Day 10 – to Voyageur’s National Park

The campground at Bear Head Lake State Park is wedged between two bays that protrude from the main body of water like long rabbit ears. After packing up our gear this morning, I stole away from the campsite to walk a short trail that connects the two ears – from narrow North Bay to East Bay, which is a bit wider – for a better perspective of the lake. With nobody around, I soaked in the complete silence, save for the sing-song call of the white-throated sparrow.

We hit the road just after 10 a.m., and pulled up to the base for Northernaire Houseboats about two hours later.

In early June, when I finally accepted the fact that the Canadian border won’t open this summer, I rearranged our itinerary to keep us in the U.S., and fixated on the prospect of visiting Voyageurs National Park in a houseboat – something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.

Covering just over 218,000 acres, Voyageurs National Park comprises five interconnected lakes – Crane, Sand Point, Namakan, Kabetogama and Rainy. Thirty smaller inland lakes speckle the Kabetogama Peninsula, an area that lies entirely within the park and is accessible only by boat.

There are four or five companies that rent houseboats for trips into the national park, but only Northernaire had last-minute availability. The outfit is based on Rainy Lake, the park’s northernmost lake and, by a huge stretch, the biggest. Like a giant, messy ink blot, Rainy Lake sprawls to the north and east from International Falls, Minnesota, and its twin town of Fort Frances, Ontario, with more than 2,000 miles of rocky shoreline that twists and wriggles around points, bluffs and hundreds of islands, and unfurls into myriad arms, bays and inlets. Since it straddles the Canadian border, only about 30 percent of the lake lies in of the U.S.  

Based on a smattering of red-flag reviews, I was reluctant to choose Northernaire. While most customers gushed about the vacation of a lifetime, a few others complained about the dumpy houseboats and failing equipment. In my rush to book the reservation, I was willing to excuse just about anything. After all: This is far-north Minnesota, where folks embrace an ascetic pragmatism forged from relative isolation and unforgiving winters. Where you can fix anything by slapping on some duct tape and calling it a day. Where crusty fishermen who haven’t changed their underwear in 10 days understand the word “clean” only as it relates to dead fish and a sharp knife. I already knew this place wouldn’t be plush.

I guess I also chose to overlook the fact that Northernaire is under new ownership; Kevin and Vonnette Mills are now only the fourth owners of the 62-year-old company and its fleet of 15 houseboats. Two years ago, Kevin was working as a welder outside of Faribault, Minnesota. Until last year, their only houseboating experience was as occasional renters; they bought the company on a hope and a prayer, after their second summer vacation here. When that detail finally sunk in, I figured this could go one of two ways: Either the couple has suddenly transformed the houseboating company into a charming little diamond-in-the-rough, or this is going to be a hot mess.

The Northernaire office is essentially a house with a wide yard where boaters have parked their trucks and trailers willy-nilly, between heaps of trailer parts and other marine detritus. Our first impression of the company was the bathroom, around the side of the house, where Keith bolted as soon as we pulled up. He returned immediately to report that there was an “Out of Service” sign on the door of the singular filthy restroom – likely due to the giant clog in the toilet. Strike One.

Vonnette finally appeared from a second-floor balcony with a cigarette hanging out of the side of her mouth (Strike Two). When we pointed out that her guest bathroom is unusable, she chuckled and explained that she hangs the “Out of Service” sign because she doesn’t want people to use it (huh??), but encouraged us to disregard the sign and go on in.

“No,” Keith persisted. “It’s not just the sign. The toilet. Is. Completely. Unusable.” 

She stared at him blankly and chewed on her cigarette as she considered this for a moment. Then she called out to a teenage employee to fix the toilet. The issue of the clog was resolved a few minutes later, but I soon discovered that room itself remained in a gritty, grimy state worse than any gas station restroom I have experienced.

As an apartment manager (and as a generally clean and evolved human being), Keith is especially keen on keeping the public restrooms at his properties spotless, because they are often the first stop for visitors and prospective renters. This seems like a no-brainer. Willing and able to justify just about anything at this point, I hoped that the bathroom is just overlooked as the Northernaire staff focus all their time and energy keeping the houseboats in pristine condition. Right? I mean, that must be the only explanation.

I had to share this. It was for sale in the Northernaire office. Wtf kind of flavor is that?!?!

After a quick bite of lunch, we hauled our gear down the dock and loaded it onto our houseboat. At 44 feet, it’s considered midsize at Northernaire. There’s just one bedroom with two sets of bunks, a bathroom and a postage stamp-sized galley – all as I expected. (Their smallest boat, at 32 feet, sleeps four people on two sofa beds; the largest, a hulking 55-footer, is furnished with four queen beds, two bathrooms, two refrigerators, a microwave and a hot tub.) Vonnette made a point to note that she and her husband had spent the winter improving this boat. It has new countertops and curtains; a tidy, functional bathroom with shower, and fiberglass siding – although the bones are still pretty old (maybe circa 1980?), the drawers stick (and literally are sticky to the touch) and the warped sliding doors don’t slide on their tracks. Strike … where are we at this point? … Three?

Probably due only to the governor’s mandate and local health department rules, the Northernaire houseboat rental contract spells out cleaning protocols and procedures. But a bottle of hand santizer in the Northernaire office was the only evidence that management is even aware of the public health crisis. None of the rules (mask-wearing, temperature-taking, social distancing) outlined in the contract was observed or enforced. 

