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The Lone Wolf

October 15, 2023 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I remember in the first year of my marriage to Chris that I consciously struggled with what it meant to be one part of a couple versus my own person. Were they compatible, the me with him and the me for me? It’s not that I was a lone wolf for years before I met him—I had just graduated from college and was living at home with my parents. I had lived with people all my life! Though I was an introvert and liked being alone, I also valued belonging to a family. The importance of being an independent person within the interdependence of a married couple was an issue that hadn’t occurred to me before marriage. But I had come of age during the tail-end of the cultural revolution of the Women’s Movement, so the issue had been constantly in the background of my life. Who are we as women in our own right, not just from the family we came from or who we married?

I’m intrigued with the term ‘lone wolf.’ On one hand, it describes a very independent, solitary person, a rugged individualist who forges their own path. On the other hand, the negative connotation of ‘lone wolf’ is a person who commits a crime or act of terrorism by oneself rather than as part of a group or organization. The myths and stories of ‘lone wolves’ make for good songs, books, and video games, but the reality of a lone wolf in the wild is quite different. A lone wolf is defined in wildlife biology as a ‘dispersing’ wolf. He or she will leave the pack they were born into when they are 11–18 months old, depending on the availability of food. In essence, lone wolves are young adults who are ‘leaving home’ to find their own mates and start their own pack or family unit.

The size of a wolf pack’s territory depends on the availability of food. In northern Minnesota, there is a high density of white-tailed deer, so wolves do not need to travel far for food, though they can easily travel thirty miles in a day. If food is prevalent, packs are usually bigger with multiple generations, including non-breeding young adults. Minnesota wolves make up nearly half of the wolf population in the lower 48 states, so it is not unusual to see wolves in the wild in northern Minnesota.

In our September trip up north to Ely, we stopped at an overlook to see the Fall colors. At the opposite corner of the lake clearing, we saw a dark shape in the grass. Was it a bear? Zooming in with the camera, I saw a charcoal-colored wolf. I’m sure he saw us before we saw him.

His first instinct was to run away, and I thought that was all we would see of him, but soon he circled back to look again.

He turned away, but his curiosity kept turning him back towards us!

He headed away from us to the water behind some reeds, but once more looked our way.

Finally he trotted off into the forest, into his home territory. Was he a lone wolf or part of a pack?

‘Lone wolf’ personality qualities include being introspective, intelligent, self-aware, and self-motivated. I can relate to that. But like any human or animal ‘lone wolf,’ we all are social animals. We begin our lives in a family structure that (ideally) feeds us, defends us, keeps us safe, and teaches us to someday function on our own and perhaps have our own ‘pack.’ The makeup of the ‘pack’ can vary with circumstances and environments, most especially for us humans. When I was first married and for the many years subsequent to that, I have embarked on the very human journey of navigating my individual life with my life as a partner, wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and co-worker. It’s an honor to be on such a journey, and perhaps that is not just a human journey.

Later that night, around the campfire, two of our fellow campers lifted their heads and voices to howl in tandem. In a spine-tingling response, we heard the whole pack answer in an orchestra of different voices and tones. I know the charcoal wolf we saw was one of them.

For more information on wolves, visit the International Wolf Center in Ely, Minnesota or go to their website: https://wolf.org/

Anticipation

August 29, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

The pandemic birthed the idea. We were having weekly Zoom meetings with some of our kids in the winter of the Winter. Our extroverted daughter Emily was struggling with the isolation and the unknown, undetermined future. She wondered how I could seem so happy in the midst of it all. (Introvert advantage.) She reminded us again and again, ‘We-all aren’t getting any younger.” Her desire for movement, planning, connection, action, and excitement was palpable. I knew how important it was for her to have something to look forward to, and her ‘not getting any younger’ statement hit home with me…so I said, “Why don’t we plan a summer trip to the Boundary Waters?” And the anticipation began.

Anticipation includes preparation, expectation, eagerness, planning, and excitement about something that is going to happen. For me, anticipating this trip into the Boundary Waters also included apprehension, doubts, and a good dose of the big, boogeyman F-word—Fear. While Emily and Aaron had both been guides for many summers preparing for and taking people into the Boundary Waters, this trip would be my first time…. And I don’t swim. And I’m kind of scared of deep water. And I’m afraid of tipping the canoe…and losing my glasses…and not keeping up…and, well, the list goes on. But plans were made, equipment acquired, plane tickets from Texas reserved, BWCA (Boundary Waters Canoe Area) permit obtained, menu planned, food bought, etc., etc. On August 14th, we headed north.

We stayed two nights at KoWaKan, the camp the kids worked at during their college years. We did our last minute shopping (and eating) in Ely and spent time relaxing in the sun and beauty of the northwoods.

