Three Country Boys

No T.V., 10,020 acres of dense woods, a hobby farm consisting of three goats, a donkey, twenty or so chickens, hippie parents and two nutty brothers-Roscoe and Blaise-were all part of my childhood in Northwestern Wisconsin. These factors helped shape the person I am today in one large way or another.

For the first six years of my life I lived in a 20x22 cottage built by my "papa" during the years he "wanted to get away from the city." Papa was from North Minneapolis and had no carpentry skills initially. When he moved to the land with my mother, they lived in a teepee (the same one that Micah Marty lived in this past summer by Lake Superior). While they lived primitively, he built a doghouse for their border collie, Guhnner. Upon completion, papa built a 12x12 chicken coop. My parents lived in this the first winter on the land, using a fifty-gallon aluminum drum barrel for a woodstove. The next spring my father built the cottage. It had electricity, yet did not have running water (there was an electric pump outside). Baths were heated on the woodstove during winter months and on the propane cookstove during the summer-that is, if we had not been swimming in the numerous nearby lakes that day. There were lofts where my brothers and I slept and the rest of the house was seemingly awash with bookshelves of every shape and variety. My parents' intentions were to live off the land, tapping maple trees for syrup, hunting, gathering wild rice in nearby lakes and growing an extensive vegetable garden. They achieved and fulfilled all of these intentions.

Through this interesting and original upbringing, my brothers and I were very creative. We would build forts by the river, pretending we were Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn from the books we read, or go on fishing excursions in the vast wilderness across the road. We would play sports amongst ourselves, pretending to be the athletes whose endeavers we heard about on the radio. The best part for me, however, were the extensive "expeditions" that we would go on.

It all started on a clear June day. Blaise, the oldest, woke Roscoe and me up from our shortened slumber (our parents had woken up an hour before for work and evidently Blaise could not fall back asleep) by making loud clanking noises and began cooking pancakes. He proudly announced that today we were going on a fishing expedition to Margaret Lake. Roscoe and I looked at each in confusion-Margaret Lake was five miles away, further than we had even biked before. He confidently said that we were going to hook Rosita, our donkey, up to the maple syrup cart, load it with lunch and fishing gear, fish all day, AND still make it home before our parents arrived home from work, thus avoiding getting "grounded." We were sure our parents would not approve, as I was seven years old and Roscoe and Blaise nine and eleven, respectively. After some confusion and reasoning (from Roscoe, who was, and still is the brother with the most moral aptitude) we agreed to make a day of it.

Rosita, always up for attention and happy to get out of the corral, began the trip on a high note. She tore down the winding driveway at a frightening speed; scaring the dickens out of the roaming chickens. The metal wheels on the cart were deafening on the long gravel driveway. By the time we made it to the county road we had nearly tipped into the pond (which skirts our driveway), were completely pale and Roscoe was bleeding from the forehead where he got hit by a rock kicked up from Rosita's hooves. We gave Rosita a meek "Getty up" and officially began the journey.

We followed the country road for a bit, but before long Rosita was moving slower than a duck.. swimming in molasses.......... in January. Blaise, always the adventurous, decided to drag a beer can (always present on county, hick roads in Wisconsin--especially in 1992) to frighten Rosita into a trot, versus the amble she had succumbed to. There we go again!!! Donkeys are skittish animals and Rosita was no different; she hauled ass! After a very short while of can dragging and whooping, we arrived at the small trail in the woods, which would lead us to Margaret Lake. Margaret Lake is located in the heart of the Mckenzie Creek Wildlife Area. No motors are allowed and access is reduced to foot travel only via a winding, old, woodtick and mosquito infested logging trail. The cart got stuck in the mud multiple times, yet through perserverence-mostly by Rosita-we arrived at the end of the trail; which opened up to a beautiful view of the lake.

We tied Rosita up to a large basswood tree at the boatlanding, left her plenty of oats and water, and began to load an old row boat, left by some old lazy fisherman, with our fishing gear. The boat did not have a plug in the back, yet was deemed seaworthy by Blaise after applying chewed Bazooka bubble gum to the hole. It was nearly noon when we hit the water in search of one of the most beautiful species of fish: Crappies. The whole reason that Blaise had wanted to go was because he knew the crappies were in the shallows spawning and could be easily caught. Blaise was correct, the fish were spawning in copious numbers; biting anything that moved. We caught fish after fish to the point of our limit. Around two o'clock, we parked the rowboat on the shore near our fishing hole (the opposite side of the lake from the landing) and built a large fire. We propped up rocks from the water to create a platform for the row boat to sit on over the fire and filled the old boat with water. We had a hot tub! It was very important to keep our feet off the bottom of the boat, as it was very hot. The rocks from the lake contain moisture and when heated, they explode. We did not know this until a sudden large BOOM! exploded underneath us. We quickly became fearful and put out the fire and decided that we should probably get back home before our parents .

