It took some doing to find this photo of Gina Temple-Rhodes. Thousands of unorganized photos exist, largely unappreciated, inside a cabinet to which I may someday turn my attention. I finally discovered it in the innermost sanctum: a cigar box containing the most precious images captured during my first stabs at adulthood.
Gina took her own life six days ago. Though I’m about as far out as meaningful ripples can travel from the center of her life, it’s stunning to sit here gaping at a sizable hole in her absence.
These inadequate words will emerge upon the outer edges of propriety and as far from that mystical realm of perfection as language or feelings can get, but here we are. This photo, looking out from our campsite on Rose Lake in the fall of 1994, looks out into a foggy, unknowable future. I had no idea until just this past week, how much this first foray into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness changed my life.
I stumbled into this trip almost accidentally, spying a poster advertising a Voyageur’s Initiation into the Boundary Waters on my way to a hated chemistry class at 7 am. Yes, I needed this more than institutionalized education or credentials. $80 for students. Wow. Sign me up!
Possessing virtually nothing recommended in the packing list, I asked why I would need to rent a sleeping pad in addition to a cozy non-cotton sleeping bag?
“Trust me.”
Okey-dokey.
By the time we made it three hours north of Duluth and shoved off in canoes, I ended up with Gina, the co-leader of this expedition for UMD’s Outdoor Program, as a canoe partner. I assume she was a senior, but her bearing seemed decades older than mine. I sat in the bow, annoying the hell out of her with my earnest, give-it-everything-you’ve-got style of paddling, perhaps typical of an 18-year-old boy looking to prove himself. Eventually, with her encouragement, we settled into a rhythm.
I slept alone under the stars, among nine intrepid travelers in our party all spread out in the roomy campsite, but my bag rolled out conspicuously close to a freshman girl’s tent.
Saturday was epic. Here we are leaving camp for North Lake:
En route we came across the randiest moose I’ve ever seen. This bull had come crashing through the forest several minutes after a cow moose had urinated into Rat Lake (a siren’s call). We watched her for several minutes. Someone had the presence of mind to encourage us all to wait a few minutes and see what happened.
Impossible crashing sounds came rushing through the forest, directly towards our party of four canoes silently bobbing a hundred yards or so from the portage path. To my ears it sounded something like the smoke monster from the Lost television series, as this fella crashed through brush and emerged beside us.
Gina and I were right between him and the object of his desire. Bullwinkle charged directly at us in full rut. While swimming toward ecstasy, his antler came within an inch of our humble watercraft. Gina calmly said, “Just be still.”
I didn’t even breathe.
We were fine.
On South Lake she pointed out ancient lob pines marking the way to the portage with their limbs conspicuously chopped off two hundred years earlier by the voyageurs, a group of long-haul truckers I was entirely unacquainted with (being from southern Wisconsin and all). After paddling directly into a west wind, someone had the inspirational idea to eat lunch directly atop the Canadian border (which we crossed with impunity).
On North Lake she and the male co-leader performed the traditional rites of initiation for a voyageur on a sunny, sandy beach as we all stood knee-deep. Traditionally, North Lake was considered the entry point into the Pays d’en Haut where novices became North Men (water flows north to Hudson Bay here as well).
Much more happened on this journey, not least of which was the altering of the fabric of my life. Three years later, when I was Gina’s age, I wore the sash myself, as a park ranger-interpreter up in Grand Portage:
Suffice to say, I’ve never been the same.
Some months after this first BW trip, I took a break from school to move up to the very edge of this beautiful country (a 9-month break from college in which I was essentially reborn – my first book largely revolves around this period).
And so, I’m heartbroken at Gina’s passing. Her co-leader, in contrast, had no impact on me whatsoever. It was obvious that the trip was merely a paying gig for him, whereas Gina seemed to inject her soul into the expedition. Though it took her a while to warm up to me, she persevered to the point of caring. Being cared for feels good. Indifference does not. All these years later I remain heartened by this. Amazing.
Gina graduated and disappeared into the universe. Years later, probably a decade, I ran into her interpreting history somewhere. It was like encountering an angel from my past, although I couldn’t have explained why until this very moment. If only I could have one last conversation with her.
She materialized unexpectedly perhaps twice again. There was always this kind of knowing expression on her face, a sort of deeper knowledge and mutual respect and enjoyment of the other person that only happens when you experience adversity or adventure together. I last saw her a few years ago out in front of my house on the street, where we lingered for a solid 20 minutes after I loaded a purchase into her vehicle. It was a splendid conversation, of the sort I imagine might be common for a brother reuniting with his older sister after an extended absence.
Sigh….
One’s impact on the world is often imperceptible.
I follow a Canadian folk singer who recently released an album entitled, Hello, I’m Irrelevant.
I suspect Gina felt unable to crawl out from under that sentiment. It couldn’t have been further from the truth.
I followed her posts on Facebook, sensing a kind of mama bear instinct with her cubs that my mother lacked entirely.
If only there was some kind of exit interview people gave before departing this world, and was downloadable for anyone. Even from this great distance, I’m left with perplexity.
I returned to Rose Lake during the pandemic. From tall cliffs, I peered west at all the lakes paddled in this earlier canoe route. No change was visible to the naked eye.
