BWCA Wilderness Trails Essay Contest 2007
First Place - Grand prize winning essay
copyright 2007 BWA Committee
A most memorable hike I barely remember
by Paul Brohaugh
It was a fall the Twins won the World Series, but they hadn’t done it yet when my dad, my brother, Erik, my dog, Pal, and I set out to hike the Kekakabic Trail, which we mistakenly pronounced as “Kekabekic.” In 1987, the Kek Trail was obscure and – we didn’t worry about this – “unmaintained.” I was 11, Erik was 13, Pal was young and Dad was confident. We’d canoed in these Boundary Waters since I was a wee lad, and I think Dad saw the longest red line on the yellow Fischer maps as a nice adventure, a shortcut to the Gunflint Trail. A long portage, without canoes.
Mom left us at the Ely-side trailhead near Snowbank Lake. We arranged to meet late afternoon two days later at the other end. If we’re not there by dark, Dad said, come back in the morning. She’d keep Uncle Steve’s cabin warm, 10 miles east of our Gunflint-side trailhead.
We’d traverse the roadless wilderness, walking 40 miles to where Mom would have to drive a couple hundred to meet us. I remember little of the hike and almost none of the camping. When we saw our pace trailed far behind our optimism, we started a death march, hiking past dark, looking for archeological evidence of a trail. Pal and I would fall asleep while Dad and Erik puzzled over the map by flashlight. We were hiking with our eyes closed, packs cutting hard at our tender shoulders and blisters cutting hard at our tender boots... but this all went fondly into my bag of memories, heroically fermentable.
“Windfall” was a new term to this sleepy but adventure-struck boy, and it became synonymous with “unmaintained.” We followed Dad for miles around giant fields of aspen-sized Pick-up Sticks. My memory says there were several, though Dad recently referred to “that windfall” and claims we only lost the trail once. He also reminded me of our big wildlife encounter: when we jubilantly limped out of the woods, hours past our designated meeting time, we saw a moose. Using the great animal instinct for direct routes, he was walking down the blacktop.
But Mom was nowhere to be found, and our condition was too advanced to hike another 10 miles in the dark. We stood on the quiet road, certain no cars would pass at that hour. Nevertheless, to my great adventure, one did. Hitchhiking! Dad and Erik and Pal jumped in the bushes, telling me to stick out my 11-year-old thumb. An older couple in a pickup were going our way, and I, being the chief hitchhiker, got to ride in front.
We burst into Uncle Steve’s Cabin. My mother was terrified, of course, but quickly joyous and receptive of our legendary stories, which I’m sure came out faster than we could feasibly control. We all soaked our feet, including Pal, who probably explored 120 miles to our 40. The Twins were on the radio, and they beat the Cardinals.