We rowed back across the lake and upon arriving at the boat landing realized that Rosita had escaped! After taking her harness off, we had tied her to a tree with an old, rotted anchor rope. Also, the tree had old beer cans under it from long ago high school parties. The sound of cans scraping on the road to get her to the lake so quick had frightened her once again when she had stepped on them! We all three began tracking her back through the logging trail. Her tracks were easy to follow, yet she must have had a significant head start, because we could not catch up to her. Luckily her tracks were leading towards home.

While sullenly hiking on the county road in search of our lost ass, our mom, on her way home from work, came upon us. It was the one time that we were happy to get into trouble; we were exhausted and quite hungry. She was impressed by the fish we had caught, yet gave us a stern lecture about "being responsible while she and papa were at work." She helped us recover Rosita, who had made her way to the neighbor's yard and had begun braying obnoxiously.

When papa came home, we got chewed out again, and the whole time Blaise had this huge grin on his face, while Roscoe and I portrayed grim expressions. Papa asked him what was so exciting and Blaise pointed out the size and quantity of the crappies we had caught. For Blaise, the end justified the means. He did not realize that the consequence for our actions was to be grounded for a week AND clean out the manure from the small barn and chicken coop. Such was life for for three boys in the country.

How Not To Shit In The Woods

There are few things as tranquil and breathtaking as a summer morning in the boundary waters. The lake softly licking against the shoreline, the occasional loon call, and summer sunshine flowing through the tent fly makes for the perfect way to rise from a nights slumber atop the fresh pine loam of northern minnesota. My family and I make it a point to surrender to the BWCA at least once every summer. These trips are not only marked with the obvious beauty and splendor of Minnesota summertime, but also with the attempt to take a shit as infrequently as possible.

In the boundary waters, the comforts of the modern lifestyle are few and far between. Showers don't happen nearly as often as loved ones hope for, meals often consist of the same old stale tasting freeze dried or dehydrated tackery, and tempers often rise above and beyond the boiling point due to such inconveniences. Regardless, there is something in my families' basic nature that drives us to return to the lakes and woods each year, partly due to the feeling of oneness with nature and also due to the way in which the BWCA can make people feel alive with human instinct and the drive for survival. However, some trips contain experiences that kick a being into situations that surpass anything one might expect.

After my junior year in high school, my family and I ventured back into the woods for a little family bonding. I have two older brothers, one Blaise and one Roscoe, both of whom have gone into the environmental field in one way or the other. My parents, Sue and Jesse are both "recovering" hippies. And then there's me. I too will be going into the environmental field and I happily anticipate these BWCA adventures beyond everyone else in the family. I love the way in which nature grips my heart and makes it weak. I love the way in which my family has to come together with nature, and bond with the wild. I don't like pooping in the latrines out back behind every designated campsite, so naturally, I limit this activity to the bare minimum. For me, this is dropping the trousers once a day after breakfast. This bodily rythm means I don't have to deal with the urge to go when physical activity gets intense, and I also have the whole day to recover from what I might see in the bottom of the biff.

Roscoe is what we could call the strong and silent type. What I've come to see about such people is that often times, underneath the standoffish exterior lies a gentle and squishy heart. They also might not be quite as brave as one might imagine. The campsite we were residing at looked like it had been touched by the finger of God him/herself. It was the type of morning that made you think magnificent things were about to happen. There had been a gentle rain the night before and in nature this leads to mornings of clean, sharp air, gentle waters, and trees stretching towards heavens of sunshine as deliberatly as their root structures may allow. Such a morning means that its time to cook the holiest of holy breakfasts: pancakes. However, BWCA pancakes are often doughy in the middle and burnt on the edges, to the point of indegestion. So Roscoe, whose silent and resilient stomach was all of a sudden not so silent and resilient, and my stomach, which was ready for the daily deuce, headed out back.

The latrines in the BWCA are unlike any other latrines that the current camper might encounter. They generally resemble a hard plastic 5 gallon bucket with human fecal matter at the bottom. It is my guess that they were installed a very long time ago, during some type of prohibition from comfort, possibly during WWII when plastic was scarce leading to a limit in the amount of satisfaction one can get from squatting on a shitter. They are in essence, plasticly primitive. I let Roscoe go first; the looks on his contorted face wrenching at my heart and after a few painful minutes of indescribable noises, aromas, and cries of pain, he was done. It was my turn.

