It Almost Didn't Happen: Winter BWCAW 2023

After over 25 years of bringing students to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in the dead of winter, it wasn't the cold, the snow and slush, or the students themselves who would be the end of such an amazingly powerful tradition.

It was money.

With skyrocketing costs for transportation and lodging for the group, and personal costs assumed by each participant for winter clothing and gear, this was the year that it became too much. Too much to ask our students to shoulder. Too much to put on families who have to balance necessities against experiences. Even with teachers volunteering their time and working doggedly to create an affordable experience, it didn't feel right. Asking simply highlighted the massive inequities in our educational system, where still today a student's access to money buys them access to powerful educational experiences.

As we began our initial preparations for the February trip in October, arranging transportation and lodging, the costs immediately became immense. Speaking to students, providing a cost estimate, you could see in their faces that for many of them it was way too much.

How is it that spending 3 days living on a frozen lake in a shelter you built with your own hands could cost so much?

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February 24: Friday: 7 am

A day late due to snow storms the days before, its -7 F as cars roll up behind the school and unload sleds loaded with gear. Sleds are stacked into the school bus's trailer, with snowshoes, skis, and shovels layered on top. Parent's hugs begrudgingly accepted, the seniors walk off to first period class knowing today will be a little different than most.

With 12 students, four teachers, and a driver/teacher (me), the bus rolls out at 2pm, beginning the long drive to YMCA Camp Menogyn, 300 miles north on the Gunflint Trail. The roads are dry and quick and high schooler's bladders are large enough to make it all the way to Two Harbors on Lake Superior's North Shore. A quick stop at Kwik-Trip and McDonald's for dinner and we continue, the road getting bumpier and narrower as the miles tick by.

Rolling through Grand Marais we finally turn left and head up the long, steep hill that graces the entrance to the Gunflint Trail. Narrower and bumpier, students at the back of the bus didn't believe it when told to hold on tight. My own first memory of this drive as a 13 year old on his first trip the the BWCAW, stuffed into a cramped 15-passenger van, was slightly

rougher (not paved) than tonight's drive, but students still found themselves squealing as the bus rolled down the lurching pavement. The icy road slowly took us further north, away from the shore of Lake Superior and deep into the Superior National Forest.

Turning right again toward Bearskin Lake, the road narrowed further, winnowing into a single lane of no retreat, with pine branches tickling the bus windows and the rear duallys slightly widening the snow bank lined road. The dark woods seemed to swallow us whole, the only lights our own headlights.

Greeted at the end of the road by two Menogyn staff, we parked the bus and the students were unpacked and ready in no time at all, months of anticipation finally coming to fruition. A half mile snowshoe across Bearskin Lake in the moonlight, no headlamps really needed, got the blood flowing, and we finally arrived at our destination for the night.

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February 25th: Saturday

After a night in the bunks at Menogyn, and one last warm meal eaten indoors, Mr. Lakanen and I hit the trail just before 8:30 am, setting a trail for students to follow. Compared to last year the travel was fast. Heading west we found the well-worn portage to Duncan Lake, then kept traveling to the far west side of Duncan, breaking a snowshoe trail down the seemingly never-ending finger to the next portage. We made quick progress over the 200+ rod hilly portage to Partridge Lake, with a solid, packed snow base on the winding path covered with 4" of fresh powder. In what was to become a reoccurring phenomenon, shouts of joy were unleashed as the first sight of Partridge Lake emerged between the trees. Taking a sharp left onto the frozen expanse of Partridge, we chose a camp spot nestled into the SE corner of the lake. 4 miles and 1.5 hours after leaving Menogyn, we were at our new home for the next 3 days.

While Lakanen set up camp, I grabbed a warm layer and snowshoed back down the portage

to Duncan, camera ready. Looking East across the lake, dark figures dragging sleds slowly marched towards me, following the broken trail we laid in small groups of 3 - 5. Pacing to keep warm, I watched the dark figures morph into humanoid shapes as they neared, until finally being able to greet them at the beginning of the portage. Smiles replaced frowns as

they realized that their march across Duncan was over, and the much worried about hilly final portage was about to begin, marking the beginning of the end.

