Be sure you are right, then go ahead.

-Daniel Boone–

“Shall we go for a walk?” 

I hadn’t heard that invitation from Nels since we both hiked a one-hundred mile section of the Arizona Trail last March.

And so with barely a month of planning and making the necessary reservations, we decided it was time for an autumn hike on the 37.5 mile Pukaskwa National Park, Coastal Hiking Trail on the north shore of Lake Superior in Ontario. 

We were fully aware that the trail was rated “Difficult” and that the elevation roller coastered up and down.

The park requires an orientation for this trail. Due to the fall park hours being curtailed, the orientation was done over the phone. After a cordial greeting, the employee, who now had all our registration information in front of him, including our senior citizen ages, hesitantly said,“You two have given yourselves a rather aggressive itinerary.” 

He went on to repeatedly remind me that if we were not at North Swallow River after four days we needed to turn back or they would send out search and rescue folks. “Use your trail sense.” 

Nels and I are no longer young men, having camped, canoed, hunted, and fished together for over six decades. But we are very fortunate to have our health and each other for support. I like to think that in those passing of years we have embraced common sense in what we can and cannot do.

Our moods matched the gray skies when we began the fall hike fully adorned in rain gear. Rain or not, we had four days to get to our turnaround point so there was no waiting for sunshine. 

Luckily the shower stopped in the first hour or so but the trail was slippery in places. Even though I had hiked this section more than 25 years ago, I had forgotten the ups and downs and the rugged nature of the trail. 

For all the wisdom we have gathered through the years, you would think that we would learn that we shouldn’t put in our longest mileage day on the first day; especially with less-than-ideal weather conditions and when our packs are heaviest. 

As we crossed the high suspension bridge over the roiling White River, we met three guys heading in the direction we had just come. They were at least ten years younger than us. During our brief chat, they soberly shared, “Be very careful. You have the toughest part of the trail ahead of you. There are some technical sections. Some involve climbing almost vertically. And there are fields of boulders.”

That night, after setting up our tarp and laying out our bags, we relaxed by the serene shore of Lake Superior. No other people, boats or even aircraft pimpled the setting. No distant highway traffic noises, just the quiet lap of a stilled giant lake. 

Shortly after supper, we decided to hit the sack. And thus began one of the worst camping nights I’ve ever experienced. 

The unseasonably warm fall had yet to yield a killing frost so the mosquitos were still very ambitious. 

In the past when we have hiked sections of the Lake Superior Hiking Trail in Minnesota, we have done it in late September and early October. We have always used an open tarp as our shelter as it is easy to set up, protects us and our gear from the weather and is lightweight to carry.

But on this mild and slightly humid night, there was absolutely no escaping the bugs. For hours we retreated deep into our bags for relief, only to emerge gasping and growling from our self-imposed saunas.  We were living, ill-tempered cafeterias for the skeeters. 

Our only recourse was to curse. Loudly and repeatedly. Finally I must have fallen asleep because I woke up, glanced over for the lump of Nels. He wasn’t there. I looked closer. Was his husk of a body all that remained after his blood was drained? 

I sat up in the dark and realized he had escaped to the sand beach where there was no underbrush to harbor mosquitoes. Here, any slight breeze might help get some bug-free sleep. I grabbed my sleeping bag and pad and hauled it to the beach. I plunked down near Nels and we both managed to get a bit of needed sleep.

At first gray light, I heard Nels say, “Andy, it’s misting.” So we both emerged and grabbed all our stuff and returned to the tarp.

Breakfast included a coming-to-Jesus talk. With a poor night of sleep and the more rugged stretch of trail ahead of us, we had to weigh the wisdom of trying to maintain  our “aggressive itinerary.”

We know each other well. And we both knew that we did not want this to be a forced march.

We could continue on or we might simply turn around and hike back to the car. We decided to give it one more night with the hopes that the weather would cool down and we could orient the tarp into any breeze to help discourage the mosquitoes. 

With the plan in hand and breakfast in our bellies, Nels mumbled, “Let’s go for a walk.”

The second night was mosquito-free and we slept well. It was during our second trail breakfast that we pushed our egos aside and decided to change our trip to a more enjoyable pace. We would not go to North Swallow River. 

The slower pace allowed us to forage among the profusion of fall fungi. The boletes and honey mushrooms we harvested augmented our dehydrated meals. We were able to stop and consider various stories left in the tracks of otter, shorebirds and moose. 

We paused to listen to the high pitched whispers of golden crowned kinglets. And even a male ruffed grouse seemed to command attention as he strutted his stuff for us.  

For seven more mornings and nearly thirty-one miles of hiking, Nels predictably queried, “Shall we go for a walk?” 

And best of all there was no Search and Rescue crew involved.

In a raucous world swirling with disinformation, ringtones, screen time, polls, screaming, cursing, grousing, finger pointing, inflated egos, election projections and slumping jack-o-lanterns, I find diversion necessary. 

One enjoyable way is to take some quiet time up in a November oak tree. Ironically, the practice of of becoming one with a sturdy oak tree from 15- 20 feet off the ground with my bow and arrow, helps ground me. 

Here in my sylvan bully pulpit I am the Master and Commander of this rather small platform that I have hung on the tree. Once my safety harness is fastened and I’m settled in the predawn graying of the morning, I generally smile like I did when I was thirteen and my father ushered me into my first deer hunting tree. It’s so good to be here.

My focus here, in the nearby faraway, is not on today’s election day. Instead it’s aimed at the possibility of spying and maybe killing a passing deer. 

Ironically I am bombarded by all sorts of distractions while hunting.

Squirrels commonly steal my focus.  Oh so many squirrels! Today there was a feisty red squirrel wrestling with its treasure of a cob of corn discovered from a nearby picked cornfield. 

And suddenly the focus is diverted by trumpeter swans, passing overhead, softly bugling their morning chatter. 

Then there was the disturbance made by a reddish-hued fox sparrow raking and rustling the fallen leaves with its long toes. A scrounged seed was the prize to help  fuel this stout sparrow on its southward passage.  

The most lingering of distractions were the scores of crows that filtered into the bare oak canopy just east from my arboreal hide. They were mostly quiet with only an occasional caw. Most of the vocalizing were subdued short bursts of clicks, clacks and rattles. What were they communicating to each other?

Watching these corvids finally drift away, almost buoyantly. in their seemingly carefree flight, I silently thanked them for grabbing my attention and presenting me with questions. 

Less than a half hour later, with the midday approaching, I found myself wondering how that red squirrels prize of field corn might taste if I gnawed on it?

The rain began to fall and soon I was reminded of the wise words of a late Yukon friend who often declared, “Any fool can be uncomfortable.” 

Prodded by a growing hunger and a now dampened enthusiasm, I climbed down and headed northwest, the same direction as the crows, back to our house.

As I approached the house I could see smoke coming out of the kitchen chimney and I felt a gratitude in knowing that Nancy had a lively fire burning in the kitchen. And there would be coffee, and a lunch of scrambled eggs with spuds, kale and onions.

Soon I was sitting down in front of the fire and I asked, “Nancy what is keeping your attention on this election day?” 

Casually she answered, “Oh I’m going to make a skirt out of bra cups today.”*

“Of course you are.”

Like I said, my attention is constantly hijacked.

Like every day, this day demanded attention and to think that it is barely noon. 

* An explanation might be useful here. Miss Nancy is embracing her enhanced role of being an artist and  has been selected to exhibit her visual art called Skirting the Issues It is a collection of creations that poignantly portray various topical issues in our society. The show will be in the fall of 2025 at the Hallberg Art Center in Wyoming, Minnesota.