We talked about our goals (fishing was high on the list) and concerns. My concern was waves and how to navigate them, so Aaron hopped into a canoe with me on that very windy day, and we practiced.

By evening, the last minute packing was underway, and the non-essentials were stashed in the vehicles for our return. The anticipation was building.

There’s a fine line between excitement and nervousness. As the packs and canoes were loaded on the cars the next morning, I crossed that line. My stomach began to feel ill. I took a few trips to the outhouse. Tears welled up in my eyes. My steps slowed. Now that we were ready to go, I was not at all sure I could do this.

Chris, Emily, and the others gave reassurance that they would help me and take good care of me. I trusted their experience and their words. Deep breaths. We drove to Moose Lake entry point, unloaded the three canoes, five packs, and fishing poles, and we were off on our BWCA adventure!

Fishing began right away—for the humans and the eagles that chattered from the trees alongside the lake.

In the months prior to our trip, I had a BWCA map laid out on a bed, and I looked at it every morning. I had no idea at first how far we would go, so I concentrated on Moose Lake where our entry point was and hoped we could get to Horseshoe Island in Newfound Lake, the lake after Moose.

Little did I know at the time that we would be eating our lunch on the first day on Horseshoe Island! It’s strange not knowing the time at any given time of the day. We looked to the sun and our stomachs for clues, but as the days went by, it mattered less and less what the actual time was since it had no bearing on our day. But it was hard to let that time-structure go.

Food preparation was planned and executed by Emily who had done the same process for numerous groups over three summers. She made a menu, we bought the food, she measured it out, bagged it up, and labeled everything. All the food has to be carried in and contained in ‘bear barrels’—plastic barrels with metal closures that protect the food from bears. Since it was a drought year, and wildlife were hungrier than usual, the bear barrels also were required to be hung in trees at night and during the day when mealtime was over.

She had different stuff sacks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to help organize the barrels. As plastic food bags emptied, they were used for trash, as it is required to carry out all trash. (Which has to go back into the barrels, so it doesn’t attract bears.) Lunches were bagels or pitas, summer sausage, cheese, or peanut butter and jelly. We had one apple each for the week so could choose which day we wanted it. Carrots were our ‘fresh’ vegetables. A handful of trail mix or a homemade granola bar were for dessert or a needed snack.

After lunch we paddled through Sucker Lake until we reached…Canada! We turned to Birch Lake where the low-horsepower motor boats were no longer allowed as they were on Moose, Newfound, and Sucker Lakes.

We paddled with Canada on our left and the United States on our right until we found a campsite on a peninsula that was hanging by a five-rod portage to the mainland. The almost-island campsite was our home for the night.

We unloaded the canoes, set up tents and hammocks, and hung the bear barrels. The fishermen got serious about fishing. The nappers got serious about napping.

The hazy sky of afternoon turned smokier—we could smell it, and the smoke seemed to settle on the water. Because of the drought and Canadian wildfires, there has been a fire ban in the BWCA and most of northern Minnesota. So no campfires for us or anyone. We cooked over a small white gas backpacking stove—our first supper was macaroni and cheese with polish sausages. So good! The largest fish of the trip was caught by our son-in-law Shawn just as evening settled around us. The feisty 30-inch Northern was the one who got away before a picture could be taken—but the excitement of the ones who saw him will stay with us.

We traveled for about eight miles this first day with no portages (as we determined by the map and key after we returned from our trip.) I was getting used to the water and waves. The process was intriguing, the landscape incredibly beautiful, and the companionship of our family comforting.

Because of the drought, there were not many wildflowers blooming, but down by the water in a little boggy area beside our tent, the showy Jewelweed brightened up the dry and dusty landscape. It’s a native plant of the Impatiens genus whose sap from the watery stems has been used by Native Americans to relieve pain and itching from hives, poison ivy, and insect bites. A jewel to look at and a jewel for relief.

My anticipation of our Boundary Waters trip was like the Jewelweed—part jewel and part weed. I loved the excitement and planning of it over months of otherwise difficult times of pandemic and political unrest and uncertainty. It is a priceless gemstone to engage with adult children in a common love and endeavor. But there were definitely weedy things about it—even though my decision to suggest the trip in the first place took much thought and can-do self-encouragement, I still struggled with my fears when the time actually came. If only our fears could be plucked out like weeds and tossed into the compost pile. But they reside with us until they are respectfully encountered and challenged. As I stared up at the stars in our unflyed tent, listening to the calming, flute-like calls of Loons and hoping for a breeze on the stuffy, smokey night, I decided that it had been a pretty great first day.

This is the first post in a series of five that chronicles my experience of five days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA). It is best to read the whole series from the beginning (Anticipation) in order to understand certain things I refer to in my other posts.

