Into the Cyclone

What first caught my attention was a rustling noise right along the shore of the lake we were paddling across. Could it be otters playing and splashing? Perhaps a bear going after a fish? I had no idea what to expect but thought I was ready for anything, this being the Boundary Waters. What I saw defied all my expectations.

Leaves on the bushes were rattling, and splashing was starting right under them, growing bigger in size and moving away from the shore out into the lake. But there was nothing there. No bear, no otters, no nothing but air. And of course, we saw as it came out a bit further towards us, that's exactly all it was: air. Had it been going down a street somewhere, we would have called it a dust devil, this spinning cyclonic column of air. Then dust and leaves would have marked its boundaries and its progress. Here it was just water, a growing spinning column of it reaching up from the lake to what might have been a height of twenty feet at its tallest, with a width of perhaps three.

It was one of those gloriously sunny August afternoons, no clouds anywhere. No wind either. Perfect canoeing weather, which is what about fifteen of us were heading in to shore from doing. Ours was just part of a larger group at YMCA Camp Northland on Lake Burntside, just north of Ely, Minnesota. We were the ones from camp who wanted to paddle out to Hegman Lake and see the pictographs left thousands of years ago on one of the high cliff walls edging the water and wonder at how they got placed up that high and by whom? Cameras and paddles were our only accessories, and we'd stopped at one the the small islands on the way out to pick the end of the season's blueberries, undisturbed except for canoeists like us. It was all-you-could-stuff-in-your-mouth eating, and leave the rest for others. We'd paused on our way through a bog to see pitcher plants and sundew, looking to see what meals they'd caught. We were enjoying each other's company, the day, the lakes and our short portages. Nearly back to our starting point now, cameras were mostly packed away, and we were looking ahead to supper in the big lodge. A fellow named Kurt was manning the other paddle, and my youngest, Paul, was sitting in the middle on the bottom of our canoe. We were lead canoe of the group, though not by much, jokingly challenging the nearest canoe as to who could get to shore first.

Then we got presented with a better offer.

I had enough time to make sure my camera would stay dry in the ziploc bag I always bring along when I take my camera near water. Kurt and Paul and I held a hasty consultation as the waterspout approached. Did we dodge it? Or head right into it? It was small, staying the same size it was once it hit about thirty feet out from shore. It looked like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, pretty safe, and oh, what a thrill! We turned straight for it, settled our paddles across the bow, leaned forward for maximum stability by lowering our centers of gravity, and waited.

We were dimly aware that the other canoes were scattering out of its path, and some of the group were calling to us to do the same. Heck no! How dangerous could it be, after all?

Once it hit, we were assailed by winds alternating from every direction at once, coated with mist that was coolly refreshing, and as we were buffeted I had almost enough time to wonder if this really had been the smartest idea... when it was gone. I was glad we had braced, now that I knew how unpredictable the winds were, but while I understood that something a bit bigger could be really dangerous, this wound up just being really fun! And unforgettable!

I was just really really sorry than nobody else had thought to take out their camera and get a shot of the three of us heading through the middle of the cyclone! That would have been something!