Loon Song

Healing my heart in the Wilderness of the Boundary Waters

Photo by Jesse Garrido

Our homespun group had been planning this adventure for months. Myself, my son, and my beloved neighbors had bought special gear, dehydrated vegetables, built muscle whenever possible, and then flew and drove half way across the country to meet up with dear friends, who happened to be Outward Bound counselors, to paddle in the 10,000 lakes of Minnesota. I needed to make this trip for my hearts sake. The world had seemed too much lately, and something in me knew I needed to go to the wilderness to find my resilience.

All of us were eager to return to the ancient practices of canoeing, portaging, fishing, gathering berries, securing fresh water, making camp and building fires to cook our food. We were leaving behind jobs, school, computers, phones, houses and cars to push off into the pure lakes of this precious, protected place.

My son and I flew there. I struggled to reconcile the fact that we did not have time or resources to find a way to get there without burning fossil fuels. As our plane lifted off, I felt like we were popping through the threads of Mother Earth’s web, leaving irreparable strands descending down as torrential rains and blistering heat plagued the Earth below us. I felt fear rumbling in my bones at the immense power that was being used to catapult us through thin air. I thought, this human ingenuity is magnificent and horrible at the same time. My heart tightened around itself, knowing I was complicit in the choice to rip open the air in order to get somewhere fast. I made a little prayer to the clouds, to the blue, to the sun bursting through, that somehow we would find a way to create balance for the next seven generations, and I made a pledge to buy carbon offsets.

Our Duluth friends and their dogs greeted us cheerily in the midst of their busy preparations. Scanning the lawn, I saw all the packs and canoes laid out in preparation and felt the wilderness getting closer. We all carefully combed through our gear leaving behind anything extraneous, and the next morning headed for the “put in” on Moose Lake where human civilization meets the wild.

We placed our canoes carefully down into the water and filled them with our packs while the dogs skillfully found their places. Then we gingerly stepped into our canoes. A jolt of energy shot through me with each paddle stroke as we left behind the comforts and stresses of the modern world.

That first day the sky was a purplish green, hazed by Canadian fire smoke. My heart ached, my lungs labored, my mind struggled to free itself from the dread I so often feel as I contemplate climate change. I knew that I needed to keep my body moving and calm my mind. I focused my attention on the land and water and my dear clan of human beings rhythmically paddling us forward toward a camp spot where we could set up before the mosquitos emerged from the mosses and leaves.

On that first day we portaged our gear and boats five times, on the second day we portaged nine times! Each time we came to shore, we left the sweet glide of canoe travel to step clumsily onto slippery rocks. We all wore the necessary protective boots and shoes that would mean having our feet wet all day, but safe from injury. With the dogs whining for the freedom of land, we sloshed out of the water and set to the sweaty work of lifting our heavy gear out of rocking boats and portaging everything on our backs, including canoes, over rocks and roots in pursuit of deeper wilderness and the perfect camp spot.

One day, Deep in the meditation of paddling, I was startled by a loon regarding me fearlessly with its bright red eye, and then flashing a perfectly patterned montage of white and slick black feathers, it dove deep into the dark waters. I longed to dive in with it and swim to the depths of another world. I wanted to meet up with the ancient ones and ask them for help with my all too human world. I imagined a giant old fish with a gaping mouth slowly forming the words “don’t be afraid of the dark, let the wild wisdom inside you be your guide”.

I looked for the loon to surface and felt my attention sharpen to the patterns in the waves. I paused and put my palm to my heart and then reached out to the water and the loon, still somewhere deep below, and whispered: “thank you for showing me the dark that lies below the surface.”

In the days that followed my gratitude grew stronger with my aching muscles. Especially for my impromptu tribe of friends whose collective experience in the wild made it possible for me to journey where I could not have gone alone. Some of the adults had spent many months in the wilderness, and even some of the teenagers, including my son, had browned their skin in sun, dirt and fire smoke many times. And some, like me, we were learning the focused, intense work of wilderness journeying for the first time.

The first few days I felt like a baby chick breaking out of it’s shell, taking it’s first breaths of something mysteriously familiar yet shockingly radical from my seemingly protective human spaces and awakening to a landscape that called on my whole being to navigate.

Yet, as Spruce and pine emerged strait and thick from bright green moss, I found my heart soften. As grasses waved below giant smoothed rocks covered with infinite varieties of rust, brown, green and grey lichen, my mind was all curiosity. As ferns leaned out from dark crevices wiggling in the wind, spontaneous giggles erupted in my throat. And the darkness in my heart, about our plight on this earth, became the mud that nourished the hundreds of white water lillys glimmering like crystals on the blue green surface of the lakes. I was being nurtured on every level of my being by letting go of human made comforts and immersing myself in the wild.

One night heat lightening pounded the sky, breaking open the darkness as the loons sang their sad songs. An inner guard was awake in me as our group had talked about the perils of lightning and what to do if strikes are close. As I sensed the storm passing, my fear melted and I curled into my sleeping bag, near my beloved son who had inspired this trip and was graciously sharing this time with me even as a teenager preparing to fly to his own new world.

In the early morning light, I watched a pair of Bald Eagles quietly leave their nest and glide slowly over the water and up into giant white pines along the shore. They trilled to each other, maybe sending prayers for a good day of fishing. Sun soaked turtles leaned into each other on floating logs, their ancient hard backs weathering so many changes through millions of years, yet deeply held by the patterns set forth by our turning planet.

By chance, my eye caught sight of two golden eagles up in the crotch of a dead tree working on their nest. They were so big I thought for a moment they were dogs standing up on their hind legs balancing on the branches. A surrealistic moment that erupted into awe as I realized they were giant birds rarely seen, yet living freely in this quiet place. I felt the threads of earth, air, fire and water woven with the changes of season making a breathtakingly beautiful quilt on which all life, including me could rest.

It was on our last full day in the Boundary Waters, swimming across a channel to a nearby island to find blueberries, when something in me fully let go into the embrace of the wilderness. My muscles had hardened, my skin browned, my mind was cleansed by the power of beauty and gratitude and communal living. I savored every moment of immersion; cool water touching all of my skin, wind sparkled waves, white cumulus clouds, old wise faces in rocks, trees offering shelter, and my friends on the shore preparing dinner around the fire. This was the heaven that I knew my wild soul had come from connecting me to my very first ancestors who walked this earth. I needed to hone my body to the land to truly feel this in my heart.

Now back in the all too human world, the trappings of modernity seem all the more absurd to me, but the tiny traces of the wild still hang on in my heart and between the cracks in the pavement. I trust that our way back to balance lies in the dedication of spaces preserved just for the wild. Even on our lawns, if we were to let the grasses and wildflowers flourish, the frogs and bees, beetles, salamanders, worms, and billions of tiny unseeable microbes would happily return to make heaven on earth again.