The sun is setting when we hear the wolf. At first I mistake the distant howl for one of the common loons – the distinctive black-and-white waterfowl whose plaintive cries have accompanied us on our paddle to Ahsub Lake in Minnesota's Boundary Waters wilderness.
The wolf howls again. There is no mistaking it this time. A howl. A noise that once pushed people closer to their fires. It is the sound of what I have come here for – a wild thing in a vast wild place. In my sleeping bag, I feel an exhilarated thrill. It is not surprising. The million-acre wilderness we are travelling through, located on the border of the US state of Minnesota and Canada, is home not only to a significant population of timber wolves but moose and black bear, as well as the beavers we had seen earlier that evening swimming in front of our campsite. Already we have seen evidence of bears along one of the trails. Now the wolf calling.
For five years my wife Emily and I had been talking about coming here. In truth, I'd dreamed about these northern woods and waters for longer still, ever since reading Jack London as a child. It had taken us two days of paddling and portaging to reach where we had stopped for the night on a rocky shelf above a lake with water clear as gin, travelling through a string of lakes and ponds linked by connecting rocky trails over which both boat and equipment had to be carried.
The routes we are travelling on are ancient ones. First opened as hunting trails by Native American tribes, they were later followed by fur trappers and by the Voyageurs, who transported the furs in their birch canoes, in bundles weighing up to 90lbs, for the merchants who controlled the trade. Following in the footsteps of Jacques de Noyon, the first European to travel the Boundary Waters in 1688, the largely French-speaking Voyageurs accessed these "great north woods" – as Bob Dylan called them – through entry points like the Grand Portage, the eight-and-a-half-mile track between Pigeon River and Lake Superior, a passage first shown to the traders by the Cree people.
Like us, with our lightweight freeze-dried food stocks, these men subsisted largely on a diet of preserved food that could easily be reconstituted – salt pork, dried peas and corn for "hominy grits", and pemmican (a mixture of fat and meat), supplemented by the wild rice that grows in the region's marshes. A tough breed of men, many would perish in these woods in drowning accidents, from disease or from strangulated hernias brought on by their heavy loads. A brief, colourful era, it would be brought to an end by the advent of the railway, which allowed the goods they carried to be transported for half the price, and the decline in the numbers of fur-bearing animals caused by overhunting.
These days, those who follow the old Voyageur routes do so for pleasure in an area first given protected status by President Theodore Roosevelt in 1919. The result of successive protection laws has been to produce the roadless and uninhabited Boundary Waters – on which motor engines are banned, with a handful of exceptions – which now see 250,000 visitors a year. While some come for a few days to fish and camp, the more intrepid delve far into the Boundary Waters' 12,000 miles of routes. Access to the area is regulated by permit to the use of one of the 70-plus entry points on a given day. And while some entry points allow a couple of dozen permits a day for groups of up to nine, on others the number can be as low as one a day for those in search of a wilder and lonelier experience.
We choose a circular route of 10 lakes, including 11 portages (tracks where the canoe is carried overland), beginning on the extensive waters of Snowbank Lake. But the journey in truth begins at Piragis, the outfitters in Ely, who have organised our permit and from whom we hire the canoe and other things we need for our journey. First-time visitors, we are required to watch a video outlining the rules and the "leave no trace" ethos that demands a minimum human impact and the shipping out of waste.
By the time we reach Ensign Lake at the end of our first day, we have been through a steep learning curve. My shoulders ache from paddling and carrying the canoe. Although Emily had grown up on one of Minnesota's lakes and had paddled as a child, and I'd spent much time in the outdoors, we make mistakes. Without signposts of any kind, navigating to the beginning of portages requires careful map-reading and a sharp eye to spot the landing spots amid the dark trees. There are sharp rocks to be vigilant about. At the primitive but beautiful campsites, food and cooking utensils must be hung from a tree branch or stored in an airtight barrel against the threat of black bears, while clothes worn while cooking or gutting fish need to be kept out of the tent. We quickly discover that the bags we have are not quite up to the job of carrying what we need easily over the portage trails, regretting that we did not rent proper portage packs with the tent and canoe.
Also, in the hurry of leaving Minneapolis at 4am for the four-hour drive to pick up the boat from Ely, we forget to fill our water bottles. When we do stop to boil lake water, we are already dehydrated and have to sip at the hot liquid before it cools down. In addition, I have managed to test the limits of mosquito repellant, which is washed off my face by sweat from the exertion of navigating the longest portage of the trip. Although the Kevlar canoe weighs only 40lb and comes equipped with a horseshoe-shaped portage pad that fits around the neck and shoulders, it is still 16ft long, a cumbersome thing to carry through the forest and marshes. Flipping it over my head, I discover an unexpected problem. The large mosquitoes that have been buzzing around me are trapped in a swarm inside the upturned hull where my head now is and set about my face and neck, exposed above my zipped fleece, with vicious abandon. Within a few minutes I have a line of swelling bites ringing my neck like a tight pink pearl choker. Where my elbows have stretched the fabric of my fleece, the mosquitoes have also bitten through.
The irritations, however, are minor in comparison with the extraordinary beauty and sense of isolation of the Boundary Waters. On the water, the buzz of insects quickly recedes and the campsites are open enough that any breeze keeps them away. We creep along narrow reed-choked creeks fringed with yellow water lilies and slip past tiny granite islands on which stand stark clusters of trees. Passing by yet another lake, we are surprised by the sound of a rushing waterfall. The water passes through moods as well – sometimes still and glassy, at other times whipped by strong winds. One morning I wake to watch a mayfly hatch, the air suddenly full of the striped winged insects, among which buzz brightly coloured dragonflies. But the afternoons and evenings when the camp is set are the best times, drinking "cowboy coffee" – the grounds poured straight into the pan of boiling lake water – or sitting by a fire fuelled by abundant dead wood in the forest, and drinking a cup of wine. As time passes we feel more confident, but the wilderness has a last surprise for us.
There is a storm on the final day that is strong enough to bring down trees. On the last half-mile a freshly felled tree blocks the portage trail, requiring branches to be cut off with the camp saw that we have taken so that the canoe can be slipped over trunks without damage. Back on Snowbank, the same wind has blown up large waves at one end of the lake, forcing a journey back to the dock that closely hugs the shore. But a last section of open water must be crossed head on into the wind and waves – a frantic paddle with Emily jammed as far into the bows as she can make it to help trim the canoe. It is frightening but we have learned a lot and make it back safely, exhausted and planning to return next year.
Essentials
In Ely, four hours' drive from Minneapolis airport, there are outfitters, shops, lodgings and guides who can tailor trips – from a few days' fishing to long and arduous expeditions. Canoe hire for a kevlar boat and paddles costs $40 per day from Piragis Northwoods Company (piragis.com). Full outfitting packages, including food, cost around $100 per person per day. Each permit costs $20 for a group of up to nine people. There is a one-off $16 per adult fee for use of the campsites. The best months to visit are June (wet, cooler but with mosquitoes), July, August (mosquitoes are replaced by black fly) and September, which often has warm days and cool nights.
