"Don’t Go Alone":
I decided to take that solo canoe trip after months of planning. Work had been tough, and I needed time away from everything. The Boundary Waters area up north seemed perfect—miles of lakes and rivers, few people around. I loaded my old canoe with a tent, food, a map, and a small radio for emergencies. Paddling out that first morning felt right, like I was leaving worries behind.
The water was calm as I made my way through narrow channels lined with thick trees. I stopped at a small island for lunch, ate a sandwich, and listened to the quiet. No one else in sight. That was the point. By afternoon, I found a good spot to camp on a rocky shore with a flat area for my tent. I pulled the canoe up high, tied it secure, and set up. Dinner was simple—canned soup heated over a fire. As the light faded, I sat by the flames, thinking about how good it felt to be alone.
But then I heard a splash. Not loud, just enough to make me look up. Across the water, maybe a hundred yards away, another canoe moved slowly. A man sat in it, paddling without hurry. He wore a dark jacket and hat pulled low. I waved, figuring it was polite, but he didn't wave back. He just stared, then turned his canoe toward my shore. My pulse quickened a bit. Visitors weren't common here, but it happened.
He pulled up a few minutes later, beaching his canoe next to mine. Up close, he looked rough—beard unkempt, eyes narrow. "Evening," he said, stepping out. His voice was low, almost a grunt.
"Hello," I replied, standing up. "Nice spot here."
He nodded, glancing at my tent and fire. "Yeah. This is my regular place. You alone?"
I hesitated. "Yes, just me. Taking a break for a few days."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Brave. Lots of folks come out here and don't make it back right. You got supplies? Water? A gun?"
"No gun," I said, trying to keep it light. "Just the basics. You camping nearby?"
He ignored that. "Name's Jack. I live around these parts. Trap some, fish some. Seen people like you before. City types. They think it's all fun until something goes bad."
We talked for a bit. He asked about my route, how long I'd be out, if anyone knew where I was. I answered vaguely, not liking how personal it got. "Well, enjoy your night," he said finally, pushing off. "Watch out for strangers." He paddled away into the growing dark.
That bothered me. I put out the fire early and got in my tent, zipping it tight. Lying there, I replayed the conversation. Why ask if I had a gun? And that warning—it felt off. I told myself he was just a local, maybe lonely. Sleep came slow.
Hours later, something woke me. Footsteps. Soft, crunching on the leaves outside. I sat up, holding my breath. They circled the tent, slow and deliberate. Once, twice. Then stopped right by the door. I waited, frozen. A shadow moved against the fabric, like someone standing there. "Who's out there?" I called, voice steady as I could make it.
No answer. The steps started again, moving away toward the water. I heard a scrape, like something dragging on rocks. My canoe? I grabbed my flashlight, unzipped the tent just enough to peek. The beam caught movement— a figure walking back into the trees. Tall, dark jacket. Jack? I couldn't be sure.
I didn't sleep after that. Every rustle made me tense. Was he watching? Why circle like that? By dawn, I packed fast. When I got to the canoe, the tie-down rope was loose, like someone had untied it partway. It could have drifted off in the night. I shoved off quick, paddling hard downstream.
The next day passed uneasy. I kept looking back, expecting to see his canoe. Nothing. I made good distance, found another campsite on a peninsula with open views. Set up, ate, tried to relax. But as dark came, doubts crept in. What if he followed? Those questions he asked—they felt like scouting.
Sure enough, around midnight, the footsteps returned. Closer this time. They paused often, like listening. I clutched my knife—the only thing I had. "I know you're there," I whispered to myself. Then louder: "Leave me alone!"
A low chuckle came from outside. "Alone? That's what you wanted, right?" It was his voice. Jack's.
My blood ran cold. How did he find me? I hadn't told him my route exactly. "What do you want?" I shouted.
"Just checking on you. City boy out here... easy to get lost. Or hurt." The words hung there. Then the zipper tugged. Once, gentle. Then harder. "Open up. Let's talk."
"No," I said. "Go away. I'll call for help."
He laughed again. "Radio? Signal's bad here. No one's coming." The tugging stopped. Footsteps retreated, but not far. I heard him sit down nearby, humming softly. Minutes stretched. I sat rigid, knife ready, imagining him waiting me out.
After what seemed hours, he spoke again. "You know, last summer a guy like you came through. Solo trip. Never made it home. Folks said he drowned, but... who knows?" Silence. Then: "Sleep well."
He left eventually, or seemed to. I didn't move until light broke. Packing, I found footprints all around the tent, deep and fresh. And on the canoe's side, scratched in: "My waters."
I paddled like mad that day, skipping breaks. Reached a ranger station by evening. Told them everything—the encounter, the circling, the threats. The ranger nodded grim. "We've had reports. Guy matching that description. Harasses solos, steals gear sometimes. Might be running from something. Stayed away from arrests so far."