The Light of Our Better Angels

October 25, 2020 by Denise Brake 7 Comments

I’m reading a book entitled “The Friendship of Women” by Joan Chittister for my church group. One line jumped out at me as I read it: “It requires us to surround ourselves with people who speak to the best part of us from the best part of themselves.” It sounds simple. I believe in seeing the best in other people, giving them the benefit of the doubt, perhaps even to my detriment. My ‘best part’ doesn’t always show up when I speak—I react from old patterns of fear even as I daily try to change them. When I read that line, my first thought wasn’t about my personal life, however; it was about our public life as a nation. What if the election season ads came from the ‘best part’ of each party to the ‘best part’ of all of us? What if Congress and the White House gave their ‘best part’ to one another in service to the people of the United States?

The negative ads, memes, comments, and daily talk on the news and around the kitchen table is like a slow, insidious fog enveloping us, blinding us to common decency and connection. It draws a line in the sand, wants us to pick a side and come out fighting. It is detrimental to our bodies, minds, and souls. In our late September trip to the Northwoods, we cleared the air. We pledged not to talk about politics. We had no tv or social media. We had better things to do and more important things to talk about. (We did inadvertently land in the lap of politics two times, but we quickly pivoted away again.)

We had rain at various times each day and night when we stayed at KoWaKan. Our hike to Secret/Blackstone trail in Superior National Forest was under a blue sky and bright sun. By afternoon, the clouds started rolling in. Four of us went canoeing and fishing at a nearby lake, while the rest of us stayed at camp and canoed. Emily and Chris got rained on when they were out. Those rain clouds passed, and the sun shone again.

Emily and I got rained on when we went out, but we also saw what happens when rain and sun collide!

We dried ourselves and our socks by the campfire. The fishermen returned with stories of a small catch and a beautiful rainbow.

We prepared hobo dinners—ground beef, onions, carrots, baby potatoes, the last picking of green beans from the garden, butter and seasoning, all wrapped up in a double layer of aluminum foil—and placed them on the coals of the fire. We ate our campfire-cooked meal around the fire as the sun slipped behind the trees, and the sky darkened. We looked for stars between the clouds.

My day had started with a welcome from the eagle across the lake, progressed with a challenging, breath-taking hike in the National Forest, continued with a canoe ride bathed in rain and a rainbow, and ended with a delicious meal—surrounded by people speaking from the ‘best part’ of themselves. The ‘best part’ of me declared that this was the best day I have had in years! “Better than the Super Bowl weekend?” they challenged. That was very good and fun, but this was better. “Better than our trip to Wisconsin last year before Covid?” I loved that, but this day was better. Part of what was better was just how much ‘better’ I was on this day than on those others. Part of the better was being in the unbelievable beauty of Nature. Better was being in such a special place with so many good memories and stories. Better was being away from the negativity and stress of the pandemic and politics.

The next day we did a little more canoeing and fishing, packed up our things, and got ready to leave.

I am not delusional enough to believe that we can exist in a utopian world. I know unresolved hurts and traumas in our lives affect how we view the world, how we treat other people, and how we act and react. I know that my best self doesn’t show up all the time. I also know that drawing a line in the sand and tossing bombs of hate and disrespect do not make a United States of America. It does not make us a better country or better people. Our lives right now are stormy and messy. Our spirits are dampened. I wish you could all feel the way I felt at the end of that wilderness day—deep satisfaction, joyful happiness, and peaceful contentment in my body, mind, and soul—all wrapped up like the promise of a fleeting rainbow. I now know how ‘better’ feels. We can have a new beginning with each sunrise. Like the eagle, we can call out a welcome to others. We can place our feet on the Earth and see her beauty. We can glide on water and feel the blessing of rain. We can make a promise to do better. We can nourish our bodies with good food and nourish our minds and spirits with people bringing the ‘best part’ of themselves to the fire ring. We can look for the light of stars and the light of our better angels.

Come Hike With Me

October 18, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Leave behind your worries. Don’t think about the Corona virus. Put politics and the ugliness that is election season out of your mind. Take your time. Look closely. Let’s get present. Let’s get real. Come hike with me.

Superior National Forest encompasses nearly four million acres in the ‘arrowhead’ of Minnesota. On our trip up north, we hiked the Secret/Blackstone Hiking Trail. The nighttime rain had cleared away to blue skies. The air was crisp, the sun was warm, and breakfast of fire-toasted bagels was in our bellies. We were ready to go!

The young ones waiting for the older ones to catch up

Claw marks. I’m not the only one who slid down this steep part.

Marsh and creek from Blackstone Lake to Flash Lake

Aspens–one of the first to grow after a burn

How do you feel? Three hours, more than four miles. Lots of lakes. Challenging rocky trails. Exquisite Nature! Breathe deeply. All is right with the world in this moment.

