The reassurance of the blue blaze and other reflections

Look closely on the tree in the photo above and you will see a faint blue vertical line painted on the bark. The line is a blaze - a mark indicating that one is on the Superior Hiking Trail in northern Minnesota. I like to joke that this mark is where the expression "Where in the blue blazes are we?" originated.

It's always a comfort to see one of these signs. Despite maps, despite GPS phone apps, despite familiarity with the region, the blue brings one comfort. Often however the marks come where they are not really needed (no fork in the path) or are missing where they might be helpful (where there is a fork in the path). Since I don't do any volunteer work for the SHT Association, I don't have any right to complain.

Does life come with its own "blue blazes" which might indicate if one is on the right path? Good grades in school and good performance reviews at work. Satisfactory completion of projects large and small. Contentment in loving relationships with family and friends. Economic security. Sense of making a difference in the world. All indicators of a sort, I suppose. Wouldn't it be nice if they came when needed?

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Both leaves and hiker a bit past prime.

A message went our a couple months ago from a new member of an outdoor group. He was looking for others with whom to do a hike on the SHT in the fall. Although experienced in canoeing and camping in the Boundary Waters, he was new to backpacking. Ron (name changed to protect the innocent) and I meet for lunch a couple times to get acquainted and plan the trip. 

Ron is a fit 78-year-old widower with three kids and eight grandchildren. He is a former marathon runner and still a regular walker. Extremely lonely, he admits, after the death of his wife 18 months ago, he feels his grandchildren are now of an age when they have little time for him as well. The first sentence out of his mouth when we met F2F, was an apology for talking too much - a (correctly) recognized tendency he attributed to living with only his dog for company.

As it turned out, over the three days of backpacking and camping, Ron's and my differences became quite apparent, and I am sure, mutually annoying. I am an early riser and let's-get-going hiker; Ron was happy to sit and diddle around for a couple hours each morning. I am organized; Ron was not. I am slow, but steady walker; Ron walked fast, but stopped a lot. I took photos with my iPhone kept in my shirt pocket, ready in seconds; Ron used an old digital camera kept in a ziplock baggie in his pack's zippered waist belt pocket, ready in about three minutes with another three minutes to put it back, never being able to rezip the pocket unaided. Ron was a non-stop talker; I did my best to listen, but after several repetitions, the stories were familiar enough that I could tell them. And he never seemed too interested in my thrilling and insightful tales.

My experience with Ron led me to ask myself how my behaviors might annoy others - and do I recognize them. I know Ron did not like me hurrying him up a bit in the mornings. He didn't like my saying "Walk and talk, Ron, walk and talk," when he would come to a dead stop on the trail and turn to relate a story. I know I need more patience with others. I need to be a better listener. I need to keep my tales short and try not to repeat them over and over. I wonder what horror stories Ron is telling his dog about me this morning?

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Leaf covered trails often hide slippery rocks and roots.

The hike itself was quite nice - a 5 mile day, a 7 mile day, and a 2 mile day. The longer day had some elevation challenges (loss and gain of over 3000 feet climbing Moose and Mystery Mountains near Lutsen Resort). Yet the woods and views were as always beautiful and comforting. I was pleased that I carried my 35 pound pack without much difficulty. Since I learned that my grandson trip to the Boy Scout ranch of Philmont was canceled this summer, I had not been practicing with a pack. Ron, BTW, put me to shame, going a great deal faster and with much less effort than I on the flats and downhills.

Oh, the higher the climb, one soon learns, the greater the views....

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The faithful tent and reading chair.

Backpackers run the gamut from minimalist to bring-every-thing-except-the-kitchen-sink types. I try to stay toward the lighter end, but ultralight packers would scoff. My tent, sleeping bag, and pack all weight more than recommended. I take a little camp chair and my Kindle for down time. I carry extra chargers for my phone. 

This trip I was happy to have the solid tent (some rain), the oversized sleeping bag (temps down to the low 30s), and my Kindle (waiting for Ron in the morning). I always do a little inventory when I get home and note those items that went unused, the food that was not eaten. Hopefully that will guide me on my next trip. If that trip is to Philmont next summer, I will definitely need to look at some lighter equipment to handle the challenge of the mountains of northern New Mexico, young, fast Boy Scouts, and an even more chronologically challenged body.

What do we carry with us in life that we should just leave behind? Worry, guilt, regret, envy, sorrow?

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Babbling Rollins Creek near campsite. 

My biggest concern this trip was about finding tent pads at each evening's campsite. The campsites on the SHT are usually a few miles apart and have a limited number of places to pitch one's tent. I was uncertain as to what we would do if we got to our target site, exhausted after hiking all day, to find it full. And given the popularity of the outdoor world during this pandemic, I thought my worries justified. The parking areas along the highways and in the state park visitor centers were jam-packed.

One solution to travels during popular times is to get a headstart on the crowds. I had hoped we would hit our intended campsites by early to mid afternoon each day. With Ron's "start slow and stop often" mentality, that was not to be. We rolled into campsite the first night at 6pm, the other campsite at 4pm.

Luckily each site only had a single tent already pitched so we had room for our tents as well. Those sharing the sites were congenial. The first night at Poplar River West site there seemed to be only slight inclines on which to set up tents, which meant continually readjusting one's sleeping bag throughout night as one slid further and further down into it. But it was nice to have a place to set up camp.

Why does it seem the things we worry about the most rarely happen and the things we should worry about we rarely think about?

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A bounty of color.

I am glad I made this short hiking trip. Despite the annoyances and discomforts, I got fresh air, the solace of nature, and had some experiences that invited reflection and introspection. 

Shouldn't all our days be so well spent?

Other photos from the hike.