Dawn’s first rays stretched over the glassy water, gently caressing the floating mist in a silence that was daring to be broken.

“Here, take these,” Dad said in soft voice, soft not because people were sleeping but soft because the morning’s serenity demanded it.  He handed me a bucket of fresh minnows he had just purchased at the lodge.

I set the bucket down on the corner of the lodge’s expansive porch so that I could zip up my coat.  The late May morning was brisk — there was still snow in shady areas.  It had been a cool spring in northern Minnesota in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.

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The five of us — Dad, my college roommate Curt, Curt’s dad, my brother, and I — loaded up the two canoes with all the provisions we would need for the week, and we set out on our adventure.  We had three very full Duluth packs — a Duluth pack is a large backpack without the frame — that we stuffed into the canoes.  One pack contained all of our clothing and personal supplies; one contained our tent and bedding; and one contained our camp stove, cooking supplies, and food.  Because of the dry spring that year, camp fires were prohibited and all cooking would require the stove.

Equipped with a compass and a detailed map of the lakes, islands, and mainland, each canoe crossed the little cove in front of the lodge on Lake One and headed into open water, intent on making it to Lake Insula by noon.

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We quickly encountered a stout headwind from across the bay, and it stayed with us throughout the morning as we wound our way to Lake Two, Lake Three, and eventually to Insula.

I recall that we had three portages on that trip, though perhaps we had only two.  A portage required unloading the entire canoe and then carrying the canoe and all the supplies across land, from one lake to another.  One of the portages was several hundred feet, grueling even for a college kid.