Our Stories

After the Storm

After the Storm

by Dan Dueweke

Most hikers volunteer on familiar local trails, but occasionally, a chance arises to confront nature’s raw power in an extreme environment. That opportunity arrived on October 11, 2021, when an EF2 tornado devastated a mile of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, blocking the Border Route and North Country Trails.

Though I’d long dreamed of visiting this wilderness jewel in Minnesota’s Arrowhead region, living in Charlevoix, Michigan had kept it a distant aspiration. The tornado’s destruction, however, presented a unique chance to contribute to its restoration. Knowing an organized effort would be launched to reopen the trails, I immediately volunteered. My experience as a US Forest Service-certified crosscut sawyer, instructor, and filer would be invaluable, as the federally designated wilderness prohibited power tools, allowing only axes and crosscut saws.

I contacted Matt Davis, North Country Trail Association’s regional director, and our crew leader. We’d seen the devastating YouTube footage and Forest Service/National Weather Service reports, painting a grim picture of a flattened forest. We understood the challenge: twisted, broken, and “jackstrawed” trees forming impenetrable barriers. Matt welcomed my expertise and organized permits, canoes, and supplies over the winter while I assembled a meticulously sharpened toolkit. My task, though simpler, was crucial for our mission’s success.

We waited for “ice out” when the lakes thawed and canoe travel resumed. A five-person crew launched in late May, paddling into the pristine wilderness. Early-season travel offered a glimpse of the “Voyageurs of summer” experience, with only the sound of our paddles breaking the silence. As we approached our campsite on Clearwater Lake’s north shore, the dense forest abruptly yielded to the tornado’s carnage: a landscape of shattered trees stretching from the water’s edge into the distance, a testament to nature’s untamed force.

Tents pitched, bear bag hung, we plunged into the work. A portage trail, tracing the tornado’s scar, led us to the Border Route Trail junction—ground zero. Tools, light now, would grow heavy: axes and crosscut saws, cached daily, marking our progress. At first, the trail yielded, a few branches tossed aside. Then, the wood wall. A 360-degree spin—nothing. No trail. Just a chaos of splintered trunks, sheared snags reaching skyward, a silent, skeletal forest. No sirens, no engines, no chainsaws. Just us and the impossible tangle.

A stroke of luck: a local trail crew, familiar with the terrain, had marked the path with pink surveyor’s tape, tied to fallen trees every fifty feet—a lifeline. We gathered for a safety briefing, setting our objective: clear passage, not a manicured path. This was wilderness. Some trees could be stepped over; others were too complex for safe cutting. We’d focus on swamping and clearing only the truly impassable.

Two crews formed: one swamping, the other tackling larger trees. My moment had arrived. Eager to hear my saws “sing,” as old sawyers called it, I rotated crew members through the art of bucking logs. I taught them to peel bark for sharpness, drive wedges to keep the kerf open and listen for the wood’s surrender. The air filled with the piney scent of fresh sap, our gloves and tools sticky with resin. Pine curls, pulled from the wood with each stroke, carpeted our boots. Hand logging was a practice unchanged since the lumber boom of the 1800s.

Uprooted trees, their crowns suspended in midair, bowed under immense tension. Their skyward sides were stretched taut, ready to snap. A single saw stroke could trigger a violent split, a sound like a rifle crack echoing through the woods. These “tension trees” demanded caution. I’d single-buck them, using the saw’s length as a buffer against shattering wood, while my partner kept a safe distance. Once the tension eased, we’d resume double-bucking, our pace quickening.

My photos reveal stripped logs, a stark reminder of South Manitou Island’s untouched cedar forest. Sand-embedded grit ruined saw blades, forcing loggers to abandon the timber. Debarking to protect our edges was essential.

With the canopy gone, the sun blazed. Unexpectedly, a spring heatwave hit the Boundary Waters—cloudless skies near 70 degrees. The sudden warmth was a blessing in disguise: it meant no bugs. I’d packed deet but not sunscreen, relying on our hardhats for shade.

By day two, we moved as a seasoned team, saws singing, trail widening. Then, voices. Undeterred by warnings, a Texas university hiking club had reached the “impassable.” Their trip leader’s SATCOM device arranged an extraction—a 19th-century task met with 21st-century tech. We chuckled at the juxtaposition.

Tornadoes twist forests into surreal landscapes, especially on the thin soils of the Laurentian Shield. Entire hillsides lay horizontal, uprooted trees creating a world turned sideways. Even months later, the forest fought to right itself. Cutting near vertical root balls demanded caution. We’d been trained to assess the risks, leaving hazardous trees untouched or observing their reactions before proceeding.

The days passed, and the weather held until the final morning. An overcast sky, a biting north wind from Canada, and sleet—a hard, rattling percussion on our helmets. Today, we had to break through. And beyond the wood wall, giants awaited. White pines, nearly three feet across, barred our path, formidable obstacles. We reached for our six-foot Simonds bucking saw, its massive blade a relic of another age. The rhythmic pull, the sharp steel biting into soft wood—a timeless dance of man and forest.

The final blowdowns cleared, and the trail began to breathe. Had we finally escaped the tornado’s grasp? As if summoned, a backpacker emerged, pristine and cheerful, a stark contrast to our toil. “The trail’s wide open behind me,” he declared, a wave of relief washing over us. We’d done it. The trail cleared. We packed our gear, the slow walk out a victory lap, each cleared tree a testament to our labor.

All summer, the U.S. Forest Service in Ely received accolades from backpackers, photos, and stories testifying to the astonishing volume of hand-cleared timber, a testament to our adherence to wilderness regulations.

 

 

Dan’s commitment to trail maintenance shines through his work as a trail adopter with the Little Traverse Conservancy and the North Country Trail Association. His fascination with axes and crosscut saws began in Shenandoah National Park in the 1990s, igniting a lifelong passion. A master saw filer. He now reconditions crosscuts for the US Forest Service and trail crews across the country. As a certified USFS instructor, Dan imparts his knowledge to aspiring sawyers. He also brings history to life at Hartwick Pines State Park, demonstrating the tools and techniques of Michigan’s logging era.