m e a d o w l a r k

I am taking a creative writing class in my measly little high school, and despite the fact that i loathe writing more than just about anything, I can’t deny that I’m pretty good at it. My teacher told me today that i needed to become a writer when I grew up, echoing the words of my fourth grade teacher. Its not gonna happen, of course, but I thought I’d at least share a story I wrote with you guys. Its about last years winter camping trip, exaggerated to the point of being interesting, but entirely true…

           The wind ripped through every seam and joint in our many layers of clothing. It seemed impossible that it could find its way through so much insulation; but despite the fact that our attire made us look like marshmallows, the icy chill still stung like knives. It was the dead of winter in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, and my father, Jason, and I were hours away from any other human beings. It was only our second annual trip to the BWCAW, but my father and I had been going winter camping for many years before. Every trip provides new challenges, but this year proved to be the toughest yet.

            We were on the return trip to the car, with a five mile hike ahead of us. In the summer, a five mile hike is nothing, but with more than a foot of snow underneath our feet and over 100 pounds of gear, we were all put to the test. The hike started very smoothly, we all had a surprisingly comfortable night of sleep in our tent and a much needed, delicious breakfast. The sun shined with a bright orange glow over our camp, the only sign of civilization for miles in every direction. The lofty evergreen trees covered monstrous bluffs in such a way that it did not even seem real. Snow sprinkled every tree like powdered sugar, and the soft wind whispered in and out of these emerald sentinels that protected us from the full force of the cold. The only sounds were the occasional bird, looking to share our breakfast, and the blood flowing through our ears. We took our time leaving, enjoying the peace while we could, and knowing that we would need to conserve our energy as much as possible.

            After packing up all of our gear into sleds, we prepared ourselves for the journey ahead. By then it was noon, and we were completely unaware of the time constraints we would later have.

            We then crossed colossal lakes, with untouched snow stretching all the way to the horizon, making fairly good time, stopping only occasionally for a snack of tender, juicy, salty, homemade beef jerky; crunchy, yet sweet apple chips; or my personal favorite, cheez-itz.

            “Food tastes better out here than it does at home,” I proclaimed. Jason and my father nodded in satisfied agreement, conversing only between bites.

            “Yeah, your mom really did a great job preparing the meals,” Jason said.

            “She always does,” I answered. The food is one of my favorite parts about our winter camp trips.

            The salt rejuvenated us, but it wasn’t enough to prepare us for what laid ahead. We reached the first portage about two miles into our hike, and it was there we reached our first real challenge.

            A portage is trail across land, connecting one lake to another. In the warmer months, canoes are carried through these narrow trails. The trails were laced with monstrous hills, and the sleds nearly drug us back down to the bottom. Going uphill was very difficult, but going downhill is what’s truly dangerous. If I was to lose control of my sled, it could topple of the edge of the bluff into a valley thirty feet below. A couple times we came close, but the hill never quite got the best of us. If one of us was to get hurt, it would be hours before we could get to a hospital. No words were spoken; we were focused only on the task in front of us. Every muscle was strained as we made our way over each climb, praying that each hill will be the last. On some of the steeper hills we needed help from another, with one man pushing and one pulling. Just as we thought we could go no farther, we reached the last descent. After a seemingly eternal trip down, we had reached the bottom.

            We stopped once again for much needed energy, while hunger ate away at the insides of our stomachs. We were all very relieved, but this stop is much more somber than the last, for we knew another portage loomed ahead. The food was no less delicious, but we had far less time to enjoy it. The portage took us longer than we expected, and the warm daylight was limited. When the sun sets, the entire world seemed to send itself into another ice age.

            A mile later we reached the second portage, exhausted, but not spent; as we raced the sun to our car. None of us were ready to face another portage.

            “Perhaps we should go over the creek instead of taking the portage,” my dad suggested. We had a difficult decision ahead of us. The portage would be difficult, but the creek could be more dangerous, for running water will not freeze. The portage was above the creek, so there could be no changing of our decision. Still bruised from the last portage, Jason and I both agreed with my father.

            It began much easier, raising our hopes as we hiked on. In the valley it was undeniably beautiful. Giant hands painted the landscape with purest white we had ever seen, covering the felled trees and brush that lay ahead. But as the brush thickened, the ice got dangerously thinner. At some points all three of us needed to work with all our strength to get just one sled through the thick brush. We saw only bulky undergrowth ahead, and heard only the sound of water running beneath our feet, growing louder and louder.

            The fierce undergrowth became impossibly thick as we pressed on. It even destroyed one of the sleds. Many times we had to lift our sleds and carry them; all the while the sky got a shade darker. Suddenly, the unthinkable happened. The ice broke and Jason’s leg fell through, drenching him up to his knees. In danger of hypothermia, his clothing was ice in a matter of minutes. From then on it was a scramble for survival, racing against the elements for safety. Life became a frantic blur as we thought of nothing other then pressing on. Days seemed to pass as we gave it everything we’ve got to finish our struggle. In what felt like a century later, we made it. Five hours passed since we left, meaning we averaged only one mile an hour through portages and across lakes.

            Hours later, upon our return home, I was forced to ponder why on earth we go on such trips. But as I had a warm, home cooked meal and put on dry clothes, my question was answered. My meal tasted sweeter than any other I’ve ever known, and my bed more comfortable than any other in the world. I could truly appreciate what I did have, instead of worrying about what I didn’t. I got a taste of life, and a much needed change of scenery. I was able to truly live, while not many people do.