Prose of the Boundary Waters
These are a few pieces of prose from my final BWCA project. Enjoy -Marta
Day One
There is a pale pink and rosy morning when the sunlight bleeds through the clouds. And you’re stepping around rocks and creeks, sneaking into the far off wilderness with elms and pines They tower into a deep blue sky that has long since shifted into a midday sun, hot and yellow glow that envelopes your limbs. The ice has long since melted from the first shaky water and the mist dissipated into the night with a strange gleam in the atmosphere. You are rising, growing and swelling with the waves that gather strength at the bow of your ship, your rock, your swaying canoe that has held dozens before you. Its only rented strenght, still unfamiliar with a clumsy paddle in your gloved hands but for the moment it is yours. So complete now, remembering the strokes and how to move the canoe so with the stern at your back you find yourself forgetting time and time is endless. There is no meaning at 2 am to the loon who sings her melodies at night and what does the moose care about 7:34 pm when all she needs is the young calf at her side? There is a Search For the Wild, and you hop from island to island, pushing forward with fresh lungs and newfound strength, a guarantee that you’ll make it this time.
Day Two
Traveling far and wide, there are never any pressing thoughts held in your mind. The only concern is the road ahead of you, but somehow the road is just a carved path through the rugged hills of a northern country you will never fully understand. Long nights drag on when you feel everything around you - the water kissing the barren shore and the trees whispering secrets from their leaves. What can you measure of the distance of your life? You are only eighteen, no future in mind and no desire for anything but your next cheap thrill. There is no space around you but that which you make and sometimes you’ll slip on the muddy rocks, and sometimes you’ll trip into the lukewarm water. There is a weight on your back you never realized you could carry, so when you notice it, you realize its only about how you balance it - not the weight itself. Your legs are young and your shoulders are strong and you can run across the path and you will dance through your hardships.There are journeys you never knew you could take and rods you never knew the length of until you sweated through their rocky terrain.What distance have you traveled? What is life but the process through it? Nothing matters but the moment itself, especially when the moment is early morning and you can’t sleep because of the rock digging into your sore back and your hair still damp from when you rinsed it in Ogish and you still can’t decide if thats a tick or a twig tickling your leg.
Day Three
Navigation is a simple process. In theory, you point at the map and the point at the direction in front of you and call it a day. So with a compass around your neck and a scratched grey paddle pushing the blue water backwards into little whirlwinds, you propel forward. Pushing forth into blue skies and pale water, when you look for a path that leads to nowhere you are bound to become lost. You seek an ancient house that has long since been destroyed; where a woman lived. She was strong and true to her home - a tiny island on a great lake. Defying society, a crazy conception, they wanted more than they could handle. Greed has no hold in the north when you fight for every breath and the animals do not care for your thrones or presidents. A root beer lady pays no heed to anything you desire because her home has always been hers. I discovered that my home was of the north as well.
Day Four
Light rain will keep you awake at night. When a torrential downpour appears, you know its going to be a long morning. This is the way of the wilderness. And you lie still, cozy and awake in a warm sleeping bag with your eyes closed and heart open. The wind will whisper to you and the rain will pound overhead and the tent will shake and the tarp will begin to pool with water because you forgot to tuck the sides under. But you’re deep in your sleeping bag and its warm and just right, so nothing else really matters. A zip of the tent door and out you go, rain gear ready, heading out to face the storm. But now its mist, simple and clean. And fog rolls in over the lake, heavy and dark. With worrisome brows they wonder how will we see each other? Nothing could permeate that heavy mist looming over the dark water. But suddenly you glance again and its gone. Cleared away - the sun shines bright and you canoe away with your best friend at the stern. Sleek paddles churn the water and wildlife hovers at the shore - an American Merganser. Sudden clouds appear and its dark and windy - things become tense. Slipping, falling everywhere and you’re paddling faster to escape your fate. The storm never arrives and the clouds never break and the downpour never begins. The sun grows hot and you paddle lazily into a secret coven bay, headed to your portage. The going is hot and slow, but such is the quiet Way of the Canoe.












