Birch Forest, Boundary Waters

Nearly one-third of the Boundary Waters blew down in a windstorm in the summer of 1999. John Sheffy, a grizzly ice fishermen, farmer, and teacher who persists each day with the one goal of catching a fish, interviewed guides and outfitters that work along the outposts to try and figure out if people who traveled within this place—and others—perceived the blowdown as something that needs to be managed, something that lowered land value, or something else. His results were surprising. Outfitters and clients all felt that this was more of a wild place, more of a wilderness left untouched. The day before, we walked through one of these blowdown forests. Somewhere between one frozen root mass of a downed birch and a thousand, I got separated from the party. Every step I was postholing. I think I had long abandoned my skis. I could hear one member of our party’s mutters reverberate through the mangled forest. “Fuck. Goddamn. Fuck. Shit Fuck. Mmmph.” The curses echoed through the small forest; contained in the trees. Between the trees and tangles there was blue sky. There was a world beyond that was impenetrable. I stood quietly, covered in snow. The way ahead was still possible, dangerous. My map showed a lake, aptly named Solitude Lake, less than a quarter of a mile ahead. I looked at the sky again, the tangle of the birch trees and turned around. Sizes: 8x10, 11x14, 12x18