Macaroni

It lies on the Canadian border, at the end of the road, at the farthest tip of the Gunflint Trail. A long way from anywhere. It’s a large lake, and the wind can be fierce. A cluster of islands sits at the north end, and it’s easy to get confused as you make your way through them. All the same, for me Seagull Lake is the finest entry point into the BWCA.

There may be a sentimental reason. My first experience of the area came when I accompanied my folks and some other families to Seagull Lake, and we watched from a perch in the public campground as my brother came canoeing up the channel along with a flotilla of other boys and men. They’d been out for two weeks, and as they sang and shouted greetings I longed to disappear into the vastness of the lakes and woods, just like they had.

But matters of sentiment aside, Seagull is simply a very beautiful lake, and there are a number of interesting loops that begin there.

After five or six hours spent on the highway, it’s always a thrill to head inland from the picturesque village of Grand Marais up the Gunflint Trail. Before long you begin to pass rustic and all but illegible wooden signs marking the distances to this or that outfitter, lodge, or entry point. Clearwater Road, Trail Center, Gunflint Lodge. A hour into the woods you finally enter an area of swamps and lowlands, and you know you’re nearing the end of the trail.

The landing itself is unmarked, and it would be easy to miss. It lies on a short gravel spur running downhill to the edge of an inconspicuous channel from the asphalt of the campground loop. As you untie the canoe, unload the gear, and haul things down to the landing, you begin to notice the silence, the heat of the day, the smell of the dust, and even the shape of familiar leaves—poplar, thimbleberry, sarsaparilla. It all seems remarkably clear and still after hours of blurred landscape and the constant rumble of highway noise.

The parking lot is a quarter of a mile away, near the Saganaga channel, and during the walk back through the trees after parking the car I invariably feel an exhilaration—two parts anticipation, one part panic—that’s more intense than anything I felt as a kid. There is a pleasant nakedness involved in leaving the world of hourly news, social commitments, and urban clutter behind. Life suddenly becomes simple when you splash knee-deep into the golden water, load your equipment into the thin shell of the canoe, and set off down the channel in the beaming afternoon sun. Nothing lies ahead but water and woods. You’re paddling hard, but the rocks and trees glide past at a very slow pace. The transformation is sudden and complete.

These feelings are likely to be the same no matter where you set out from. The entry into Seagull, however, has a remarkable progres d’ effet. At the far end of the channel you come to a narrows that leads out into a larger bay. The level of the bay is higher than that of the channel, however, and as you approach it the smooth rush of the water makes it obvious that you’ll be paddling uphill against a very strong current for a few seconds before you emerge on the other side. You build up what speed you can, hit the stream at a good angle, and paddle with all your might, veritably slapping the water as you struggle to make headway. Ten seconds later you’re through, and up to the level of the lake. It’s like the drama of a birth, an opening to a new world.

The new world that presents itself to you at this point consists of a warren of islands that come together to form a uniform wall of trees on every side. There are several ways to make your way through this labyrinth. Depending on which route you take, you’ll emerge into an even larger body of open water in any of three or four places. If you follow one route through the islands, but think you’re following another, however, there will be a few moments of bewilderment on the other end as you attempt to regain your bearings in the midst of a configuration of islands and trees that looks terribly wrong.

To me this passage through the islands is fraught with poetry. The sun will be low

in the afternoon sky, and the channels will be largely in shadow, making the gaps between the islands all but invisible until immediately before you come upon them. All the islands look pretty much the same in any case, and it’s a great thrill

when the big lake appears for the first time in the distance between the green masses of land you’re threading your way through. As you emerge you pass a wall of sheer white cliffs on your right, towering hundreds of feet above the water’s edge. When I was fourteen I used to jump from ledges on the face of those cliffs—the Palisades. Looking up at them today I can hardly make out how it would be possible to get to the top!

As you pass the Palisades three miles of open water appear majestically in front of you. On a calm day the heart swells with anticipation of what lies ahead, but on a windy afternoon getting across this expanse can be a bitch. It may be advisable to duck behind Miles Island and hug the north shore, though the route is longer and the shelter is meager. In any case, the narrow channel and the intricate islands have served as a fitting introduction to this final dramatic phase of exposure to the beauties of Seagull Lake. It’s time to dig in, however, because the best campsites and the finest evening views are to be found at the other end of the lake.

On our last visit to Seagull Hilary and I got a late start, and by the time we’d crossed the lake evening was approaching. We’d already passed several open campsites, but were holding out in hope that one of two favorites further on would still be available. Unfortunately, by the time we got to them both were already occupied. We were shocked to discover that another campsite nearby, which we’d always considered too swampy to be desirable, was also taken. The fourth option we explored seemed to have been obliterated by the blow-down of 1999—at any rate, we couldn’t find it—and it was with a combination of reluctance and desperation that we proceeded further south into the lake, toward an island we’d never visited before.

The island was small and the campsite was undistinguished, but it was pleasantly remote, and it was open. It also had the merit of allowing us to watch evening descend on the lake from an entirely new angle. Once we’d made our dinner we set out to explore a second island nearby, and spotted another campsite, more spacious and with a better view of the big lake. A prospect for a future visit.

As night comes and the wind dies down, peace descends on the lake. You may hear the clank of a dinner pot, miles off across the water, as the sky changes from blue to pink to purple. You’re more likely to hear the loons calling back and forth, or erupting into their haunting and giddy laugh. The half-moon appears in the southern sky. Then Venus, Arcturus, Vega. Waves lap against the shore. The fire crackles. Soon it will be time to go to bed.

I seldom sleep well on the first night of a trip. It’s a matter of a one-inch foam pad and a mediocre pillow, I guess. Tossing and turning, listening to the sounds of the night, wondering if the wind is rising. But it’s a grand feeling the next morning, to climb out of the tent and greet that pristine world of water and sky and trees. Before long you’ve got a cup of hot coffee in your hand, and a pleasant vision in the back of your mind—hardly more than a whisper of a dream—of lakes to cross and portages to traverse in the day ahead.