The Forest Service, the Interior Secretary, Sally Jewell, and tens of thousands of Boundary Waters supporters have voiced their concerns about the mine. Though Twin Metals’ future looks dimmer every month, the fact that it was even a possibility — and that there are other mining companies trying to exploit the region — calls into question the values, integrity and good sense of civilization in the 21st century.

We took off again and crossed the border into Canada, paddling all afternoon past granite promontories and tiny islets. I could see an exact reflection of the forest and sky in the water. The only sound was water dripping off our paddles with each stroke. Paul found a campsite on a rocky point and we dropped our gear and portaged into Argo Lake for a scenic four-mile loop. Paul wanted to find a cave he had heard about that might have housed Paleo-Indians, but all we saw were swooping eagles and an osprey standing watch in her nest. It was almost dark by the time we got back to the site and Paul cooked chili and quesadillas on the fire while we set up camp.

We sat by the fire that night listening to more stories about the Boundary Waters and the French voyageurs who opened them to the world in the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. Voyageur is the name the French gave to canoe men who carried goods to remote trading posts and brought back furs. They wore a uniform of a red wool cap, deerskin moccasins, leggings and an Indian belt. They were expected to paddle 55 strokes a minute, 14 hours a day and carried an average of two bales of furs — 180 pounds total — over miles of portages between Montreal and the Mississippi. The most common cause of death: strangulated hernia.

We wandered off to bed, imagining an extra 180 pounds on our backs on the next portage. A violent thunderstorm ripped across the lake an hour later hurling lightning, hail and heavy winds. Another blew through in the morning and slammed the tent with raindrops the size of nickels. I looked outside in the middle of it and saw Paul in his raincoat starting a fire. By the time the storm blew through he had a pot of coffee ready.

The skies cleared at 8 a.m., and we took off for what was going to be a long day. The sun was still rising above the trees and everything in front of us was a silhouette. We crossed Crooked Lake into Friday Bay, then paddled and portaged between Papoose, Chippewa, Niki and six other lakes — including a killer mile-long portage from Wagosh to Gunn Lake.

It rained on and off all day, forcing us to eat lunch under an overturned canoe at the end of a portage. An hour later, we ended up on a granite goat path winding along a stream. Hiking on the edge of a 30-foot precipice with a canoe on your head is an interesting challenge. It was almost dark by the time we made it to Mudro Lake, and it was raining harder. We made our way southwest along the lake and through tall reeds bordering the inlet in the dark. A thick mist settled and the watery scene morphed into something from a fairy tale. I almost fell out of the canoe when a beaver slammed its tail five feet away, sending a report through the marsh.

The wind started up again and blew the bow of the canoe around. We had already traveled 17 miles and it was almost dark. Sara spotted a white sand beach ahead but we weren’t sure if it was real. Then I saw Paul and Sue stacking their gear and knew we must be at the end.

We pulled up alongside them and heard a car door slam. It was a strange, unnatural sound. After a few days in the Boundary Waters, everything other than water, stone and wood seemed unnatural. Paul began loading gear and we hauled our canoe one last time to the car. The back seat of the Suburban felt incredibly soft when we got in, and five minutes later the car was 75 degrees. Paul got a cellphone signal and suggested we order pizza to pick up in Ely and, just like that, we slipped back into the modern world.