Before long, another adventure called our family north—into a place where paintball guns were replaced by paddles, and schedules gave way to the rhythm of wilderness. The Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota invited us into an entirely different classroom. Instead of strategy and competition, it offered silence, teamwork, patience, and an interconnectedness that comes from depending on one another.
The summer of 2006 was our maiden voyage into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness—the BWCA as it’s affectionately known. Six of us piled into a van in Minneapolis and headed north toward Ely, equal parts excitement and inexperience. It was the first Boundary Waters trip for every one of us: me, my son, my brothers Dave and Chuck, and my two nephews. Mugsy, my brother's Pekinese pooch, also made the trek.
We were rookies. Enthusiastic rookies—but rookies nonetheless. My brother, Chuck, had pored over BWCA maps for months prior and had done his best to bring all of us up to his level of excitement for the trip before us.
The drive from Minneapolis to Ely is about 245 miles and typically takes four-and-a-half hours, depending on stops and how heavy your foot feels that day. Ours felt longer—not because of traffic, but because we were packed like sardines.
When I say packed, I mean packed.
Four of us were wedged into the back and middle rows, our gear stacked around us like an elaborate game of three-dimensional Tetris. Coolers. Dry bags. Tents. Fishing rods. Food packs. If the van had rolled, none of us in the back would have moved an inch. The only people with actual legroom were Jake and his cousin who had the luxury seating. The rest of us were human cargo, cushioned by backpacks and sleeping pads.
But no one complained. This was the beginning of an adventure.
We arrived the night before entry and picked up our equipment from an outfitter in Ely. Three canoes. Two men per canoe. For most of the trip, the pairings were consistent. That summer had been unusually dry. Water levels throughout the Boundary Waters were down. The silver lining? Mosquitoes were down, too—a minor miracle in northern Minnesota.
The downside? Fire restrictions.
We could build small fires for cooking, but recreational campfires were prohibited. Everything was tinder dry. No glowing embers. No late-night storytelling around a crackling blaze. It felt like camping with one of the great rituals removed.
Still, you don’t go to the BWCA for luxury. You go to be one with the natural world, for silence, water, and the steady rhythm of paddle strokes. You go to prove you can.
Because water levels were low, the portages felt more frequent. Beaver dams—those marvels of muddy engineering—forced us out of the canoes repeatedly. The beavers, industrious little architects, had blocked water flow in places that once would’ve allowed smooth passage.
So we’d hop out. Pull the canoe over. Balance awkwardly. Step into mud. And that mud? It wasn’t ordinary mud. It was the kind that grabs your boots like it’s claiming squatter’s rights. More than once, you had to pull your foot out carefully to avoid leaving your shoe behind. It was messy. It was inconvenient. It was perfect.
Beyond the muddy gymnastics of hauling canoes over beaver dams, there were the standard portages—those well-worn trails that required unloading everything, hoisting canoes overhead, and hiking gear across stretches of forest to the next lake. The first few were clumsy and inefficient, with paddles dropping, packs shifting, and someone inevitably asking, “Who’s got the food bag?” But after several rounds, we became a well-oiled machine.
Without much discussion, we instinctively knew who grabbed the canoe, who shouldered the heavy packs, who handled the loose gear—and even who kept an eye on the dog. By the end of the trip, our portages felt less like obstacles and more like a coordinated relay, each of us playing our part with quiet efficiency.
The first day out, we were in a hurry. A storm was reportedly coming, and we wanted to secure a campsite before weather and other paddlers beat us to it. We found a site—but “ideal” would’ve been a generous description. This would be our home base for most of the vacation, and we would take day trips from here and return. One of the tents was pitched on what I distinctly remember as a slab of rock. Hard. Slightly slanted. Not exactly a Sleep Number setting.
