1999
July 4th, 1999 "Not the greatest weather"
by Mary Gunderson, Yankton, South Dakota
The last Independence Day of the millenium dawned hot and sunny. Every exertion made the thick, damp air seem heavier on my skin. The six of us spent the morning quietly, eating breakfast, and each at his/her own speed taking down tents, stuffing sleeping bags, and gathering up gear. Whenever the oozing sweat was unbearable, we jumped or dived into the water off a six-foot high rock ledge into water 12 to 15 feet deep. We floated on PFDs in various configurations and swam. About noon, we pushed off in three canoes, loaded with gear and paddled from Devil's Elbow Lake.
A 25-rod portage across a peninsula took us back to the Granite River. We straddled the U.S.-Canadian line as we paddled toward Saganaga. On the Canadian side, pine trees hugged the rocks and defined the horizon. On the U.S. side, the forest is rejuvenating from a 1995 fire, the wave of curved boulders of the landscape broken by charred tree trunks. Persistent chickadees sang out all along the way. We saw loons and the ducks with the Woody Woodpecker fringe on the back of their heads.
By 1:30 pm, the sky clouded. We stopped for lunch in the canoes near the U.S. side, eating dry Genoa salami, pita bread, and Wasa sesame crackers, along with dried apricots, dates, banana chips, and handsful of GORP. The clouds darkened to deep blue gray and we heard rumbles of thunder. We kept paddling. I looked back over my shoulder from the bow of the canoe. The clouds, especially those to the south, turned a deeper shade, a purple color I recognized from a morning two years ago when friends and I canoed on the Missouri River followed by a purplish cloud.
"I felt a raindrop," I called to Randy in the stern.
"It'll probably just rain and be a great sunny day," he suggested, hopefully.
We kept paddling, staying close to the rocky shore. I gauged places where we could scramble to land easily. Each of us is an experienced paddler and camper. We've all canoed before through rain in the BWCA. We kept paddling. Finally, we sited the Horsetail Rapids portage. The purple cloud followed behind.
Ralph and Dale went ahead to look at the 24-rod portage. The rapids looked rough and rocky for running. These rapids had an additional feature, a threaded area where trees grew out of huge rocks. These separated the main rapids from a shallow stream, too shallow for pulling canoes through. They reported: "The portage is rocky, steep. But the rapids are too fast for running. We'll portage."
Raindrops started falling.
"Are we going to portage now?" I asked, dreading the probable affirmative reply. I glanced out at the water and saw an eerie white glow, maybe 12 feet across and 8 feet high backed by gray purple clouds, all heading toward us.
"We can stand in the rain or portage in the rain," Ralph said, resolutely.
As he finished his sentence a gust of wind hit us and rain began to fall in sheets. Everyone who hadn't already, pulled on rain gear. Randy and I turned over our canoe on the Duluth packs, leaving some space for crawling under. Dale picked up his borrowed, beautiful Kevlar canoe with the wood trim. "I'm going up the trail," he said, balancing the canoe on his shoulders.
As Ralph called out: "Don't do that!," a tree leaned into the space between Dale and the canoe. Another gust of wind pushed him backward. I held my breath and waited for canoe and man to be pulled upward by the wind.
Dale set the canoe down and sat, cradling it around his shoulders. Jill and Ralph huddled near their canoe. I dived under our canoe, spread eagle in the mud and wriggled up to where there was grass and roots that formed a kind of chair. A gust of wind sprayed rain from either side of the canoe. This cozy shelter would do fine for me.
Randy called out, "There's a tree next to the canoe swaying from side to side and the earth is moving. It may go over on the canoe."
I looked around me and judged the diameter of the tree. I studied the bottom of the canoe curving over my head. Hmmmm. Was that tree big enough to crush this canoe and me underneath it?
"I'm fine here."
"The tree is moving. The earth is moving," Malinda said.
"It may go over. Get out of there!" Randy said.
Reluctantly, I crawled out in what was now sheets of rain. Ralph, Jill, Randy and Malinda all sat in the rain. Even though I was already soaked through, I craved some protection from the rain. I went to sit with Dale's canoe at my back, shielding the worst of the gusts. I sat in a pool of water streaming down the incline. (I'd like to report here that the $10 pair of lavender plastic-nylon-lined rain pants I got at Hoigaards in 1987 still haven't sprung a leak.)
For a matter of minutes, small hail the size of coconut flakes pelted the ground. A tree crashed in front of Ralph and Jill. . They watched trees on the opposite shore snap off, the tops blowing away. The rain poured as if a bucket's contents splashed all of us. After about half an hour, the rain stopped.
We all stood up and surveyed the area. Jill sang a few bars of "Wade on the Water," in her clear, strong soprano.
"That's appropriate," Ralph said.
At storm's end, the water level in the lake had risen about 10 inches, marked by the end of the Randy/Mary canoe that wasn't touching water when we turned it over and was well into the water at storm's end. The guys checked the portage and came back to say it was impossible. Trees were down over the portage. The water level came up enough on the quieter part of the stream for us to walk the canoes through.
