GIGI

Summer came, and again I made my way to Eagle River and camp after picking up my certification as a National Trip Leader with the American Youth Hostels. Preparations for trips were in full swing - new bikes to assemble, old canvas tents to waterproof and patch, and paddles and canoes to check.

One of the first trips of the summer was a canoe trip with sixth grade girls. We put in on the Wisconsin River near camp, where the highway comes close to touching the banks of the river. We scrambled up and down the steep banks to load the canoes with the supplies and the campers ready for launching.

A rarity occurred. The girls had sufficient canoeing skills to arrive at Planting Road, our destination, earlier than expected. It was a beautiful sunny day, with a light cooling breeze.  I asked if they wanted to continue down the river to the Rainbow Flowage, figuring we’d find a good campsite along the way.  This group enthusiastically said they did!

Several hours of paddling carried us onto the Rainbow Flowage, a vast, open expanse of water that stretched like a silver mirror under the sun. Headwinds whipped up whitecaps that slapped against the canoes, and spray stung our faces with every stroke. The girls paddled steadily, but even their skill couldn’t fully counter the relentless push of wind and wave. What had begun as a near-perfect glide became a tiring struggle: shoulders burned, arms ached, and the rhythm of the river seemed to slow with each passing minute.

At last, we spotted a clearing along the upper reaches and pulled over. The site wasn’t one I’d used before, but it had road access and enough space to set up camp. We pitched tents, got a fire going, and settled in as the sun slipped down. I thought we’d found a great new spot—just a short walk to the trailhead in the morning to guide the truck that would return us to camp.

I walked down the road to figure out how to let our driver know where we were. I knew they’d be coming down Oxbow Road looking for us—but they didn’t know where to turn in.

I spotted Oxbow Road ahead, maybe a quarter mile from the camp site. Relief quickened my pace. But as I got closer, my stomach sank. What I hoped would be an easy access and pickup became a nightmare. A heavy locked chain stretched across the road, anchored into posts, and just before it yawned a deep pit—built to make sure no vehicle could ever reach our site. My nerves began to fray. How would we get the canoes, the gear, and the campers out of this blockaded spot?

Back at the camp site, I decided on the only solution I could come up with: start carrying. I hoisted a canoe onto my shoulder and began the long walk toward the roadhead. With five canoes to move, I knew it would take multiple trips, and the next morning would be swallowed up by hauling gear, so getting the canoes out of the way made sense. At least it was a plan—a way forward.

The gunnels of the canoe pressed down on me in that familiar way, every step a mix of balance and strain and knowing that each round trip would feel heavier and longer.  Then I felt tugging and pushing at my back.

“Who’s there?” I called.

“It’s me, Gigi!” came the reply. Gigi, is a petite eleven year old who throughout the trip kept a smile on her face as well as her cabin mates.  One of those unusual kids who meets the moment and enjoys the adventure and who makes all feel comfortable in her presence.  She darted into view, her grin nearly as wide as the canoe itself. “I’m here to help you, David Nature.”

With that, she pressed her small hands against the canoe, steadying it as I walked. Her laughter bubbled up in the dark, lighter than the load on my shoulders. In that moment, the weight of the canoe seemed lessened—not because the work had changed, but because it was shared.

By the time we reached the roadhead, I realized something I would carry long after the canoes were hauled and the campers safely home: leadership isn’t always about being the strongest or solving every obstacle. Sometimes it’s about making space for others to step in with their own courage and joy. Gigi reminded me of that truth. What could have been remembered as a grueling, exhausting mistake became instead a story of resilience, laughter, and an eleven-year-old who taught me what it means to truly help carry the load.

The First Camp Bike Trip

 I slit open the first box and pulled out a gleaming new Huffy. Twenty-nine more bikes waited in the truck. By the time I lined them up, they looked like stars on a showroom floor—each one destined to carry its own story.