The Spirit of the Place

June 9, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

There are those moments when you feel, when you know at a deep level, you are not in your usual place. There are places—different for each of us—that are special in a soul-satisfying way. There are reasons, usually experiential, sometimes beyond our knowing, why we connect with a certain place.

On the last evening of May, we stopped at Rookie Pond after hours of traveling—we were within miles of our destination, but it is a favorite ‘sunset’ place to take in the beauty of the Northwoods. Breathing in the North air, I felt a strange combination of relaxation and excitement at the same time. I was not in my usual place!

The wildness of the Northwoods (the ubiquitous term describing the northern woodlands of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Maine, and other northern states) is humbling. We are the guests in this land—it is proper for us to take cues from it and to show respect and appreciation to our host. This is home to wolves, moose, black bears, and other creatures—it is their place. (The next day we saw picture proof of a black bear crossing the highway not far from this lookout the day before we arrived.)

A beaver’s lodge was prominently placed in the lake—not for our eyes but for its purposes. Nature’s great architect and builder goes about the business of being a beaver.

Our destination was KoWaKan, the Methodist camp that was the summer home for our daughter Emily and our son Aaron for a combination of eight or nine summers. Staff and campers live in large canvas tents on wood platforms, and most groups leave KWK to canoe and camp in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) Wilderness nearby. We arranged our sleeping bags and blankets on the cots, anticipating nighttime temperatures in the 40’s. Chris was sleeping before it was dark, and I crept into the tent with my lantern a bit later after leaving the campfire. I put on my layers of sleeping clothes—two pairs of socks, long-john pants, three layers of shirts/fleeces, and a wool stocking cap. I found myself smiling in the dark—I was so happy to be there. The frogs were singing, and the loons were calling on the lake right down the hill. But I couldn’t get to sleep. I kept getting colder. Drat! I would have to get up and put on more clothes. So I climbed out of bed, added gloves and another layer of leggings, rearranged my wool blanket to go under and over my sleeping bag, then climbed back in. The cold still crept into my toes, onto my nose, throughout my bones. I wasn’t sleeping, and I was no longer smiling. I brainstormed ways to get warmer with what we had left in the tent—all would mean getting out of my sleeping bag. Then the driving force to action struck me—the need to use the outhouse. Ugh. Boots, lantern, shivers, and I was out in the woods. But when I looked up at the sky in our tent clearing, I found the gift to my cold discomfort. The stars were a shining, masterpiece mural across the dark sky! The Milky Way swept its splendor of billions of stars in a high arch above my head. A shooting star fell before my eyes. Well then!

I slept fitfully the rest of the night until the early morning (34 degrees!) light lit the path to the outhouse. A huge anthill was piled up beside the path—home for the ants. (Did you know that bears will swipe off the top of an ant hill and eat the tiny, protein-packed ants?)

It was time to get to work! Opening camp for the season includes setting up tents, putting tarps over tents to prevent sun damage, cutting brush and firewood, raising the tarp roof over the kitchen and tent-drying areas, getting outhouses in shape, setting up cots and the kitchen, and many other things. The three staff members and other KWK helpers had started the process before we arrived, but there was plenty of work left to be done. But first, it was coffee time. What to do with coffee beans and no grinder? The flat axe head didn’t work that well, but our friend Luke’s idea of a large rock and some muscle power from Luke and Aaron soon had the coffee ground up and perking in the pot! A KWK mortar and pestle.

Section 12 is the source of beauty, of singing, of solitude, of sustenance, and of cleanliness for all who dwell in this place. One greets the lake upon rising, and the lake reciprocates. It is a prayer for one another—the greeter and the lake, and for all who eat, work, worship, and sleep on her shores.

Water is gathered with a hand pump from the lake, boiled, and put into pans for washing and rinsing dishes and hands. It is a life of simplicity, of routine, and of physical work in service to oneself and others.

We had noisy neighbors called Gray Jays during our meals. They are known for their brashness in stealing human food from campsites. They were watching us and our plates!

Another frequent visitor to the kitchen is chipmunks. They scour the ground under the picnic tables for bits of dropped food. I found an eating place of theirs along the trail where fir cone shells were left in a pile after the seeds were eaten.

Most of the year, KoWaKan belongs only to those who inhabit the woodlands and lakes—the bears, Jays, wolves, and chipmunks. It is their place. For three months of summer, we are guests of their land. It is a special place, not only for the memories our children and decades of campers have gathered, but also for the intrinsic spirit of the place. KoWaKan means ‘Place of the Almighty.’

Where is the place that satisfies your soul? The place that floods you with memories and brings a smile to your face? Those places teach us the business of being ourselves, where life is simple and hard, all at the same time. Those places challenge us, yet give us unexpected gifts. We use our minds and bodies in work and problem-solving, serving ourselves and others. May you be blessed in your special place.

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