Ralph and Jill went first, stepping carefully through the rushing water. Dale and Malinda took off. "Get in and we'll get out when we have to," Dale told her. By the time Randy and I were stepping through the gushing water, Ralph came back to say: Malinda and Dale just ran the rapids. The water grabbed their canoe, they both managed to duck the low-angled trees and maneuver the sharp left-hand turn at the end. Malinda looked startled and amazed at their accomplishment. Randy continued to walk our canoe, adjusting his loose Teva's with every fourth or fifth step.
Near the end of the rapids, a 70-foot red pine had fallen over from its roots. It blocked the portage path and jutted into the stream. Pine pitch steamed as it poured into the water. If we'd portaged before the storm hit, we would likely have chosen to wait out the storm near that tree. Whew. I was shaking. And, very thankful.
Shortly ahead, we made the five-rod portage around Horseshoe Falls at the entrance to Lake Saganaga. Ralph had planned an afternoon swim at the foot of the falls. But the water, now brown with soil, and roiling with pine needles, leaves and other debris didn't entice us. The weather wasn't clearing either.
We paddled into, Saganaga, one of the largest in the BWCA. On the shoreline, we called out sighting split or downed trees. We discussed the need to inform the Forest Service that the portage at Horsetail Rapids needed immediate attention.
We made camp on an unnamed, small island. There were a few downed trees on the island. Saganaga is a motorized lake, unlike the lakes within the designated Boundary Waters Canoe area. Fishing boats came and went. Canadian Customs station sat across the water from us.
We prepared and made dinner. Malinda and Dale presented an American flag made of craisins, dried blueberries, and Jordan almonds.
After dinner, Randy and Dale somehow started a campfire from the wet kindling at hand. Natural fireworks provided a show to the south. The lightning was far enough away so that we didn't hear it. Some lit the sky like fluorescent bulbs. Others cracked in single dramatic lines. Later, we learned that was the storm that dumped water to flood levels on Hibbing.
Epilogue: The next morning we headed for the take-out point. We saw more and more trees down as we paddled south. A couple of boaters stopped to tell us that the storm was extensive and that the Gunflint Trail, the road to Grand Marais, was still closed due to fallen trees. We heard that campers had been rescued from campsites. Another guy, a young man in a fishing boat fitted with canoe racks called out to ask if we were all okay. The magnitude of the storm was beginning to sink in.
At the first take-out point, several cars and vans were smashed by trees. A man from Ontario described the same whitish glowing cloud I'd seen during the storm. He said: "It was like something from (the movie) Independence Day."
Both of our vehicles were safe. My car, at our put-in 12 miles down the road from the take-out, was saved when a medium-sized aspen fell on the van beside it. Leaves and branches grazed my car from windshield to back fender. Randy and Dale pulled the branches aside and I backed the car out. It didn't have a scratch on it. A man in the same lot pulled out ahead of us. His windshield had a football-sized hole in the glass right in front of his face. I hope he didn't have far to go.
We loaded canoes and ourselves. We drove the Gunflint Trail and saw miles and miles of destroyed trees and many smashed cars in driveways. In some places every tree beside the road for a hundred yards had snapped half way up the trunk. The storm was 24 hours past and people with chainsaws had cleared at least one lane throughout the 40-some miles back to Grand Marais. We saw the worst damage along the north 20 miles of the road.
In many places, the Rural Electric Cooperative had propped up downed power lines with storm-fallen trees. We stopped a couple of times to take photos. For a bonus, we picked wild strawberries growing in abundance along the road.
The scenes of destruction didn't stop until we reached the top of the hill that descends into Grand Marais.
A few afterthoughts:
The straight-line winds gusted from 70 to 80 mph. This kind of storm isn't so unusual on the prairie. But on the prairie, there aren't millions of trees. In addition, the trees in Northeastern Minnesota are sitting in sodden soil from a wet June.
There's a wonderful peace and calm to canoeing and camping in the BWCA. It's easy to imagine the lives of the voyageurs, Ojibway, and Lakota before them living here. The storm reminded me that portages are regularly groomed by the forest service, at least to the degree that downed trees are removed and paths are reinforced by logs and sand. The hand of humans is very active in the BWCA. Nature took charge on Sunday afternoon.
I learned early in life that when there was a thunder/lightning storm, NEVER stand under a tree. On the prairie, trees are the tallest item and attractive to lightning. In the forest, trees give the semblance of safety. Tents give a semblance of safety. Having a canoe overhead gives a semblance of safety. None is a guarantee.
There are an estimated 17 to 25 million trees down in the BWCA. The storm devastated about 1/4 of the BWCA, the most-visited wilderness in the United States. In some places piles of fallen trees are reported to be chest high. The BWCA is open and canoers are arriving. Officials are grappling with whether or not to use chainsaws or handsaws for the clean-up. All of us will find an altered BWCA in months and years to come.
