Soaking wet and out of breath, I rotated my body and was surprised to see everyone behind me. I readjusted and squinted ahead, then inspected my water-stained map. Lean forward, pull back, lean forward, pull back, and I came a little closer to the landing each time. My arms were sore earlier that morning from the trek the day before, but now they were just numb. I remembered the steps that I had taken to get to the six-night camping and canoeing trip at the Boundary Waters of Minnesota, and our instructor’s advice, commemorating the first day of training for Northern Tier, back in Georgia, “just take it one step at a time.”
First to arrive at the trailhead, I hopped out of the canoe and sank knee-deep into the refreshing lake water. I then helped the other two paddlers by hoisting the two, eighty-pound portage bags onto their shoulders. Taking a deep breath, and careful to maintain proper footing on the slippery granite, I dragged the canoe onto my lap, then lifted it above my head and onto my shoulders, the bow in front, stern in back. It was the first time I had successfully raised the canoe onto my back on the first try.
Greeted by a thick forest penetrated by a thin, rocky trail, I studied the terrain for the best path forward and began my ascent. I was nervous and skeptical of my ability. The youngest out of the nine crew members, I knew my scout leader had serious reservations about me. Thirteen was the minimum age for the trip, and I had just become a teenager. I could hardly be described as a jock, and I had no canoeing experience. During training, I had fallen so far behind that the instructor climbed into my canoe and paddled for me, which caused some of the scouts that I had always looked up to, to groan in disapproval. This time, I wanted to prove that I could do it. So I promised myself that I would succeed. I didn’t want to be humiliated if I had to pass the canoe to another scout because I wasn’t strong enough.
Hiking along the dense and narrow path, mosquitoes the size of small birds took occupancy inside the canoe and feasted on every area of my exposed skin. Taking one step at a time, I calmed my conscience with deep breaths and longed for a glimpse of the rippling cerulean slate that lay beneath the unbroken horizon. Disappointed to see nothing but the green and brown of the trees, I knew I had to stay vigilant and be careful not to smash the bow into a tree, or let the stern drag across the ground.
I could hear the other boys close behind with their canoes and bags shuffling through the leaves, but I refused to look back. I kept thinking, “just one more step.” With a splash, my foot hit the water’s edge of lake Ahmakose. I had hardly noticed the trail had ended, and my body burst with excitement. I waded in further and turned my hips to the left as I pushed the canoe off my shoulders and laid it into the water.
I was soaked with sweat and my arms felt like noodles, but I smiled anyway. I had made it, without a break, and earned my place on the crew. We paddled some more and eventually came to another portage. The slippery granite caused my scout leader to lose his balance and his knees fell to the ground. Not wanting to leave him behind, I took his pack then raised the canoe over my head. I hiked the trail, one step at a time.
At my Eagle Scout Court of Honor several years later, my scout leader spoke, “that week in the Boundary Waters, I watched a boy become a man.”
Note: This story was submitted as one of my college essays in 2019 and 2020.
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