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By Greg Seitz, editor

The Firegrate Review

My wife Katie and I took a five-day canoe trip in the Boundary Waters this September. A remote lake called to us. On the maps it looked like a place where a person could find some real solitude.

We rode a tailwind the first day, then paddled and portaged several miles the next day, arriving at the dead-end lake we had in mind. There was only one way in—a winding stream with questionable water levels and a beaver dam to cross, a portage in rough shape—and we found little evidence that the lake had seen many people this summer. The campsite we stayed at was full of firewood.

The silence roared that night. We felt minuscule in the dark land. It was 10 miles to the nearest road. There was nothing to do but speak in whispers and stoke the fire high. The next morning we had a relaxing pancake breakfast and then left the site, but only to paddle back out to the next lake over. We set up camp again and spent the afternoon reading on the rocks. We didn’t see anybody all that day.

The next day found us slogging down a creek that didn’t have quite enough water to float us. We had to push every inch of the way. Turning back wasn’t feasible. The bottomless muck precluded getting out of the canoe. We groaned and heaved ourselves forward. Sighting a Northern Harrier winging low across a bog was a welcome distraction.

As we finally reached the creek’s mouth and the deep waters of a lake, another canoe passed in front of us. We had experienced about 40 hours without encountering another person, which I thought was a successful quest for solitude, particularly considering it was Labor Day weekend.

We were tired then, but pushed on in an increasing cold rain and headwind. When we finally stopped at a campsite two hours later, we were cold, wet and tired. But the tent needed setting up and dinner needed to be cooked. The routine then was familiar and we both went about the tasks not needing to discuss much. The skies cleared somewhat and the rain and winded subsided as the daylight dimmed.

Every trip in the Boundary Waters is a story, complete with narrative and drama, and often comedy. And these stories stick with me. They are as much about the people I share a canoe and a tent and a portage load with as they are about solitude and loon calls and white pines.

Many of us feel compelled to try to capture these memories and images in words. It might be that we write so we remember, or to try to create something of beauty equal to the lakes and woods, or because we are inspired by the likes of Sigurd Olson to celebrate the wilderness.

Just as every canoe trip is unique, so is how every person responds to the wilderness. And those who write about it put their words together in ways that are only their own. This chapbook contains examples from across the spectrum, from traditional trip reports to impressionistic poems.

I hope you will join me in thanking all the authors for sharing their work. We received a lot of submissions, but the real success is in the quality. What stands out particularly is how heartfelt each piece in this book is. There is a great sincerity expressed, a love of the Boundary Waters and a desire to share it, and to help protect it so future generations might find their own stories there.