First Time in the BWCA and Solo
by Ben Savitt (continued from page 2)

Six days ago, my time came. First Minneapolis to Duluth on to Ely, windows down, sunroof open wind rushing in from underneath the canoe at eighty. I spent the night in Ely, slept in the outfitter's bunkhouse, early spring, all the other bunks were empty. I awoke at dawn, drove from Ely to the Kawishiwi and put-in #37, I will never forget the unbreakable flatwater, breathtaking, devastating silence, no signs, nothing but me, the slow river, the trees. I was so deeply shaken by the spectacle of the Kawishiwi, I went right past the portage to Bruin the first time and had to backtrack a couple miles. Across Bruin to Little Gabbro, the sweat and insects, my neck locked in a vice from the carrying thwart, the wood crushing down on my shoulder, the seventy-five pound pack on my back and the mud sucking at my boots, each step became a question posed of my will to be answered and followed by another and another and another until at last I saw the water shimmering through the trees like heaven itself. There was no pride of accomplishment, just humble relief that it was over, three hundred rods, and deliverance. Little Gabbro on to big Gabbro and bungling around trying to find the carry-over to Bald Eagle and the site I wanted from the map, the red dot on the north shore sheltered by a green island. I had finally made it.

I am here now and here I have stayed for five days and not a soul have I seen in that time. The thunder, the atmosphere, rattles with electricity, the sky is torn open and I smell the rains from the west soaking the spruce needles, the scent carrying on the stiffening breeze. Crashing waves invade my shores, the air goes soft, velvet. The wind whips through the trees throttling branches against one another creating a din, a clattering above my tent, I hear it only, the blackness complete. One fat drop falls, hits me squarely in the eyes, mixes with old salty sweat, burns.

The storm, violence, fear permeates my skin emanating outward from my thumping heart. I am the red ant, the brown mouse and you the stamping boot heel, the hawk. I am here because I have nothing else, and I will stand, but my knees shake.

I speak my sacred words quietly to myself to grow stronger of will and my voice is lost in rising cacophony of the storm in the forest all around me. I am a fool. When the wind blows, I bend like the sapling. I have found what I came to find and now I can move on. And now I am trapped. Realization of my own smallness and I accept my fate. I am in love with all of this. It is unknown to me. It is beauty, a rebirth. A wolf howls somewhere and another joins.

The storm passes in some other direction. I hear it rumbling and stomping in the darkness, looking for me hidden in the forest. I seat myself on the log and stare into the flames, my voice carries only to the edge of the firelight, my girl, my girl and my mind is quiet at last.