I followed them as they struggled over the portage, helping where I could but mostly letting them enjoy the struggle.

Heavy sleds seem to have a mind of their own on those hilly, uneven portages; tipping often, usually in inopportune times, gaining an unexpected amount of momentum on the short but steep downhills, getting stuck on a tree or rock as the trail wound around a sharp corner,

or sometimes just refusing to move as their weight won in the battle up that steep hill. Students pushed and pulled, working together to get their sleds up and over. Sometimes they were on all fours trying to battle their way up a loose, snowy slope that was no match for their snowshoes. Inevitably the sleds, bound

together with ropes and bungees like an overstuffed burrito, would explode, spewing their contents and bringing everyone to a halt. Layers were shed as sweat was collected. And maybe, I'm not sure if my ears caught it or not, a word or two of frustration was yelled, often to be followed a shout of triumph.

Working my way around students, I waited for them at the end of the portage, their arrival always announced by shouts of joy. Their faces, emerging into the sunlight blasting the open ice of Partridge, showed pure joy and pride. They had earned this. It was all theirs to be proud of.

We made it.

We made it this year because a bunch of amazing organizations in the Twin Cities helped us make it here. The Friends of the Boundary Waters stepped up and provided financial support by covering our bus and first night's lodging as part of their "No Boundaries to the Boundary Waters" Program. From our first conversation, it was clear that their commitment to promoting equity in the wilderness and fostering the next generation of wilderness enthusiasts was not just a collection of showy words. They really mean it and were eager to help us get our students into the Boundary Waters.

Watching these student's faces as they emerged from the forest onto the frozen, snow covered lake deep in the Boundary Waters, where no signs of any other human's presence existed, where their cell phones were quickly dying from the cold and couldn't even provide a connection if they did work, where the only way to travel was their own two feet, where everything was on them... their faces showed an authentic self that rarely shows in the traditional 4-walled classroom.

We made it.

As the groups emerged onto Partridge, they checked their maps, plotted their course to their intended camp location, and spread out across the long, narrow lake. Interspersed between the students and bringing up the rear, the remaining three teachers joined us at our camp on the lake. And just as the students were, we began setting up camp, preparing for the disappearance of the warm sun in a few hours and the beginning of the most challenging part of any winter camping experience... the first night out.

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February 26th: Sunday

We tell students to bring two sleeping bags and two pads. Doesn't matter how warm they are rated we tell them, just make sure you bring two. Because sleeping is the hardest part. It doesn't work the same out here as it does at home. A month before we go, we make students sleep out in quinzhees at home, too. Experience is the best teacher. After that first night out at home, they understand why two sleeping bags are needed. They trust us teachers after that.

We definitely needed two sleeping bags that first night out. Having done about 15 of these trips, I know I'm a hot sleeper, and usually only use one of my bags on these trips. This night, I put the 2nd bag over my first like a blanket. If you're cold, the only way to make heat is to start moving. Sit-ups. Wiggle worming. Toe and foot clenching. If your muscles are moving, you'll make heat. I did a lot of wiggling around that night. The wind whipped and howled. Trees crackled in the cold, inspiring thoughts of wild creatures dancing through the moonlit woods and into our dreams.

Getting up for the day is a bag of mixed emotions. For one, you're restless because you went to bed at 9 and now its 7 and you never get to sleep (but did you actually sleep?) that much. Two, you can see the day light shining and the thought of the warm sun's rays beating on your face is quite enticing. Oh... but the thought of emerging from your warm sleeping bag cocoon and putting on layer after layer after layer of slightly crunchy, kinda frozen clothing is not enticing. What usually does it though is quite simple. Nature calls.

Water scooped from our hand-drilled hole in the lake's thick ice, it now heats to boiling on our white gas stove. Breakfast is simple and easy Pop-tarts, sweet and salty snacks, and hot chocolate and coffee. We teachers watch across the lake at the distant student's camps, looking to see activity. It was a cold, cold night, but they all made it through.

