Lake of the Woods does not let you get comfortable.
After topping off at Devils Gap and leaving Kenora behind, we decided to take a slightly different route out just to mix things up — and the lake immediately reminded us why it demands our full attention. Out here, route planning is less a fixed itinerary and more a loose suggestion. We’re constantly scanning for rocks and hazards lurking just below the surface, cross-referencing the GPS for shallow water, and cheerfully abandoning the plan whenever something interesting catches our eye.
The shallow water alarm still catches us off guard on occasion. There’s a particular kind of collective breath-holding that happens aboard Bearcruzer when that thing goes off — eyes on the depth sounder, eyes on the water, nobody saying much. We’ve learned, though, that we tend to have about two feet under the keel even when the alarm insists otherwise. We are wary. We are watchful. And we are, so far, still floating. Whew.
We headed south, then east, and turned Bearcruzer up into Bald Indian Bay, where we found another lovely nook tucked into the northwest side of Sultana Island. And just like our first night in Canadian waters, a Bald Eagle was waiting for us — perched in a tree above the anchorage as if he’d been expecting company. We exchanged a glance. Thanks Dad. Some things don’t need to be said out loud.
A mother Common Goldeneye Duck and her baby paddled by inspecting us as we set the anchor, apparently satisfied with what they found, and Sierra made it very clear that the official welcome committee could wait — she needed to go ashore.
We loaded into the dinghy and set off to explore the northernmost point of Sultana Island. Rounding the point, we came across something genuinely rare on this lake: a clearing. Open ground is hard to come by out here, where the boreal forest grows straight down to the water’s edge, so we pulled the dinghy up and went to investigate. The clearing had clearly been discovered before us — a small dock tucked into the reeds, a weathered picnic table, a fish cleaning plank, a fire pit, and a handful of empty bottles that suggested more than a few good evenings had been spent in this spot. We couldn’t argue with the taste of whoever found it first.
Back in the dinghy and rounding a small rocky island off the point, the afternoon offered up one more surprise. A redwing blackbird was putting up a tremendous fuss — dive-bombing something small and brown moving through the rocks below. I asked Mike to circle the dinghy back around.
A mink. An actual wild mink, going about its business, entirely unbothered by the bird’s outrage.
I was absolutely tickled. There is something deeply satisfying about seeing a mink in its natural habitat rather than draped across someone’s shoulders at a cocktail party.
We spent the rest of the afternoon in that glassy cove, the kind of afternoon that’s hard to describe without sounding like you’re bragging. Mike fished off the stern. I settled in with my book. Something good came off the stove as the light went golden. The eagle called. The water barely moved.
Some days out here are about the miles. This one was about the stillness.
Living the Dream 