The COVID update in the rental contract also states that have to provide our own towels, dishtowels, hot pads, sheets and blankets. Check, check, check and check; all of this I knew and was prepared for. Also, strangely, they’re not allowed to provide personal life vests?? That baffles me. I had to ask for – and received – floatation cushions. If I hadn’t thought to ask for them, they would not have been provided. This is a rented boat. Shouldn’t PFDs be standard? Strike … I’ve lost count … 37?

I’m told that the faucets and door knobs have all been wiped down and disinfected, and the dishes and utensils are (seem to be) clean. But the carpet is littered with dead flies and other debris, and there are crumbs on the vinyl mattress pads. My family doesn’t seem too fazed, though; it’s nothing that we can’t wipe down ourselves, I guess. We brought our own Clorox wipes.

Truly, these guys are troopers. I knew these would not be luxurious accommodations by any stretch. Nonetheless, I’m disappointed and a little stressed that the boat is not cleaner and more modern. But no one is complaining. What else would we expect on a huge lake in the middle of the wilderness?  We’re tough. We’re sturdy. We’re not afraid of the grit. 

Vonnette handed us a binder stuffed with manuals and explained how to read the charts and follow the red and green markers on the lake. Then one of the dock attendants, Tristan, spent about an hour demonstrating how to use the equipment, from the 15 HP outboard motor on the small Lund fishing boat that we tow, to the GPS system and emergency radio, to the pilot light on the refrigerator, which runs on LP gas. The gear all seems a little out-of-date, but Tristan was very thorough and carefully checked off items on an orientation checklist as he explained them, so I feel confident that we know how to work it.

(For weeks before the trip, I spent time studying the houseboat images on the Northernaire website. Although it was hard to discern the age and condition of the appliances and other equipment, I did notice, in almost every interior shot, a pair of flyswatters artfully laid out on a table – a subtle hint about what to expect when you visit the Minnesota Northwoods. Indeed, our houseboat is equipped with state-of-the-art, hand-held, human-powered pest control devices and we have made a sport of deploying them against the hordes of deer flies, biting flies, mosquitos, wasps and other flying insects that convened inside the boat while we were loading.)

Promotional website photo. Hint hint: There are flies.

Then we were ready to launch. Tristan stayed on board and supervised while Charlie captained the boat, and Keith, Clare and I relaxed on the top deck and enjoyed the ride. (Bonus: While the boat is moving, there’s a breeze up top that blows away the bugs!) About 30 minutes into the trip, Tristan hopped into his own fishing boat, untied himself from the houseboat and returned to base.

Charlie and Natalie have been insisting on piloting the houseboat on their own. After Tristan’s orientation, they know as much about the boat and how to drive it as Keith and I do. Which is to say: not much. But it’s a lot less stressful for everyone if we just leave them to their own devices and stay upstairs. They took turns driving the boat, and as it got later in the afternoon they navigated us into Lost Bay. Keith and I abandoned our top-deck lounge chairs and went downstairs to join the search for a campsite. 

Despite all the instruction we received before the launch, we hit a steep learning curve as we all struggled to decipher the squiggles and lines on the charts relative to the landscape we saw in front of our eyes, with countless islands, coves, points and inlets. 

On Rainy Lake, there are 47 houseboating sites within Voyageur’s National Park. Northernaire requires all boaters to be moored at a site by 6 p.m., and we anxiously eyed the clock – as well as the dark storm clouds that were gathering – as we struggled to locate the houseboat sites that are marked on the chart. We eventually found one with a sign marked site R31: “Lost Bay East.” Inexplicably the national park’s system for numbering campsites does not match up with the numbers on the charts that we were given. We we’re either at site 16 or 17 on our map –we can’t really tell.

A tiny little slice of a tiny little corner of Rainy Lake. We confirmed later: We're at Site 16 (marked in black).

 After we got tied up, we explored the site as best we could. The biting flies are thick, so we’re not interested in staying out for very long. I found a pile of bear scat and some blueberry bushes, Keith started to collect wood for a fire, and Charlie and Clare took the motorboat out for a spin.

About 30 minutes later, I heard a fishing boat puttering around the point. I looked up expecting to see Charlie and Clare, but even from a distance I could make out that it was a different boat. A moment later, it came into full view – along with a second boat being towed behind – clearly our little skiff, with Charlie and Clare onboard. 

Here’s what happened: After they motored into a neighboring bay, Charlie had cut the engine and put down anchor for a few minutes, but when he tried to restart it, the motor wouldn’t catch. He tried to paddle back to the houseboat using the one oar he found wedged under a seat, until Clare flagged down a couple of friendly fishermen from the Twin Cities, who towed them the rest of the way.  We chatted for a few minutes (one of them says his brother lives in Lafayette: Bruce Fox) and before they left, the fishermen warned us about severe storms predicted for tonight. Of course, Clare had already updated us on the weather forecast, and we assured them that we are prepared.

We tried to radio Northernaire base about the issue with the outboard motor, as we had been instructed to do if problems come up, but no one answered. Strike 142.

Our plans for a campfire fizzled when the rain – just a few drops, really – started. So we stayed inside after dinner and played cards. 

We’re in a protected bay, and Keith, with his mad rope-knotting skills, has tied us up well. This boat may be old-ish and kinda dirty, but it’s solid, and we’re safe. We’ll be fine when the bad weather rolls in later tonight.