Today is a day to enjoy. A full day to just be in this place.

Some of us will fish for lake trout. Some will enjoy snowshoeing without the burden of a sled and go explore the area. I will ski. And we will eat. A lot of eating. Because even when you're just standing there, you're burning a lot of calories just staying warm. We eat as much as we can. And we drink as much water as possible, whether it be as hot cocoa or mixed with Gatorade or just straight boiled plain water... just get it before it freezes. This year we are gifted with a gloriously sunny and warm day. Spirits are high across the lake, even if only a few fish are caught.

We surprise Mr. Evertz with a brownie impaled by a single lit match... its his birthday today.

For students the day seems unreal. For teachers its a welcome rest.

But the nature of winter camping in a wilderness is to be intrinsically challenging. Letting your guard down, relaxing just a little too much, and all of a sudden things can go quite wrong.

Quinzhees collapse and everything you need to sleep with is buried. Slush thickens and suddenly your boots are soaked through and starting to freeze solid within minutes. The wind can start howling and no matter what you can't get warm or start a stove or fire. One of your team members gets severe diarrhea and is so exhausted they can't move, and if they can't move they can't stay warm. Someone tries slicing cheese (because they didn't get pre-sliced like they were supposed to) with a sharp knife and it slips and cuts through all their layers deep into their thigh. Someone's sled flies uncontrolled down a hill on the portage and snaps in half. These, and many others, are things that have happened on this trip. We'd be lying if we didn't acknowledge this. We could pretend nothing bad happens ever, but then we wouldn't be preparing our students for life. We do our best to be ready, and to help our students be ready.

As the sun works its way across the southern horizon, eventually turning the world gold and delivering a sunburn we can't feel because its still winter cold, we begin preparing again for the evening. Massive piles of wood are gathered from down and dead trees inland, away from the shore's edge. Water is boiled and pre-made burrito mix in doubled up freezer gallon bags warm in the bubbling water. We inspect tracks that magically appeared in our kitchen, of something light enough to float across the snow's crust, but strong enough to walk away with a frozen 12" lake trout and a bag of pepper-jack cheese slices. A bobcat we conclude. The fire is lit and we keep warm tending it, dodging it's smoke, and monitoring the stove.

Tonight will be warmer. A thin layer of clouds moves in, trapping the Earth's heat like a blanket. We teachers share stories around the fire. We reflect on being educators, parents, and ourselves. We discuss what tomorrow will bring and the struggles we will need to anticipate managing. Students are on their own, at their own camps.

And the sky delivers the greatest surprise of all that night.

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February 27th: Monday

Dressing in the dark at 5:45 am, I get to be first out of camp today. My efforts of quietly slipping out of camp are thwarted by the previous day's slush that has now frozen solid around my pyramid tent's deadman anchor lines. A good 10 minutes of loudly chipping away at the ice frees the lines and I am able to quickly finish packing my sled. The sky is starting to lighten as I strap my snowshoes on, snug up my waistbelt, and easily pull the sled across the nighttime frozen path laid two days earlier. I am on the portage at 6:15, easily making it to Duncan. The winds has filled our broken trail with fine powder, making it hard at times to follow the right line across the lake. But it only took one step, sinking deep, in the wrong direction to know.

I secretly covet this morning. The early morning light changes so fast, keeping my eyes busy watching the colors brighten and shadows disappear. Traveling solo is selfishly liberating, especially on this trip, where you always have to be "on" and ready... you're working. Moving at my own pace, letting my mind wander wherever it wants to go, the miles pass quickly even as the wind picks up and blows hard against my face. Adding layers as the wind sucks my body heat away faster than my moving muscles can produce it, I keep my head down to protect my face and try to prevent my watering eyes from freezing.

