I'm over here hiding from my Uncle Emil. Left him eating breakfast and breaking camp in September of '69 on Lake Gabimichigami. He's hiking both the Border Route and Kekekabic Trails, around and through the Boundary Waters. Not sure where he gets the ambition or the energy. Probably from the same place as me, foolishness and a lack of perspective.
As always, he's my inspiration. Why not? As far as I know he's never existed anywhere but in my head and can be exactly as he wants to be. If he chooses to be an honorable and upstanding man with an odd point of view that's fine with me. Anytime I've tried to change his ways he's said no. Go figure. So he's hiking. Didn't see that coming till he got the urge. On the other hand, that he asked me to keep a journal for him was no surprise. Now I'm considering doing the same. I'd do it in a heartbeat but, you see, it doesn't involve fishing. Even when you're a marginal angler like me, a trip to the wilderness without a canoe and rod seems a waste of valuable water. Odd thing is I value the opportunity to fish more than the actuality. Simply put, a dozen casts and a boated smallmouth bass will calm my addiction.
Emil's a horse of another color. He's doing two weeks afoot and passing dozens of blue ribbon lakes along the way. Makes me want to lace up my sneakers to learn how such an experience would feel. See the sights he's seeing and be able to describe them better. Maybe even see how a mind works while putting one foot in front of the other for days on end.
Anyhow, it's a thought. Probably'll never set foot on either trail. If for no other reason than the reality of a forty pound pack on my pack for six or more hours a day holds no appeal. Don't mind walking for fifteen or twenty miles a day. But the pack? Just don't see that happening.