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When I first paddled canoe country as a Boy Scout, I learned two rules about portaging. First, step out of the canoe before you reach shore so that the hull never touches rock. Second, make your portage in a single trip to avoid wasted steps.

No trouble with the first rule on this portage. The landing is a dense mat of floating bog that quivers as the canoe touches it. Jason and I hop out, trying to step on the scattered logs and rocks previous canoeists have tossed onto the landing to form a crude corduroy. No such luck. Muck oozes up around our ankles.

No trouble with the second rule either. Jason lifts the bigger pack from the canoe, swings it onto his shoulders and lurches from log to rock to log, across the bog toward higher ground. I toss the smaller pack onto my back, fasten our two paddles and the spare into the stern of the canoe with a bungee cord, and flip the canoe onto my shoulders. Then, with more than 100 pounds balanced on my back, I trace Jason’s drunken steps. The mud sucks at my feet.

Within a few yards we reach solid ground, a narrow but well-worn trail winding through birch and spruce, over gnarled roots and across rocky outcrops. At first the pack and canoe move to different beats, tugging at my shoulders, but soon I hit my rhythm and the load rests easier. Now we make time.

We’re traveling through the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. Lying along Minnesota’s northern border, this federal wilderness area encompasses more than a million acres and 1,400 lakes, ranging from potholes to island-filled basins of thousands of acres. The water is stitched together by a network of hundreds of portages.

One of the purest joys of being in this country is the simple act of traveling, the unthinking pleasure of feeling the miles glide beneath the hull and fly beneath your feet. Jason and I have paddled together before, and we move with satisfying efficiency. We parked the car this morning a dozen miles north of Ely, where the Echo Trail cuts by the shore of Nels Lake.

Since then, we’ve traveled about 15 miles by water and run a gauntlet of a dozen portages. The shortest was a mere 16 rods, bypassing a steep creek that runs through the jumble of rocks between two lakes. The longest stretched 300 rods - nearly a mile - and climbed the edge of a rocky knob before dropping into a muddy hollow and emerging on the shore of Wagosh Lake. We’ve covered this distance in only six hours, despite carrying an arsenal of fishing rods and cache of smallmouth bass poppers and other tackle. Even though we’ve passed this way before, we’re both a bit surprised by our pace, and certainly pleased. This last portage will put us at our destination on Crooked Lake, right along the Canadian border, with plenty of time to set up camp and spend the evening fishing.

Jason’s an amiable smart-ass, easy company on these week-long treks. Yet while we trade barbs as we fish or sit around camp, we don’t say much on the trail. We each settle into our own pace, with our own thoughts. Partly, that is our way. But under any circumstances, conversation isn’t easy. The inverted canoe rests on my shoulders, covering my head. The only sounds I hear are my own heavy breathing, the thud of my boots on the hard trail, and the scratch of branches as low-hanging trees scrape the hull. To be heard, Jason and I would need to shout at one another, which seems out of character on the portage trail, and a lot of work besides.

The scenery isn’t much - not nearly as good as the view from a canoe in an upright position, with a sapphire lake and spectacular rock outcrops all around. This dense forest doesn’t offer broad vistas. Even if it did, I’m in no position to appreciate them. Instead, I walk in perpetual Kevlar shadow. My scenery consists of old spider webs stuck around the front seat of the canoe, and the mud from our feet, stuck to the bottom of the hull. If I lift the bow a bit, I can see the heels of Jason’s boots on the portage trail. But mainly I look down - dodging a root, stepping over a sharp outcrop, walking lightly around a mud hole in the middle of the trail. Sweat trickles down my neck, and mosquitoes bite my face, as if they know my hands are grasping the gunwales of the canoe.

Given that, you’d think we’d avoid these portages. But we don’t. As we lay out a map of the Boundary Waters and plan a trip, we seek out the red lines that squirm between lakes. We compose routes of red lines and blue water, the rewarding interplay of portaging and paddling.

I like these portages - despite the sweat and mosquitoes and mud. I like the very act, the deliberate routine. I like the satisfaction of traveling light. I like the feeling as the awkward tug of the pack and canoe merge with my gait. It feels as right and harmonious as a solid hit on the sweet spot of the bat.

And I like these portages because no one else does. Because they don’t, the portage trails give me access to country where fewer people are. And to find these places is the reason I come to the wilderness.

As the portage trail winds downward, I lift the bow of the canoe and spot that most welcome sight, a bright patch of blue shining between the black silhouettes of trees. It’s the end of pain. It’s also the denouement. Jason stands on shore as I step ankle deep into the lake, swing the canoe carefully to avoid trees and rocks, and then set it lightly down. We load the packs, climb aboard and put the paddles quickly to the water. Just half a mile away, a campsite sits on a rocky point overlooking a big bay of Crooked Lake. Every time so far (and every time since), the campsite has been empty and waiting for us.

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