This article was written by Rollie Johnson who is a friend of Stu Osthoff.
Look at any Fisher or McKenzie map, and the dominant feature that we are all drawn to is the blue of lakes. Yet on these same maps the larger surface area is the actual land mass between the blue. The great majority of us that travel to the magic land of the BWCAW focus 99.9%of our attention on only the blue demarcation of the lakes. And most of us never travel more than 50-100 yards from a campsite or shoreline.
That leaves a substantial area of the BWCAW mostly untouched by humans. This land between the blue was our real destination, and we would only be using the lakes as a convenient and scenic means of access to the landscapes beyond.
Earlier in the summer, I had received a surprise and welcome e-mail from Stu Osthoff inviting me to join him for a late fall bowhunt for monster bucks deep in the heart of the BWCAW. Stu had, on numerous occasions, wandered the ridges of the backcountry and found some potential hot spots filled with scrub oak and several whopper-sized sheds—proving some really big boys do roam these woods. He wanted to try out the feasibility of a BWCAW bowhunt during the rut, right before the gun season, to see if we could actually get in and out before freeze-up and possibly tag out on a BWCAW bruiser.
In several e-mails, Stu outlined the specifics of the hunt, clearly defining a rough, difficult and low-odds hunt in the wilderness during a potentially “iffy” time of year. Just exactly my kind of hunt, and I gave a hearty “yes” from the first inquiry and felt privileged to be invited in the first place.
With light snow on the ground, clear skies, cool temps and light winds, we shoved off from a private shoreline on Burntside with two canoes loaded to the hilt. The 20' 6" Bell Northshore and 18 1/2' Bell Northwoods are two of the largest-capacity composite canoes on the market. They proved very stable even with these huge, heavy loads. Swamping in this cold water was not an option.
In addition to all the regular clothing, food and equipment used on a normal BWCAW trip, we were also carrying Stu’s large canvas wall tent, complete with metal poles, stove and stove pipe, and all of our hunting gear—bows, day packs, boots, stands and even a pop-up blind. We were loaded to the max.
My new canoe mate was Brian Borkholder, a fisheries biologist from Duluth. We settled into an awkward paddling rhythm, he being a “hutt” paddler and I a traditional paddler, and headed for the first portage into Crab Lake. Joining Stu in the other canoe was James Frederichs, a banker from the Twin Cities. James and I hit it off from the get-go, having many common interests. James had read a few of my articles and, upon meeting, had presented me with a homemade arrow and flint tip he’d created. I thought that was pure class.
The first portage proved to be a man-eater. At 420 rods with so much gear, it demanded three trips; five miles of portaging to start our day. We were whipped puppies at the end of that portage, but a good lunch put the gas back in the tank, and we were off. Little Crab flew by, then a beautiful paddle down the Korb River and a couple of easy portages, and we were on to our destination, Cummings Lake.
We cruised north and west down the length of the lake and tucked into a northwest bay, arriving just as the sun was setting. The campsite had a great landing and plenty of good tenting areas. Ten miles in now, we would definitely be the only ones this far back into the wilderness, especially this late in the season.
We were tired, hungry and chilled as the temps dropped into the 20s under clear skies. We soon had the wall tent up, gear stowed and a roaring fire in the stove. I was amazed how quickly the tent heated up to short-sleeve temps. This whole wall tent/stove set up was new to me, and I would come to appreciate it immensely as the week wore on. It became a cozy, safe, warm and dry sanctuary throughout the week as we hunted hard and long in the cold.
After supper we pulled out the maps and began planning and brainstorming about areas we could check out in the morning. Stu had previously scouted many areas and had his eye on many others on the map. We were focusing our hunt on the more open ridges that held good browse, especially scrub oaks, which the deer seem to key on at this time of year. Brian and James chose to head out from camp, while Stu and I would paddle down the bay to scout another ridge.
Before hitting the sack, I headed out to brush my teeth and was treated to the magical and haunting chorus of a nearby wolf pack. Having spent hundreds of nights in the BWCAW, I still consider it pure privilege to hear wolves sounding off. The spine-tingling howling was a welcome reminder that we were truly on a wilderness bowhunt. We were now competing with the rightful, dominant predator of this bush country.
I wondered to myself, what was the intention of this Canus Lupus communiqué? Could they already sense our presence? Was this a turf warning to us? Was it a hunter’s challenge? Or were they simply celebrating a kill?
In the darkness of a starlit dawn, Stu and I paddled quietly down the lake following the dark silhouette of the shoreline, headed for the next bay. We pulled the canoe up on shore and punched in our GPS markings in the growing light. We agreed to rendezvous back at the canoe around noon and headed off in opposite directions.
