for cooking, we women prepared the meal. A few moments after the blessing, I interrupted the reverential silence with the innocent question, “Where are the napkins?”. The group exchanged glances in utter disbelief! My answer came when one of the party looked at me while ceremoniously wiping his hands on his jeans. Oh, yeah!

During the meal, the discourse was interrupted with an unexpected admission of frustration from the lady sitting in the log beside me. She had not appreciated the fact that all of the men had avoided meal preparation. Henceforth, on this expedition, she hoped they would take their turns in these duties. This example of behavior modification would assuage her resentment.

My very conditioned response was immediate. Speechless, I was not thoughtless! “Lawdy Mercy! Be quiet! The men will be furious! I’ll willingly do the cooking and washing just to keep everyone happy. Please, let’s try to keep the peace. It’s easier that way!”

But the men did not react hostilely. Nor did they pout. They heard, apologized and pitched in with such chores thereafter. Heeding humans can render revelations. I pondered if family units should not consider themselves as camping groups with each involved in tasks for the whole.

After supping, washing ware in boiling water (the container for which was resting on an
upturned canoe), and suspending all edibles between trees out of reach of bears, I retreated to the lake’s edge. I tried to quiet my “bear” nerves by watching beavers busily bustling and by listening to the lovely, lonely concert of the loons.

Darkness deepened to blackness when we were all summoned to the campfire. The flames licked the air. Sparks danced in open space. Hues of hot coals melted from red to rose to pink to orange as if to mimic the Northern Lights. The faces of my new friends appeared like specters in the glow. One by one they shared thoughts and feelings resulting from the day’s events.

Inevitably, my time came for expression. Don was carefully coaxing. “And you, Dorothy?” A myriad of emotions, including anxiety, exhaustion and confusion, were flooding my being. I was screaming inside; yet, I found it too difficult to verbalize. The tears released themselves down my flushed cheeks as I silently shook my head. They respected my feelings.

The fire was finally extinguished as we retired. In the tent I slithered into my sleeping bag, removing only my coat. So much for pajamas! In this I attempted to sort out reactions to this twenty-four hour sojourn in my life, but fatigue induced sleep. ‘Twas a fitting finale to my first day of camping in the B.W.C.A.

The crisp, cold morning of day two gave birth to a new spiritual rejuvenation. This attitude continued during the few remaining days of trying, learning and laughing over new adventures. Even crossing Big Sag on the retum to base camp did not frighten me as much. I saw with different vision the empty eagle’s nest lofting high in branches which Don had shown me the first day.

Late morning of day four found us safely back as a tightly knit community. After unloading and checking in all gear, I chose to freshen up more thoroughly before the long ride back to Rochester. Seeing my limbs clearly for the first time in several days startled me. I discovered that the repetitive paddling had caused a subcutaneous hematoma in my right arm which dissected down the forearm to the wrist. In other words, I had bled under the skin from my elbow to my hand! At least that ache had been legitimate, with a “battle scar” for proof This evidence became my prideful secret.

When we gathered near our loaded vehicles in preparation to disperse, I received one of the most surprising honors of my life. The group presented me a small aromatic bough from a felled evergreen tree. Accompanying the branch were the words: “For the one who knew the least, tried the hardest and leamed the most.”

Receiving the bough with a smile and shameless tears, I embraced each one, some of whom I would never see again, yet whose acceptance and tolerance had indelibly endeared them to me for life.

Not only did I forgive Bob Hunter for “deserting” me, But I became grateful to him for giving me the freedom to know myself better---the freedom to grow. Metamorphosis can be beautiful!

Just over two months later, I retumed to this section of God’s acres with a school bus full of high schoolers and a few adults. We formed small groups, with Bob Hunter and Don Kastelia as co-counselors. Some of the youth were more seasoned in this type of experience than I, and some as neophytic as I had been. On this eight-day expedition and during the ensuing nine trips through the years, I have consistently been enthralled, exhilarated, frightened and even lonely.

The treasured friendships born out of such shared experiences will strengthen me always. I have, indeed, been blessed!

Dorothy Jenkins Combs is one of Aulander's finest natives and lives in Rochester, Minnesota. You'll find her ten-part series, "Dorothy's Window" in the THE POOR TOWN NEWS.

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