Minnesota: Surviving Beyond Survival
Excitement and Missteps
It started with excitement—four close friends from the inner circle—Chuck, Kirk, Zach, and me—heading to Minnesota. We met with Dave and Robb, good friends ready to drive us north. Having survived an unforgettable adventure in Maine, we felt invincible. Boundary Waters promised to be another great notch on our belts.
But the truth? I screwed up right from the start.
A bad breakfast, an airport Bloody Mary, and beers on the flight might seem minor, but my body quickly made it clear that I had made a terrible choice. By touchdown, I was already drowning in nausea and dizziness—the kind you can’t shake off, the kind that mocks your illusion of control.
The six-hour drive north was brutal. The nausea intensified, stealing any enjoyment I might’ve had from the craft breweries and food stops along the way. Instead, I sat miserably on a curb, vomiting into a bag as my friends described how fantastic the beers were.
False Hopes and First Trials
That first night at the bunkhouse offered gentle comforts—a cot instead of hard ground, clean water, ginger ale, and a decent breakfast. It gave me false hope. Maybe, just maybe, I had shaken it. Maybe I was ready.
I wasn’t.
The first portage shattered that illusion. Chuck inadvertently dumped me and all my gear straight into cold water. The shock was perversely refreshing. Most electronics survived, except for a few cables and small chargers. As we regrouped, drying gear and laughing off the mishap, timber wolves began calling to each other across the river—a haunting chorus, a dark omen I should’ve noticed.
Brutal Days and Endless Nights
The days became relentless cycles of brutal exertion. My stomach revolted violently against anything I tried to consume. Sleep turned into a cruel joke, limited to a tent pitched on rocky ground, my exhausted body stubbornly refusing to recover. Vomiting, dehydration, and blackened stools defined my reality. Each dawn marked a punishing renewal of misery.
The Long Return and Test of Will
The return trip brought even harsher portages. I sensed my friends’ quiet tension, their whispered debates over whether we’d need the emergency satellite beacon. My pride fought against burdening them, though each quietly insisted on helping, determined to see me through. I carried over seventy pounds on my battered body, forcing myself forward even as every muscle and nerve begged for mercy.
In a surreal moment, isolated between two groups, I stumbled across fresh bear scat. My heart raced. Exhausted, overloaded, and utterly vulnerable, I knew if the bear wanted me, I was his. I had no choice but to move step by stubborn step, my rest delayed until safer terrain.
Triumph and Its Twisted Echo
We made it back. In those first relieved moments, battered but alive, I felt invincible. I had faced wilderness, sickness, and exhaustion head-on. I’d survived what felt unsurvivable, and suddenly, the world seemed conquerable.
But life has a twisted sense of humor.
Today, as I write this, I realize I’ve sunk lower than those brutal Minnesota days. What felt like rock bottom then is now impossibly distant—a faraway planet, a dim star barely visible from the depths where I now sit.
That realization—that my hardest-won victory is now just a distant speck—hits harder than any portage, any sickness, any threat of wilderness ever could.