The Hidden Canyons

Our small party ascended the canyon on snowshoes amid calved boulders and frosted trees. The days of breaking trail had been difficult, but now we strolled through an enchanted playground, climbing over boulders, ducking beneath branches, twisting and turning, jumping and sliding. Ragged beards of icicles hung from the walls, some clear as windowpanes, others dark as root beer. A graceful arc of icicles, all longer than canoe paddles, hung below an overhang. This was a place we’d discovered how to reach through years of trial and error, and now we revisited it to fully explore its frosty artistry.

It was near the new year, and that meant, as it has for 24 years in a row now, that I was on a multi-week winter camping trip in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness with friends and family. My sister, Wendy, has come on nearly every trip. Others visit too, some of them returning yearly. 

During the trip we live in a 12-by-12-foot tent with a wood-burning stove, exploring the surrounding area on day trips. The heated tent gives us a cozy shelter and dries our clothing after bushwhacking through snowy forests or encountering thin ice. Everyone who has accompanied me will tell you with mild exasperation how my love of exploring means we rarely revisit the same places. 

The hidden canyons, however, keep drawing me back.

The Call of the Canyons. On the 16th trip, my friend Rolf arrived for the last week. On satellite imagery he’d noticed two parallel canyons running southwest to northeast connecting two small nearby lakes. Of course, this ignited my love of exploration, and we set out to reach them.

We attempted to access the east canyon from the small northern lake and found a six-story cliff on the southeast side towering over us. As we entered the canyon, a lower cliff to the northwest appeared through a haze of conifers. Our skis got tangled in the undergrowth, though, and we turned back, frustrated. A day later we reached the small southern lake by pulling ourselves up a steep slope hand over hand through tangled white cedars. We skied the lake’s northern border until unsafe ice forced us onto land. We climbed high above the canyon and gazed into it. The following day we departed for home, having just glimpsed the hidden canyons.

When we camped on a nearby lake two years later, on the 18th trip, we repeated the climb to the southern lake on the trip’s last day. This time we avoided the creek’s outflow and reached the east canyon. Deep snow, buried brush, and downed trees forced us to move slowly while carrying our skis. Darkness fell before we had gone far, but this canyon captivated me. I wanted to see more.

Two years later, on trip 20, we camped on another lake near the canyons, and I was determined to explore them. After two experiences on skis, I realized snowshoes would work better. It took three days, but finally we were able to bushwhack trails through both canyons for the first time.  I’d spent years not knowing whether the canyons were passable, which made the joy of discovery all the sweeter. Once the trails were packed, we could fully appreciate the winter magic created by dripping water on the rock walls. We still moved through the canyons slowly, but now instead of straining to break trail we reveled in a fairyland of ice.

The Pinnacle of Winter. Winter makes the BWCA a completely different place than the one we enjoy during the canoeing seasons, and I look forward to it every year. Winter graces the land with a sublime majesty. Snow and ice paint the forests and waters in a rare and wonderful beauty.

Around the new year is the pinnacle of winter, when cold and shadows reign and the weak winter sun barely reaches into the canyons. Hidden from direct light, icicles and frozen waterfalls grow daily, drop by drop.

On the 22nd trip, we camped near the canyons for the last time, again spending three days breaking trail. Heavy early winter rains had formed the most spectacular icicles we’d ever found.

As we approached the east canyon, rock hills three stories high formed a glen. An abandoned beaver dam, vibrant with red dogwoods, marked the entry between two six-story cliffs. Huge boulders lay beneath one cliff, calved from above, leaving large undercut rock roofs brightened by blue, gray, and white mineral streaks. As I snowshoed between these walls, I felt like I was passing through a gate guarding entry into a kingdom of icicles.

We walked between the walls on a level floor the length of a football field, then the floor rose steadily between four-story cliffs. On one side, an expanse of tannin-stained ice the color of old newspapers stretched for 100 feet, the faded hue granting an ancient quality to the ice wall. Much of it, alive with trickles of water, had the look of lumpy mashed potatoes. Layered icicles covered the remainder.

The canyon floor flattened again at a grove of spruce and cedar where a house-sized panel of layered icicles veiled the southeast wall. White cedars framed the panel, their graceful curves and bright green leaves defining the frigid art. In the stillness the gentle music of dripping water sang a song of icicle creation. In front of the panel lay the weathered antlers and skull of a bull moose, not present two years ago. An alcove adjacent to the skull housed a bedroom-sized frozen weep. The weep emanated halfway up the canyon wall, spilling downward in a series of pillowy waves like a waterpark slide.

Other weeps, mostly hidden from the sun on the northwest wall, created delicate icicles clear as glass—glistening gossamer threads when the afternoon sun briefly graced them. To me those sparkling icicles, cloistered in alcoves, were shrines to winter.

We snowshoed down the northern lake to the west canyon, past beaver ponds, then climbed through rolling bedrock. Panoramic views stretched west. Irregular cliffs three to five stories tall formed the west canyon. Approaching the sloped edge, I peered down. The bottom, no wider than the creek, contained open water alternating with snow-covered ice.

We descended toward the southern lake and encountered an ice-covered pond impounded by a beaver dam. Two years prior we’d passed through a meadow here with no rodent engineers. The abundant icicles, the delicate winter shrines, and the moose skull were other remarkable changes. As one who always explores, I delighted in witnessing changes in the same area.

A Temple of Ice. As we returned to camp, a gibbous moon glowed in the eastern sky. I was sad to leave. After a dozen trips through the canyons, I never tired of their adventurous beauty. Wendy described my fascination with these enchanted canyons as the culmination of my love of bushwhacking.

Showing them to family and friends made me happy. A few asked me to guess how many people had visited the canyons. Certainly, people have lived and traveled these lands for thousands of years. In modern times, there cannot have been many. Any visitors would have had to be lovers of winter. Winter’s majesty is what makes the canyons fascinating. Winter fills the hollows with snow and lets us create a packed trail. Winter strips the trees of leaves and opens up expansive views. Winter’s alchemy transmutes dripping water into rare crystalline wonders that adorn the canyon walls. Winter turns this craggy landscape into a temple of ice.