The New Yorker Radio Hour - A Trip to the Boundary Waters

Episode Date: August 1, 2023

Alex Kotlowitz is known as a chronicler of Chicago, and of lives marred by urban poverty and violence. His books set in the city include “An American Summer,” “There Are No Children Here,” and “Never a City So Real.” Nevertheless, for some 40 years he has returned to a remote stretch of woods, summer after summer. At a young age, he found himself navigating a canoe through a series of lakes, deep in the woods along Minnesota’s border with Canada. This stretch of country is known as the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. Larger than Rhode Island, it is a patchwork of more than a thousand lakes, so pristine you can drink directly from the surface. Now in his late sixties, Kotlowitz finds the days of paddling, the leaky tents, the long portages, and the schlepping of food (and alcohol) harder than before, but he will return to the Boundary Waters as long as he can. Last summer, he took a recorder with him on his annual canoe trip, capturing what has kept him coming back year after year.  This segment originally aired on August 6, 2022. New Yorker Radio Hour listeners, we want to hear from you.  We have a few questions about the show and how you listen to it. The survey takes about twenty minutes, and your feedback will help us make our podcast better.  Take the survey here.

This is The New Yorker Radio Hour, a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Welcome to The New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. If you know the work of Alex Kotlowitz, you associate his work with the city of Chicago. He's chronicled urban life and poverty in books that include an American summer. There are no children here, and never a city so real. All of them are set in Chicago. So when I think of Alex Kotloitz, I don't necessarily think of him. paddling a canoe. But at a young age, he found himself on a lake, deep in the woods of the

northern Midwest, and he's gone back there again and again. On a journey last summer, Alex recorded this piece for us. I was 19, and had taken a break from college. I'd been working as a community organizer in Atlanta, and I was unsure what lay ahead. A friend living in Minnesota suggested that he and I head north, and so we traveled 300 miles from Minneapolis to this remote road called the Gunflin Trail. Near the end of the road, within reach of the Canadian border, we rented a canoe and followed a snaking river into a series of lakes, each more beautiful than the last. My anxieties peeled away. I had never experienced such stillness. This is the best of the best of the best of the boundary waters, a wilderness area bigger than the state of Rhode Island, home to over a thousand lakes,

each connected by rocky paths or portages, as are called, ranging from 80 feet to several miles. It feels mythical here, so pristine that you can drink directly from the lakes. The only way in is by canoe, and once you're in, if you don't have a map, forget about it. You're a goner, lost in this jigsaw puzzle. of lakes, some so small you can swim across them, a few so large they could swallow Manhattan. From that first trip nearly 40 years ago, I was smitten. There's a line that I think about a lot from the conservationist and author Terry Tempest Williams. She writes, If you know wilderness and the way you know love, you would be unwilling to let it go.

I'm 67 now, and I know that these voyages will only get tougher and eventually impossible. And so I'm trying to get up here as much as I can. So where is that chest, Alex? Well, I don't put together. Okay. In late June, three friends and I arrived at a bunkhouse we rented from an outfitter. It was our jumping off point for our trip. We woke early to get our permit and to load six portage packs with clothes, gear, and enough food for nine days.

Yeah, this one's really heavy. Chris, whom I've been paddling with for three decades, woke up with a sore throat and was feeling sluggish. I can bring down the mood pretty easy. Well, I mean, if you have COVID, man. We assumed it was COVID. This is going to be really interesting. Then my wife Maria called.

She'd tested positive. It's like a funeral this morning. We haven't even started. I'm like, come on, man. All right. We hesitated for just to. a moment. We figured if Chris has COVID or if I get COVID, what the hell? There couldn't be a more curative place to be than on the water. But then the outfitter, Andy, warned us it wasn't going to be

an easy paddle. The wind is going to be straight into your face. Oh my God, are you serious. It's a southwest wind. You guys are going southwest. Can you do anything about it? The next few days are going to be a little trying. You know, it's like we're in the Bermuda Triangle here. I just like, we just freaking got here. I've waited three years to get here. That's my friend Gary. He's a longtime backpacker,

but this is his first time in the boundary waters. What? You're doing okay? Yeah, no. You just got to show me what to do, man. We're good. We're good to go, man. Our destination that first night was Ogish Komunzi Lake,

which paddlers simply call Ogish. We paddled all day through three lakes into a fierce headwind. Just straight. and so didn't get to Ogish until early evening. All 11 campsites were taken. Yeah, it's a good wind, huh? This is the wondrous paradox of the Boundary Waters. Even though the campsites on Ogish were full,

the lake felt devoid of people. And that's the thing. This is a really popular place to come to in the Midwest. But after a day or two of paddling, you might not see another person for days. After nearly 10 hours of travel on that first day, we pushed on to the next lake, found a campsite, cook some brats and green beans. Red wine?

Yeah. Whatever there is. But yeah, I prefer red. And then prepared to bed down for the night. Be ready to get dark in half an hour or so. I came here with my recorder, hoping to capture what so envelops me here. The mournful whales of loons at night. The lakes telling stories, the skies shouting.

But it occurred to me that very first night that I can't really capture on tape the true splendor of this place. It inhabits me. It lives inside me. And besides, how can you capture the signature of the boundary waters, its quietude? One writer, Seagart Olson, described being here as a time for silence. There's no way that rope is going to hold. Come on, Alex, don't we go. Let's be the gloomy gust. Every night before going to bed, we hang our food to keep it from the bear.

You'll make it harder for the bear. Yeah, that'll be the last, that's the last obstacle for the bear. He's going to say, oh, my God, it's tied in knots and forget it. Screw it. That's Gary again. It ain't worth it. I'll go to the other campsite. He can't help himself.