I just finished reading How To Shit in the Woods by Kathleen Meyer. Meyer accurately describes to the reader the technical aspects of camp crapping. One must first dig a hole with a spade, followed by the lowering of the drawers, and then comes the aiming of the dropoff itself. If you've just made fire-in-the-hole so to speak, you can clean up and spade the dirt back into your hole. However, in the book, there never was any mention of possible intruders that might interrupt your deed.

So I get going. I'm dropping and squatting, my stomach feeling off-color due to the fact that I haven't relieved myself in the last 24 hours. Luckily for me, my stomach responded gently to breakfast, quite unlike Roscoe's response to the flapjacks he ate, and I was still able to take in the Minnesota beauty that surrounded me. The sun was shining brilliantly; there were birds chirping and squirrels bouncing around somewhere close to me. Maybe even a raccoon or two. Or, what is that? One thing you must know about me is that I'm very trusting of my surroundings. I tend to seek only the best in the souls that are in my proximal vicinity, including animals. So, I decide to turn around and see some wildlife. I turn to gaze over the edge of the hill that the latrine was located on, but I can't see beyond some downed trees. Oh well, I have business at hand.

Fast forward a few minutes. I'm still squatting; enjoying the morning and the memories of dreams that rest just an hour before pancakes and poop, completly forgetting about the noises in the distance. But then, there it was again, the crack of a branch and the shuffle of last fall's leaves, some type of animal, sounding closer than the last time. Maybe a deer? The hair on the back of my neck prickled delightedly, for in my mind there are few things closer to the true definition of a spiritual being. I turn and wait. Nothing. Sighing, and deciding to quickly finish up so I can peer over the trees and try to glimpse the deer, I begin to rush through the last few moments of my duty.

Then, there was a thump-thump-thump-thump of padded feet behind me. Heavy padded feet. Feet that only come attached to carniverous beasts of wildlife that eat teenagers. I whip around, pants still at the ankles, and see an oversized black beast bitch of a bear running behind my bare behind. Bear!!! Roscoe, white as a sheet sprints for camp, leaving me alone with my butt, business, and bear all alone blowing breezy-style in the wind, ready to have it out in the woods (I should add that Roscoe's eyes change color whenever he's livid or scared, but to this day, I don't think I've ever witnessed them to be glowing as they were at that moment). I wish I could say that I was a brave and strong camper, prepared for all possibilities, and ready to scare the wild bears away from the dangers of campers and civilization. But, I too am a chicken when it comes to animals as ominous and fabley dangerous as the bear. So, I haul bare ass back to my campsite, screaming like a stuck pig, pants being pulled up along the way, trying to manage stumps and rocks and my own heart hammering away in my chest. To my surprise, I'm still here to write this today. Bears are supposed to chase, maul, and kill anything that runs from them. But luckily for me, the bear must have been scared away from either my screams, or possibly from the latrine nasty business that I had just added to. No one will ever quite know why I'm still alive to share this story with you.

The lessons to be learned here are threefold. First, How To Shit In The Woods clearly doesn't prepare a person for all aspects of business. This time it was a black bear, but next time it could be a pack of wolves, a moose, or a hyena. Kathleen Meyer is full of shit when actually preparing you to be a latrine soldier in the middle of battle. Secondly, never trust your surroundings with a blind faith. Even your own brother may leave you out to burn in the great outdoors. Third, when encountering a bear, either scream and scare the bear away, shoot the damn thing with a massive gun and a 15 pound bullet, or take a shit upwind of the animal. Any one of these tactics are battle tested and proven to work with varying degrees of success.

The boundary waters can prove to be a place that steals your heart, soul, and spirit. I personally will continue to return to the BWCA as often as my unfolding life will allow. I encourage you all to pay heed to the great outdoors and its many facets. The woods are often a place of peace and surrender, a place where we can experience an escape from civilization and a rebirth into something greater than ourselves. However, you never know what you may encounter. Out there in the wild, all forms of the animal kingdom are in each others' business and interacting on a daily basis. A little fear and respect for the unknown can go a long way. Especially when your pants are down and you're taking a healthy shit in the woods.

Welcome to The Outdoor Life!

If you are reading this, it means that you have successfully found the new blog on Oleville.com, titled "The Outdoor Life". The title says it all. This blog is intended to consist of open door discussion/story telling about the great outdoors. I, John Sopiwnik will be the host, however, you should feel free to send your own stories to me at sopiwnik@stolaf.edu and I will attempt to make you famous : ) The stories can be either fact or fiction, but I will mostly be writing non-fiction. Thank you and please enjoy.