Letters and Labor

The life I chose and the life I long for.

Portaging last week.

My body aches, still, though I exited the Boundary Waters before noon on Monday. The five-day, four-night trip was organized by my friend, Chris, and led by me. The guys who came along are all members of a certain anonymous 12-step recovery fellowship, and they taught me a lot. They’ve seen a lot.

A very, very small percentage of our time together consisted of me talking about the theology of Augustine, the dualism of Plato. The vast majority of time was spent working with my hands, with my body.

I’m the first one up in the morning on these trips, climbing out of my hammock around 5:30am (sunrise is 6:30am these days). I start the white gas stove to heat water for coffee, then get a fire going. By the time the water’s boiling, another guy or two has usually emerged.

We make the coffee in a “billy can” — what we would have called a “coffee can” when we were kids, but is more likely a commercial size can that held peaches or beans. Its top has been removed, and it’s got a wire handle punched through holes. After the coffee has steeped for a few minutes, I give it the ol’ centrifugal swing (as taught to me by Brad Shannon, my BWCA-guiding mentor) to push the grounds to the bottom, which seems to amaze all the fellows.

Once the billy can is off the stove, I pull out a pan, fry up a pound of bacon, then cook pancakes in the grease. After breakfast, we break down camp: tents and hammocks, cooking gear, wet clothes hanging from pine branches.