French River near Highway 11 – October 3, 2013

I slid into the landing for the Brûlé Portage, beached the boat, and left to scout the trail. I wanted to look at it, to make sure it existed, to figure out how to get the boat across.

It started as a well-used dirt road, but a sharp left turn dead ended into a closed gate hung with “no trespassing” signs. I stared at them for a moment, then saw an overgrown path continuing straight from the turn. It passed a forgotten old pickup and the rusted shell of a boat, shooting through knee high grasses and over a few deadfalls before dropping down into a creek under an old railroad bridge.

I went back for the boat, rolled it down the road, past the old pickup, and dragged it over the deadfalls. It slid into the creek and followed me like a dog on a leash until Brûlé Lake opened up in front of us.

I looked around like I’d just cheated, got in the boat, and paddled away.

I felt the same guilt yesterday on the Baril Portage, a nice, quarter-mile path through the woods. Muddy in places, a few tricky parts, some rocks, but nothing really beyond a chance to walk for a bit.

The memories of unused paths and trails that disappear hang like specters behind my eyes. I see a portage and I think of sinking into bogs and crashing through woven branches, of staring at the needle of my compass and rejoicing over a few feet of packed earth, not of a path through the forest from one lake to the next.

The Kam, the Prairie, the Savanne, they pushed the concept of difficult so far out that it makes hauling a boat a half-mile down a path seem easy, forgettable even, just a few minutes on a trail. Lakes disappear behind me. Rivers fade. I move again. I see it on maps, the world breaking off in pieces, and wonder how many I have left.