He's just naturally exuberant. Oh, my God, we're totally screwing this. You know that. Once we're talking on a Chicago street corner in the early morning, and a man approached us. He scolded Gary. You know, you're talking really loud. As if Gary didn't know, it's who he is. He just pulls on it and comes down. It's one of the things I love about him. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. More to come. Nine days, we paddled and portaged, fished, and swam.

but we mostly watched and listened. God, what a beautiful morning, huh? Just, I mean, clear sky. Fantastic. Yeah, the only thing you hear is the river. We watched a young eagle feast on a moose carcass in the shallows of a lake. We fended off an aggressive grouse. We ogled the peculiar abundance of butterflies.

On past trips, I've spotted moose and mank and otter. One time, Chris and I heard a pack of wolves howling from across a lake. I've canoed past a snapping turtle, the size of a car tire. Another time passed a pair of trumpeter swans, swimming protectively alongside their two signets. And just filled the mosquitoes. Mm-hmm. That's where we're out here. This is the fun. Needless to say, it's not all serenity here. Do you get them all? No. No. Plus, the portages can be punishing. Carrying the canoe or a 50-pound pack over boulders and through mud often up steep inclines.

Or paddling on a day when the wind-swept waters turn moody. The swells can get so high that if you're in the bow of the canoe, you can't reach the water with your paddle. Some days, even preparing wood for a fire is tough. The physical exertion, especially at our age, is wearing, but it's as if you're folded into the land. And honestly, it's nothing if you Advil and a good meal won't take care of. I bet that trout is gone. It is.

We ate well on this trip. Over four nights, we ate fresh lake trout and northern pike. It was amazing. I'm not going to lie, I like the northern better. We also had spaghetti and pesto. even Jumbalaya. Jim, who's an old college friend, and Chris, are incredible cooks.

Chris, don't you think that's too much red pepper flakes in there? I was in trouble. Some travel the boundary of water solo, but I already live too much in my head, and days alone here, I fear, would only pull me further inward. And besides, I relish the company. The one you should feel humiliated is Chris. He hasn't caught a fish yet

So Jim, how did that snag feel? When did you figure out that it was a snag and not a huge fish? Jim, don't let him do this to you. In the evenings, Chris made us gin and tonics. He uses flavored fizz tablets mixed in lake water. Well, look at that sunset over there, guys. Incredible. Look at the red.

up on the corner there. See how it just kind of pokes through the clouds? Yeah. Just amazing. It's like the clouds are so close. Up here, you feel like you can touch them. Incredible. Around the campfire, we talk about family,

about politics, about books, but most often about really nothing at all. Where do loons go in the winter? That's a Wikipedia. We got a wiki that when we get cell service. I've neglected to mention there's no cell service inside this million acres of lakes and woods. And so we're off the grid, a rare time when we're disconnected from the world. Our last night, on a campsite with a panoramic view of Tuscarora Lake, we take our last swim.

Oh, oh my gosh. So sweet, so cold. It's freezing. There was quite recently an effort to build a mark. mine, a copper mine along a river running into this wilderness, a river that feeds these lakes. Mining copper can be particularly toxic, and should any of the toxins leak, it would irreparably contaminate the waters. Who I ask would want to risk scarring this place. I like what Gary said about this place, Chris. He wishes he could bring some of it back with him inside him.

How's that for being deep? It's true. That's deep. It's true, man. Don't you wish Chris you could take this home? All right, we're going to put out the fire. Okay. Christopher.

Nope. I think you. Me? You're the newbie. The newbie, the rookie. The MVP. What? Okay, rookie of the year.

I'm the only rookie here, so I've got to be rookie of the year. The next day, after three more lakes and two, portages, one a mile long, and paddling yet again into a strong headwind, we arrived back where we started. It's habit for me that the first thing I do is call my wife, Maria, to make sure all's well. And this time, I especially wanted to know that she had made it through her bout of COVID-OK. She usually preempts me and says, everything's good here. This time, she blurts out, things are really bad. She wasn't talking about her COVID. In the time we'd been gone, the Supreme Court overturned Rovers Wade.

They expanded the rights to carry a gun. They constrained the EPA. Nothing good. And that first weekend home in my city, Chicago, 10 people were killed, another 62 wounded by gunfire. And just north of the city, a young man with a semi-automatic rifle, killed seven people at a July 4th parade. The country felt like it was shattering. I usually put my paddle away in the garage,

but this time I've leaned it against a wall in my office. It's something to hold on to, to help me slip into that place where I can watch the sky sashay and where I can listen to the lakes breathe. That place where no matter the storms on the horizon, I can find refuge in the stillness. I'm unwilling to let it go.

Alex Kotlowitz. After we first aired this story, the Biden administration announced a 20-year ban on mining in areas upstream from the boundary waters. Alex would like to thank Tuscarora Lodge and canoe outfitters and Chris Walker, Jim Adler, and Gary Marks, who allowed Alex to record their vacation.

They told me specifically to get people washing dishes. You want to train places, Alex? I'll make sure I get you. No, you don't know how to handle it. It looks really hard. You just wash the dishes and leave the artist alone, okay? I'm David Remnick, and that's our program for today. Thanks for listening.

We'll see you next time. The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Our theme music was composed and performed by Merrill Garbess of Tune Arts with additional music by Louis Mitchell. This episode was produced by Max Walton, Brita Green, Adam Howard, Kalalia, David Krasnow, Jeffrey Masters, Louis Mitchell, and Gophon in Putabwele, with guidance from Emily Boutin and assistance from Harrison Keithline, Michael May, David Gable, and Alejandra Decker. The New Yorker Radio Hour is supported in part by the Cherina Endowment Fund.