Road Trip To The Boundary Waters (18)
From One Island to Another
The rain held off until we had time to enjoy the campfire and eat dinner. When it did start raining, we scrambled to get everything under the tarp that needed to be kept dry. Justin quickly pulled the rainfly over the tent. I dived in from the front after shedding my shoes. It continued to rain most of the night, steady, but not heavy. By morning the skies had cleared.
After breakfast I looked around the island. For the first time, I began to pay close attention to the vegetation. What I love about the North Woods is the mixture of conifers and hardwoods. On the conifer side, the island was home to white cedar, white spruce, balsam fir, red pine, and eastern white pine. The white pines were of most interest to me. They remain the largest trees in the North Woods, but the glorious old timers (500 years plus) have been rapaciously logged since the 19th century. White pine is still the most valued lumber in the east. Most of those that escaped the axe were wiped out in the early 20th century by a fungus, called the white pine blister rust. (This fungal plague probably originated in a nursery that imported non-native pines from Europe, which had evolved a resistance to the rust.) It’s estimated that only about 1% of Old Growth eastern white pines remain, similar to the level of exploitation of coastal redwoods in California. Quetico and the Boundary Waters are among the few refuges for the old timers. When their lives are not cut short by axe or fungus they can grow to over 200 feet, with diameters of over five feet. Jim Harrison wrote stirringly in True North, of the huge rotting stumps of white pines that still dot the landscape of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. There were a few younger white pines on the island at which we camped, the largest I saw was well under 100 feet but spirit-lifting nonetheless.
Eastern White Pine at Island’s Edge
Eastern white pines closely resemble the western white pines, with which I am more familiar. The bark of the two white pine species is almost identical. But the cones of Western white pines are considerably larger than those of Eastern white pine. Both species grow arrow straight and have distinctively long and elegant horizontal branches that don’t taper toward the top as much as those of most conifers. And there is ample space between tiers. In fact, spacious is how I would describe white pines overall, no tree trimmer could improve on what they naturally do.
Both species of white pine belong to the five-needle group of closely related pine species, which also includes some of my other favorite pine species in California, such as the sugar pine, which has the longest cones (up to 16 inches) of any pine in the world. Sugar pines also grow considerably taller than either white pine species, some approach 300 feet. Another of my favorite five needle pines is the whitebark pine, a keystone species in the higher altitudes of the Sierras and Rockies. Whitebark pines are a magnet for a species of bird that I find endlessly entertaining, the Clark’s Nutcracker (named for William Clark of the Lewis and Clark Expedition). Also in the five-needle group is the bristlecone pine, renowned for its longevity. One, aptly named Methuselah, is between 4800 and 5,000 years old. When Methuselah emerged from the ground, the pyramids were under construction.
Unfortunately, all western five needle species are susceptible to the same rust blight that struck the eastern white pine in the early 20th century. Except for the Bristlecone Pines, which scoff at pathogens and lightning alike.
The hardwoods on the island were mainly American beech, aspen, green ash mountain ash, and paper birch. The latter provided the raw material for Native American birchbark canoes, the Ur-ancestor of our Kevlar version. I had observed red maples during the portage but not where we camped. The only oak species this far north is the burr oak. I didn’t notice any.
The understory was also interesting and included an old friend called Labrador tea. Though named for the Canadian province, Labrador tea extends across all of northern North America and Eurasia, an impressive range. There is also a western species that grows on lakeshores at mid to high altitudes in the Sierras, Rockies, and other western mountain ranges. Both species are never far from water. To me they look exactly the same. And until recently the northern and western labrador teas were considered to be the same species. Both are closely related to rhododendrons and share the scientific name for their genus (Rhododendron). The tea in Labrador tea reflects the way their leaves were used by Native Americans—brewed as a beverage, sometimes medicinally.
Red osier dogwoods and viburnums comprised much of the understory away from the lakeshore. To my mind the deep burgundy, bordering on purple, leaves of viburnums exceed even the red maples for autumnal beauty. We were a bit too early in the year to experience that.
A Relaxing Day,
We did not have far to go to our next portage. It was a short one, which was welcome. When we came out the other end we were on Burke Lake, I believe. It’s a sizeable lake, but we could only see the part before it dog legged. Three islands were visible from shore. The plan was to camp at one of them. The first island had a good campsite complete with fireplace, but we pushed on a bit further to the second island, which we scouted from the water. There seemed to be two campsites on the island, we chose to land near the one with the easiest access. Here as before there was a handcrafted stone fireplace and a stack of wood.
Once we offloaded the gear, we explored the island, which was larger than the one on which we camped the night before. While exploring, we came upon a campsite far superior to the one near where we off-loaded, better fireplace, better seating around the fireplace, more pre-cut wood and a better view. But we—I think it was mutual—decided it was not worth the hassle of schlepping the canoe and camping stuff from where we landed. Transporting the wood from there to our campsite was well worth the hassle though.
Re Cloud Elevations
I am a connoisseur of clouds. Their endless and everchanging forms, sometimes merging, sometimes fissioning, always moving, slow dancing to wind music. If there are clouds in the sky that’s where my eyes first go. A canoe in the North Woods is a good place for cloud appreciation. At one point I remarked to Justin that I loved how low the (cumulus) clouds rode in the sky in this part of the world. (This is something I had noticed and photographed during my 1987 trip as well.) He replied something to the effect, “what do you mean by low”? I was taken aback and didn’t respond immediately. The low elevation of the cumulus clouds seemed self-evident to me. This was certainly not my typical experience of such clouds, and I assumed, naively, that my experience of cumulus clouds, elevation-wise, was well-nigh universal. Obviously not. I almost said that the cumulus clouds felt closer to my head here than other places I had been. Instead, I merely reiterated that the cumulus clouds under which we were canoeing seemed unusually low. Justin was obviously unconvinced. So I made a mental note to look into the matter when I could.
Here is what I later discovered. First and foremost, cumulus clouds do form and travel at a wide range of elevations above ground. And they ride particularly low in the Boundary Waters/Quetico region. Cumulus clouds are lowest where the terrain is relatively flat and the humidity high. To be as near to cumulus clouds as possible you can’t beat oceans, and lakes in low relief settings, such as those you find in the Boundary Waters/Quetico region. Conversely, dry, mountainous areas maximally distance the ground observer from the clouds. I happen to spend most of my time outdoors in arid and/or mountainous environments. Justin, on the other hand, has lived for years in what used to be tallgrass prairie in Illinois, one of the flatter landscapes in the U.S. (Humid as well). In retrospect it seems his insensitivity to the cloud’s low elevation was natural for anyone living in Illinois. That’s just the way clouds generally look there. On the other hand, I noticed that they were riding low because it was counter to most of my experience of clouds in the west. Also, I pay more attention to clouds than most.