They offered a ride out, but I finished the trip with a group they connected me to. Safer that way. Back home, I learned more online—similar stories from other paddlers. One said his tent was slashed, another chased off. Authorities think he's a drifter, maybe involved in worse. I never went solo again. That isolation I craved? It turned into pure fear. The kind that sticks, makes you check locks at night. If you're thinking of going alone, don't. Some places, some people, wait for that.
"The Portage":
I had planned this solo canoe trip for months, dreaming of the quiet Boundary Waters in Minnesota. It was my chance to get away from everything, just me and the water. I loaded my gear into the car and drove the long hours to the entry point at Lake Vermilion. By the time I arrived, I felt ready. I unpacked the canoe, strapped in my packs, and pushed off into the calm lake. The paddle felt good in my hands, each stroke pulling me farther from the shore.
The first day went smooth. I paddled steady, covering good distance. I stopped at a small island to set up camp, ate a simple meal from my supplies, and slept under the stars. No one around, just the lap of water against rocks. I woke early the next morning, packed up, and headed out again. My plan was to reach Chad Lake through a portage trail. It was about 1,400 meters, not too bad, I thought. I had done portages before, but always with a partner to share the load. This time, it was all on me.
I reached the start of the portage around midday. I hauled the canoe out of the water and flipped it over my head. It was heavy with the packs inside, but I managed. The trail was narrow, roots and rocks everywhere. I took careful steps, breathing hard. "One foot in front of the other," I muttered to myself. "You've got this." Sweat dripped down my face, but I kept going. About halfway, my foot caught on a root. I twisted awkward, trying to keep balance. Pain shot through my ankle like a knife. I stumbled, the canoe tipping. It crashed down beside me as I fell to the ground.
I sat there for a minute, clutching my ankle. It hurt bad, throbbing already. I pulled off my boot and sock. The skin was turning red, swelling up fast. "Oh no," I whispered. "This is not good." I tried to stand, but the pain made me gasp. I hopped on one foot, but the trail was uneven. No way I could carry the canoe like this. I limped back to where I had started, dragging the canoe behind me. Each step sent fire up my leg. I thought about the map. I was in the middle of nowhere, miles from any road or people.
Back at the water, I sat on a rock, staring at my ankle. It was puffing up, purple now. I wrapped it with a bandage from my first aid kit, but it didn't help much. "What now?" I said out loud, my voice echoing a bit off the trees. I had a satellite device in my pack, the kind with an SOS button. But I didn't want to use it yet. It was only day two. I could wait, see if it got better. I hobbled into the canoe and paddled a short way to a better spot to camp. Setting up the tent was agony. I crawled inside, elevated my foot, and ate some food. The pain kept me awake most of the night. Every time I shifted, it flared up.
As hours passed, doubt crept in. What if no one came by? This area wasn't busy. I hadn't seen another soul since starting. My mind raced. What if the swelling got worse? What if I couldn't move at all tomorrow? I imagined trying to paddle back with one good leg, but the wind could pick up, make it impossible. The isolation hit me hard. No phone signal, no help nearby. I felt small, vulnerable. "Stay calm," I told myself. "You've got supplies. Wait it out." But the fear grew. Pain made everything sharper, more urgent.
By morning, my ankle was worse. I could barely put weight on it. I tried to pack up, but hopping around left me exhausted. I sat by the canoe, looking at the water. "I can't do this," I admitted quietly. Tears stung my eyes from the frustration and fear. I pulled out the satellite device. It was a small thing, but it felt heavy in my hand. I stared at the SOS button. Pressing it meant admitting defeat, but not pressing it could mean something worse. I thought about my family back home, wondering if I'd make it out. The woods around me seemed endless, closing in.
I pressed the button. A light blinked, confirming the signal sent. Now, wait. How long? An hour? A day? I didn't know. I leaned back against a tree, leg throbbing. Time dragged. I heard birds calling, water moving, but no human sounds. What if the signal didn't go through? What if help couldn't find me? My breathing quickened. The pain pulsed with my heartbeat. I closed my eyes, trying to focus. "Someone will come," I whispered. "They have to."
After what felt like forever, I heard a distant hum. An engine? I sat up, straining to listen. It grew louder, a plane. A floatplane! It circled overhead, dipped its wings. Relief flooded me, but mixed with fear. What if they couldn't land? The lake was small. The plane came down, skimming the water, and taxied close. Two men jumped out, wading to shore.
"Are you the one who sent the SOS?" the pilot called.
"Yes," I shouted back, voice shaky. "I hurt my ankle bad. Can't walk."
They approached, one carrying a kit. "Let's see it," the other said. He unwrapped the bandage. "Whoa, that's swollen. Good call on the SOS. You could've been stuck out here longer."
They helped me to the plane, supporting my weight. "How bad is it?" I asked.
"Could be a break or bad sprain," the pilot replied. "We'll get you to the hospital in Ely. They'll fix you up."
As we lifted off, I looked down at my canoe, left behind. The woods shrank away. At the hospital, doctors confirmed a severe sprain, almost a fracture. "You were smart to call for help," one said. "Out there alone, it could've turned serious fast."
I nodded, still shaken. That trip changed me. The fear of being truly alone, helpless—it sticks with you.