They weren’t the finest machines, but they would do. People joked the name came from all the huffing and puffing they caused. For days I tightened bolts, pumped tires, and coaxed stubborn gears and brakes into working order. I also prepared a trailer for my own bike to carry the essentials—water jugs, tools, a first-aid kit, and the all-important repair supplies.

The inaugural trip was with the oldest girls from Cabin Tent Judah. Their sleeping bags, tents, and food went by truck to our campsite on Planting Road, a well-worn stop from canoe trips along the Wisconsin River. The place was a meeting of worlds: pine forest against a sandy cut bank, the river curling at its edge. The only neighbors were loons and the occasional muskrat.

Ateret, the Camp Director, met us in front of the office to wish us well and remind us about bug spray. She had a knack for worrying about everything that could go wrong, yet she also understood how rare and valuable these kinds of trips could be. She liked to tell me, with a wry smile, that she hated the outdoors. I never fully believed her. She thrived in a classroom, but never admitted that camp—the pine woods, the campfires, the quiet lakes—was just another kind of classroom.

Then we were off—a long, single-file line of bikes gliding down a quiet country road, me riding caboose. On one side stretched cranberry bogs and potato farms; on the other, pine forests and blue lakes flashing through the trees. Spirits were high, and the road ahead felt wide open.

The day’s highlight came at a tiny convenience store in the middle of nowhere, where we bought ice cream and sodas and devoured them at rickety picnic tables out front. To the girls, it was paradise—a world away from the polished comforts of their upper-middle-class suburban lives.

Later, we stopped at the dam at Rainbow Flowage. Together we stood in silence, watching the torrent spill and thunder over the rocks, as if the whole trip had been carrying us to that moment.

The way back was harder. The sun beat down, and even the light winds seemed against us. Legs grew heavy, spirits sagged. The girls’ chorus alternated between “How much farther?” and “Car!” each time a lone vehicle passed on the road. I rode at the back, pushing them along with encouragement and silent prayers.

At last we rolled into our campsite. The Wisconsin River shimmered gold and bronze in the slanting light. The girls tumbled off their bikes and sprinted for the water, their shrieks and splashes echoing through the trees. I stayed back, leaning against a pine, my legs aching but my heart light. We had made it.

Dinner was a simple stew, simmering in a blackened Dutch oven over the fire. Around the flames we traded stories and songs—the kind that rise unforced after a long day outside. A cool night breeze drifted through, easing the memory of the sun’s heat. Moonlight and stars filled the sky, and in that glow of fire, song, and laughter, the group felt truly bonded.

When the campers asked if they could sleep beside the fire, I agreed. We pulled our bags into a circle around the glowing embers, heads toward the warmth. Sleep came quickly and something –perhaps primitive– makes time by a fire feel healing, restful, and renewing. 

The peace of the night was broken when I woke to nudges from both sides.

“David—David—wake up! Look!”

I opened my eyes. Across the firepit, directly opposite me, a black bear stood. It wasn’t large, but one of its claws had hooked Leslie’s sleeping-bag zipper. The animal pawed and twisted, trying to wrench itself free. Leslie froze, wide-eyed, barely breathing. The only sound was the frantic thrash of fabric and the soft pop of fire’s embers.

I sat up fast. Two aluminum plates from dinner lay near the firepit. I snatched them up and clashed them together with all the force I could muster. The metallic clang split the night air. The bear jerked, startled, and with a final rip of fabric tore itself loose. It bolted into the woods, crashing through the underbrush until the forest swallowed the sound.

The group went from frozen to blast-off in seconds. The campers scrambled to their tents without a word. I walked past each tent, heart still pounding, listening for the girls’ steady breaths.  Returning to the fire, the smell of scorched stew and marshmallows still lingered in the coals. Gradually, the night’s serenity returned: the
soft rush of the river, sparks drifting upward, the wind in the pines.

That night, under the stars, I learned that bike trips—like canoe trips—held their own kind of wilderness. Sometimes it was laughter and soda at a country store; sometimes it was the heavy breath of a bear in the firelight. Whatever the experience, we were in it together.