Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness

Photo Credit: OutpostUSA.org

As far back as 1902, efforts were made by Minnesota state officials to preserve the area along its northeast boundary from logging. The area was known for its beauty: the many lakes created by retreating glaciers, the exposed Pre-Cambrian rock and the thick forest which is habitat for many animals and birds. These officials also asked the Canadian province of Ontario just over the border to set aside its contiguous forests.

Throughout the 20^th century, the struggle over the boundary waters continued. Though mining and logging operations in the area had already diminished, the new questions became what sort of recreational facilities should be provided. In the 1940s resorts were set up in the vast roadless areas to which people were flown in and provided with mechanized gear for sport fishing. In 1948, at least 25 private planes were based in Ely, Minnesota, traveling to the most popular lakes every day. Conservationists saw this as a serious threat to the wilderness character of the canoe country and began campaigns to limit this ease of entry.

Sigurd Olson wrote, directed and starred in a short film, narrated by Paul Harvey, called Wilderness Canoe Country showing himself and his son enjoying the canoe country until a small plane roars in, deafening the silence. This film was shown everywhere. By this time the government was buying up private homes and resorts in what was known as the Superior Roadless Primitive Area. President Truman signed an executive order against airplanes flying over the area below 4,000 ft. in 1949. But conservationist proposals met with bitter opposition as this part of the state was in need of income. Olson, who made his home in Ely, was vilified. A proposed documentary on his life is noted here.

In the late 1950s the battle for what became the Wilderness Act of 1964 began. It eventually included a simple definition of wilderness: “A wilderness, in contrast with those areas where man and his own works dominate the landscape, is hereby recognized as an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” The Wilderness Act had a huge effect on what was now called the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, greatly restricting motor use, lumber activity, and eliminating lodges and private residences in the park.

Wilderness Outfitters, for instance, had to cease its operation of the historic Basswood Lake Lodge, known for its exceptional log craftsmanship. The main lodge was dismantled and hauled across the ice to Snowbank Lake. In 1978 when Snowbank Lake was declared part of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, the federal government bought the lodge again and it is now a visitor center in Wisconsin according to the Spring 2004 issue of Wilderness News from the Quetico Superior Foundation. All of this was painful, but Wilderness Outfitters successfully adapted to changes and is still one of the foremost providers of canoe and fishing trips out of Ely.

Including the million acres of the Boundary Waters, the two hundred thousand acres of Voyageurs National Park, the 1.2 million acres of the Quetico and La Verendrye Provincial Parks in Canada, I count two and a half million acres of contiguous area now preserved as non-mechanized wilderness through the efforts of 20^th century conservationists, an incredible achievement.

But when you consider Edward O. Wilson’s current proposal that half of the earth be left to nature in order to stop species extinction, even our own, we have a long way to go. Half Earth: Our Planet’s Fight for Life, published in March of 2016, “is not a bitter jeremiad. It is a brave expression of hope, a visionary blueprint for saving the planet,” says Stephen Greenblatt. Wilson points out that as a species we are way behind in adapting to the current age, that working piecemeal we think we are making progress but in fact we are slipping. He presents his idea as a goal, calculating that if humans retreated from half of the earth, it would enter the “safe zone.”

The series So Are You To My Thoughts goes unashamedly back and forth between Minnesota and California, the two places I know best. Of my three main characters, Line and Marty live along the California coast, while Paul lives in Minnesota. The whole family has a cultural base in a cabin in north central Minnesota, Mother and Dad’s legacy. My earliest memories (perhaps enhanced by a film made of it) involve a summer spent at Lake of the Woods, which sprawls over the tiny bit of Minnesota which is above the 49th parallel and into Canada. Stories of the Lake of the Woods and fishing trips the men of my Dad's church took on the Rainy River run through my earliest years. As animals ourselves, habitat is incredibly important to us. Surely we can reduce our dependence on mechanized and comfortable pleasures for our own, and the sake of other animals.

The Wilderness Bug

I define “the wilderness bug” as the case when a person finds inspiration and contentment most commonly far from the constraints of people living together, in places were the culture of people has made the least inroad upon the natural world. My fictional character Paul definitely has the “wilderness bug.” He’s a kid right now, and part of what leads him into reverence for the wilder side of nature is the fact that he had polio. As with Teddy Roosevelt, ill health leads to a great desire to triumph over it. For at least the middle of his life, Paul is strong and capable. He searches out places and experiences in which he can enjoy the wild, becoming one with trees, animals and the weather.

Though we are every day reminded that our fragile planet is endangered by human occupation [seas of plastic in the Pacific, global weather disruption, heavy pollution], America was fortunate to have people who loved wilderness fight for it early enough to protect what they could. In California, John Muir is the patron saint of environmentalism. We have much to thank him for. The national park bill was passed under his advocacy as early as 1890.

Two powerful Midwestern writers have contributed to the modern understanding of relationships between men and nature. The Sand County Almanac [1949] is Aldo Leopold’s musing on a lifetime of forest and wildlife management while specific to a patch of land he purchased in central Wisconsin. Seeing a place even for predators in the biotic community, he helped found The Wilderness Society in the mid-1930’s.

Sigurd Olson lived most of his life in Ely, Minnesota near the boundary waters between Canada and the U.S. He, more than anyone I’ve read, had the “wilderness bug”. In his book The Singing Wilderness [1956], he described his belief that in the silence and solitude of wilderness, people can connect to their evolutionary heritage and get a sense of the sacredness of all creation. He was president of The Wilderness Society in the 1960’s and was instrumental in preserving wild and beautiful areas in California, Alaska and northern Minnesota.

Olson’s biographer, David Backes, compares the two, saying that if Leopold is an Old Testament prophet, then Olson is a New Testament evangelist. “Where Leopold invokes the God of power and wrath, preaching proper ethical behavior toward the land and prophesying doom if society disobeys, Olson invites his readers to experience the God of love, as made manifest in nature.”

As the U.S. population increases [63 million in 1890, 149 million in 1949, 169 million in 1956 and 314 million today], wilderness only becomes more precious. Education in ecological ethics is crucial. I am happy to see the “Leave No Trace” organization [http://lnt.org/] so active in our country. It is the obvious corollary to the wilderness areas set aside by the work of so many diligent people. I recommend the poetic writings of Muir, Leopold and Olson as witness.

Not being terribly gutsy, I prefer situations where there is at least modest human support; and I wouldn’t be a novelist if I didn’t think people weren’t part of the natural order. But I also love places where I can enjoy an untrammeled experience of woods, water, sky, birds and animals. As I write, a spectacular sky, blue studded with drifts of pink and gold clouds, exhibits itself behind the dark pine tree and the Hawaiian wedding tree, the further oaks and sycamores, outside our study window. My sunset is mediated by screens, framed by windows. But I suspect my enjoyment of it is enhanced by whatever “wilderness bug” I inherited from my nature-loving parents.