I grabbed my day pack and long bow, then headed uphill into the unknown. I was filled with a mix of anticipation, pessimism and uncertainty, not really having a clue what to expect. Our goal this morning was to scout big tracts of land hoping to find some legit sites to hang and sit some tree stands.
Most of my morning was spent noisily trashing and thrashing through insanely thick brush. I was soaked from sweat and from snow falling down my back off the evergreens. I’m sure I scared every living creature within a three-mile radius. But I had to admit it was thrilling to simply be searching and exploring such a vast wilderness.
I eventually found a more open oak-brush ridge that started to show signs of deer. After following the ridge a ways I finally found what I was looking for: an intersection of three trails and two fresh-looking scrapes. I punched in the waypoint on my GPS knowing I might be back to this location with my tree stand.
After rendezvousing with Stu, we headed back to camp for lunch. Brian and James had found a very promising looking oak-filled ridge that headed back from camp for a good two miles. They reported lots of buck sign, good scrapes and easy open walking. Brian reported having a close encounter with a bull moose that he put in the 50" category. That’s an outstanding moose by Minnesota standards.
After lunch Stu and I paddled down the lake about two miles, south to the mile-long portage into Buck Lake. We planned to use many of the nearby portages as access points to get deeper into the backcountry.
I enjoyed my canoe time getting to know Stu better. I only knew him via our e-mail correspondence because he had purchased a few of my articles over the past several years. I found Stu to be a kindred spirit who had a deep love of wilderness and wild places, was a fanatic about hunting, and possessed a childlike love of exploring and adventure. Stu, like me, loves to be on the move and always has to explore what’s beyond the next ridge.
Upon arrival at the portage, we immediately found evidence of last night’s wolf pack. Large wolf tracks littered the remaining snow on the ground, weaving in and out of the beaver cuttings along the shoreline. I found it thrilling to be in such close proximity to these northwoods canines.
Stu headed off south of the portage, and I took the north side; we agreed to meet back at the canoe after sundown. The first area I scouted turned out to be a maze of downed timber and bow-snagging brush. Once again, it was pure frustration. I was nothing more than a noisy, brush-busting bull dozer. I eventually worked my way back to the portage and headed west towards Buck Lake.
Nearing the lake, I found a promising ridge and proceeded to quietly stalk up the hill. I soon found good sign and jumped three does. A few minutes later, up jumped a 10 point bruiser. He was thick, tall and wide. He stopped about 50 yards out, not having smelled me nor positively identified me. He was well out of long bow range and completely obscured by low brush. Still, I was thrilled to have found the proverbial needle-in-the-haystack.
I scouted the area for the next couple of hours and found what I felt were a few good stand locations. After logging them into my GPS, I made some mock scrapes, knowing I’d be back tomorrow. With the sun setting, I headed back for the mile-long walk across the portage.
In the soft mellow light of the setting sun, I slowed my walk back across the portage, trying to soak up all that was around me. In all my years of traversing the BWCAW, in the summers with a canoe and winters with snowshoes, I had never before explored the hidden treasures of the deeper parts of this great landscape. Normally, we just connect the blue dots of lakes via portages... but this journey was taking me for the backstage tour, beyond the face of a campsite or shoreline.
It was here that I could feel the heartbeat of the forest; where wolves stalk, kill and eat moose and deer. Here where trees are born, grow, die and return to the earth unseen by man. Here where the circle of life plays out in multitudes of layers too complex and numerous for me to fathom. These wanderings were helping me to connect the system as a whole, as an intricate interweaving of the web of life.
As I neared the end of the portage in the fading light, I could see Stu sitting quietly, staring down the shoreline. He held a finger to his lips, signaling me to approach silently. As I got closer, he pointed in the direction of the next point of land and softly spoke, “Wolf!” I scanned the shoreline but couldn’t pick out anything. Stu had been watching a big, black male wolf hunt for beaver along the shore and suggested we slowly launch the canoe and quietly paddle down along the shore. We did just that, not seeing anything but knowing this was probably the pack we’d heard the evening before.
We glided smoothly down the dark lake, under a starlit sky, sharing our observations from the afternoon’s hunt. Rounding the last point we could see the glow of the wall tent across the lake with its welcoming soft light, warmth and promise of a good hearty meal. Our evenings gathered around the roaring stove proved to be a great mix of conversation and good hot meals.
Brian and James had further explored behind camp and found tremendous hunting terrain and buck sign. They had each had a good shooting opportunity at eight point bucks; they chose to pass, wanting to put down a true BWCAW monster, not wanting to pack out an average buck from this jungle. My warm, cozy sleeping bag was a welcome sanctuary after a long, hard day; sleep came easy.