Gravity, it turns out, is undefeated. Throughout the night, you’d drift—slowly but surely—toward the downhill edge of the tent. Adjust. Slide again. Adjust. Slide again. My son and I had brought small, compact camping pillows. Compact might be generous. They were about the size of a folded sweatshirt and just as structurally reliable. I remember watching him fall asleep, slowly drifting sideways as the night wore on. And at some point—every time—I’d quietly borrow his pillow.
It became a ritual.
He’d drift.
I’d slide.
The pillow would migrate.
Fatherhood has many sacred privileges. This was one of them.
At one point during the trip, my older nephew, Dan, and I decided to push north—hard. We took off by ourselves. We set our sights on Lac La Croix, the expansive border lake straddling Minnesota and Canada. We kept calling it “LaCroix,” like the sparkling water, but this was the original.
The two of us paddled like we were being timed.
I had actually trained for this trip—lifting weights and rowing to get into shape—and I felt it. Dan, always athletic, matched every stroke. Our canoe skimmed across the surface. Portages were brisk. Efficient. Almost competitive. For a stretch, it felt less like a canoe and more like a speedboat powered by two human motors.
We reached the northern waters, brushed the invisible Canadian boundary, and turned back. Crossing into another country was part of it, but it was more about momentum. Hypnotic movement. Shared effort. Synchronized paddling bonds people. Two paddles entering and exiting the water in rhythm for hours. No words needed.
Fishing was part of the plan. Catch dinner. Live off the land.
Reality? Mixed results.
I am not, and never have been, a skilled fisherman. One of my nephews, on the other hand, managed to catch a few. We were all new to filleting fish, but we did our best. No one starved. Many of our meals came courtesy of pre-packaged freeze-dried camp food—often called MREs (Meals Ready-to-Eat) or similar ready-made backpacking meals. Add boiling water, wait patiently, and voilà: dinner.
My younger nephew had done much of the food preparation and planning, so there was always something to eat. It may not have been gourmet, but after a full day of paddling and portaging, it tasted like a five-star meal. I remember my older brother bringing what I thought was his entire kitchen full of pots and pans. Those were all put in one bag that he, thankfully, carried on each portage.
Hunger improves everything.
One of the biggest lessons of the BWCA? You have to be able to read a map. The Boundary Waters doesn’t come with signage. No helpful arrows saying “Next Lake This Way.” The inlets and outlets between lakes are often subtle—overgrown with reeds or tucked behind bends. If you don’t know how to interpret a topographical map and compass, you can waste a lot of time—or worse, head the wrong direction. Yes. We did that a time or two. There’s something humbling about navigating by map alone. No GPS. No phone signal. Just contour lines and instinct.
And then there was the quiet. More than absence of sound— the presence of peace. Gentle waves against the canoe. Wind in the pines. Occasional bird songs. Wildlife was sparse that week; it seemed the animals were keeping their distance. But the stillness itself was enough. It slowed me down. It rearranged my thinking.
My son, even then, was serious about fitness. I remember him doing pull-ups and chin-ups on tree branches at camp, as if the BWCA doubled as an outdoor gym. There we were—surrounded by pristine wilderness—and he was squeezing in reps between paddling sessions. I suppose some habits stick wherever you go.
What I remember most isn’t the mud or the slanted tent or the freeze-dried dinners. It’s the six of us. Two generations represented in three canoes. Brothers. Sons. Nephews. A father and his boy. Cousins living as family and laughing across the water. Stories shared in the fading daylight. We were inexperienced. Our gear wasn’t perfect. We overpacked and underestimated certain challenges. But we did it, and we did it together.
Twenty years later, we had plans to do it again in the summer of 2026. Most of the same faces. Many more gray hairs. Better pillows and pads. Much more experience with my brother’s family going several more times together since that first trip. Unfortunately, fires and smoke shut down the BWCA for all would-be voyagers just two weeks before our trip.
That first Boundary Waters trip gave me time to get away, pause, and tuck away for life truths. It reminded me that the best experiences with family and in life aren't always the easiest ones. They're often the ones that require shared effort, a little discomfort, and a willingness to embrace the unexpected.