Just like on our hike out, we teachers spread ourselves out on the hike back. I tend to go first, getting back to the bus and truck to make sure they start up after sitting in the cold. The last of the teachers follow the last group of students off the lake and back. This is the hardest part of the trip often. Students are tired from not sleeping well the last few nights. Mornings are always the coldest part of the day. Their sleds never seem to pack as well as they did back home. Their legs are sore and stiff. Foot blisters, chapped and cracked lips, broken snowshoes, frozen solid gloves, and the infamous burned mittens and socks from those who tried to thaw/dry them over the fire last night... it all makes the walk back longer and harder than the walk out.

We tell students to be up and out of camp, pulling sleds, by 8 am. Its earlier than we really need, but that way if they aim for 8, they'll be out of there by 9 for sure. Today they are moving a little slow, but I spy their dark figures on the lake around 10:30, trudging along at varying paces. I sense their pace quickening when they realize its me standing on the distant shore, signifying the end of their long, cold trek into the strong headwind. Over the next 30 minutes groups roll in, trudging up the hill to the bus with one last burst of energy and surprising themselves with shouts of happiness at seeing the normally detested school bus, ready to whisk them home with heaters blasting.

You know exactly how a trip went within the first 10 seconds of them returning. There is no hiding what they are feeling when it has been this real and visceral. This year, no one rushed to get on the bus. No one hastily threw stuff into the trailer and walked off on their own. No one sat down in the snow without taking off their snowshoes or sled and hung their head between their knees or started crying. No one launched into a tirade of complaints or a Festivus airing of grievances.

They stood there. They gave high fives. They talked about how awesome it was. They commiserated on the wind and pain and relentlessness of the trudging and the seemingly never ending path back on exhausted legs. They sang happy birthday to AJ. They just spent 3 days straight outside in the winter and there was a heated up bus right there and they didn't immediately get on it. They stood there and bathed in the experience and pride that only comes from doing hard things. Especially from doing hard things in the wilderness.

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Post-Trip

This trip was started by teachers before us, who mentored us, and hopefully someday we will mentor those who will lead the next generations of students. This trip is possible because there is a system in place that supports it; parents and students, teachers and administration, and a district that provides the insurance and supports for all the little behind-the-scenes things to exist. We are incredibly fortunate to be able to provide such an experience to our students.

But in many ways this system isn't working. This opportunity happens because a whole lot of people go above and beyond to make it happen. Nowhere in any job description or list of duties does it say to make this happen. We do it because, just as the Friends of the Boundary Waters, we are "committed to promoting equity in the wilderness and fostering the next generation of wilderness enthusiasts" and simply because we know its good for students.

Its beyond good. Its necessary.

Without the financial help provided by the Friends, this necessary trip wouldn't have happened. Which begs the question... what about next year? What about the year after that? What about the fact that many of our students can't afford to purchase the basics needed to even take the class, like a good insulated winter jacket, mittens, and a hat? And beyond that, what about boots and snow pants?

We have been busy, and we are hopeful.

Thanks to a grant from SFM Mutual Insurance we have started building a collection of snow pants, and with help from Tradehome Shoes, high quality winter boots. Our goal is to make sure every student has the opportunity to participate in this winter camping experience, and that money will never be a barrier to achieving that goal.

We had 12 students participate this year. Fifteen years ago, we averaged 35-40 students. Today we have students whose parents went on this trip and felt it's impact and power, but those students' families can't afford to send them.

We look forward to building more connections and finding more ways to support this goal. Please, if you know of a way to help, connect with us.

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Keeping it Wild

Education is more than just content. Its organic. Its natural and human. A student interviewed me the other day about Krakauer's "Into the Wild" for a project and we discussed the idea of wilderness in depth. Our conversation circled around wilderness as a state of mind, where the unknown is acknowledged to be more than the known, whether it be far out in the wilds of northern Minnesota or deep in the canyons of New York city's streets. Education is about exploring that wilderness, that unknown. When we do, we experience powerful and meaningful learning.

Yet, so much energy is used today to take as much unknown out of our lives as possible.

I'd argue that the education of our students would be so much more effective if teachers weren't tasked with removing all the unknown, but were given the freedom, trust, and support to dive into the wilderness with all their students.