After a good breakfast and hot cup of Java, Brian and I packed for an all-day hunt back to where I’d found the good sign and nice buck. We paddled through the dark, then packed down the long, winding portage with our portable treestands strapped to our backs. Gaining the ridge, I pointed in the direction I thought he should go; then I scooted down the ridge to a tree I’d picked out, covering a well-used trail connecting the ridges. We agreed to rendezvous at 10 a.m.
My morning hunt proved uneventful, but as all good bowhunters know, even an uneventful hunt still has tremendous rewards in the form of solitude, silence, thinking time and the privilege of being immersed in the natural rhythms all around us.
Around 10 a.m. I left my stand and headed to find Brian. He’d had a quiet morning too. After a little snack, we headed out to explore new terrain deeper into the forest. It was exciting to simply walk, explore and participate in the flow of the landscape from ridge to swamp to open meadow. We each found a moose shed and spent a few hours scouting new terrain, then sat till sundown—another beautiful sunny, but uneventful afternoon.
One thing I loved each evening was hearing each other’s stories, especially from Stu who usually came back to the tent with a backpack full of antler sheds. He was like “Santa” each evening, unloading his pack and telling the tale with childlike enthusiasm of where he’d found each shed.
Once again the sound of our friendly neighborhood wolf pack reminded me that we weren’t in “Kansas anymore.” Good warm food, the day’s exertions and the cold, clear air made for easy sleep.
Day three I decided to hike back on the ridge behind camp to set up my stand on the previously-found double scrapes. In the complete dark of pre-dawn, I hoisted day pack and climbing stand and followed my GPS. It was pure foolishness in the tangle of thick brush, wet low spots and downed timber. Once again, I was the proverbial bull-in-a-china-shop busting my way blindly uphill, alerting all living creatures to evacuate the area. A good half-mile from camp I found my scrapes, scented them with fresh lure and climbed the tree for my morning hunt. Morning dawned clear and cold with the promise of yet another great day. Time passed quickly with a good book and a warming sun.
Around 11 a.m. I intuitively looked over my left shoulder to catch antlers moving in the low spruce. My heartbeat instantly accelerated into warp speed, then I stood and silently grabbed my long bow, arrow knocked and ready. The buck was circling around my back side about 20 yards out, and I only had a couple of incomplete looks at him while straining my neck backwards. He was a mid-sized eight point, nothing to write home about, but I would take him if he gave me a shot. The swirling winds were my curse, and soon he vanished like morning fog without so much as a whisper.
That evening Brian and I were first back to the tent after sundown and went about chores as we waited for James and Stu, who had also headed out back on the ridge. Darkness came quickly in earnest with stars filling the sky.
The wolf pack began howling again, although this time much closer and from the ridgeline behind camp. Still no sign of James and Stu. Brian and I anxiously paced outside the tent, shining our flashlights for the guys. The wolves kept up their chorus, and I grew more anxious.
I was not fearing the wolves, but I was concerned for how late James and Stu were. The wolves just added some intensity to the situation. My gut hunch was that one of them must have put down a big buck, and they were late because of blood-trailing, skinning and packing chores. Still it was a full hour-and-a-half after dark, and I grew more and more concerned.
Finally, the tiny spots of bobbing head lamps could be seen as they descended the hill. James and Stu both looked relieved to be back in camp, and they were both soaked in sweat from the long two-mile hike out in the dark, following their GPS the whole way. All was well, but they had started back late from a long ways out. Another evening of good food and stories followed.
About mid-morning Stu had gotten the drop on his BWCAW dream buck, but it was 40 yards out following two does—a bit far for a bow shot. He didn’t want to take a chance on such a beautiful animal at that distance. Instead, he vowed to return during rifle season.
I spent the following morning on stand and then explored the oak ridge deeper in the forest behind camp. It was a beautiful rolling ridge with low-lying scrub oak, open meadows and rocky outcrops. I found lots of moose sign, several scrapes and rubs, and abundant large bear scat everywhere. I found it exhilarating to be in terrain where three of Minnesota’s biggest and best mammals all come together. I only wished I’d found this place earlier in our hunt. My consolation was knowing that this ridge would still be here next year.
On our final morning we awoke to a rain/snow mix falling on our tent with the wind howling through the trees. We took down a soggy camp and loaded our canoes in the cold, icy wind. In spite of the cold and dreary weather, our paddle out was filled with high spirits, good conversation and hearty laughter. We had entered deep into the wilderness to explore and test our skills and woods savvy on the edge of winter and difficult northwoods terrain. No arrows had been loosed, but I held a great satisfaction in knowing we had pushed the envelope and increased our knowledge of this expansive and spectacular land between the blue.
Editor’s Note: For more info on my Grand Slam Guide Service—BWCAW guided archery deer hunts—contact me at stu@boundarywatersjournal.com