BENEATH OLD SKIES
Justin Schemenauer[Brule-NCST Hike 2025]
This Past May I went on a trip with my buddy Alex, and another good friend, Mike. We were hiking a section of the North Country Scenic Trail through Brule River State Forest, skirting the St. Croix Flowage, passing through the town of Solon Springs, and eventually entering the open stretches of the "Bird Sanctuary"—a section of forest burned in cycles to keep it from growing dense. It made for some vast, open, panoramic views. From there, the trail dipped near the Gordon Flowage Dam Rec Area, where it began following the St. Croix River for a few miles before finishing with an easy 4-mile road walk to my parents' cabin, not far off-trail.
This area holds a bit of history for me. It’s where I first got a taste of backpacking, nearly 20 years ago. My brother and I loaded up with way too much gear—22 rifles included—and set off across the Brule State Forest on part of the NCST with terrible footwear, overambitious plans, and the idea that we’d “hunt squirrels as we go” for food. We shot exactly one squirrel, ate it, and suffered the rest of the way. Two nights turned into one, three days into two. We limped back, broke, sunburned, and wrecked, collapsing in a parking lot with more relief than pride. Still, something stuck. All these years and thousands of trail miles later, here I was—back where it all began.
Day 1 – Heat Wave and Hidden Springs
We got a later start than planned—hit the trail around 11 a.m.—with temperatures heading toward 90°. For mid-May, that’s scorching. The trail just south of Brule was wide, well-maintained, and dry. There was a red flag warning for fire danger, so no campfires or even ATVs were allowed out on intersecting trails. We had about 10.5 miles planned and were a little concerned about water reliability along this section.
Though, just two miles in, we found a backcountry campsite with a pipe-fed spring bubbling right from the hillside. It was cold, clean, and felt like magic. We each chugged a bottle, topped off, and continued. By midday, the heat was relentless. Alex had the foresight to wear a sun hoodie, Mike was relying on sunscreen, and I—foolishly—just cooked under the sun. My forearms paid the price. The heat over the next few days planted the seed for a new piece of gear I started working on as soon as I got home.
Later in the day, at mile 8, we lucked out again. A remote Town Hall/Fire Dept sat empty but offered a glorious water spigot and shaded picnic tables. This became Day 1’s Chill Spot—a pattern that would continue the rest of the trip. We hung there for a couple of hours, dunking our heads under running water, sipping cold refills, and letting the shade cool our pace.
That night we camped at the top of a wooded ridge. The creek for water was a half-mile downhill—easy to get to, but a bit of a grind coming back loaded up. Worth it, though. The water was cold, pure, and better than what I drink at home. We ate, settled in early, and tried to get a jump on the next day’s heat. Temps were expected to climb into the upper 80s again.
Day 2 – Artesian Wells and Dreamlike Boardwalks
We hit the trail by 8 a.m., catching a little bit of cool before the day started to bake. The trail was quiet. In just a few miles, we left Brule River State Forest and descended toward the St. Croix Flowage —the point where runoff chooses: north to the Brule River and eventually reaching Lake Superior, or south to the St. Croix, eventually reaching the Mississippi.
The bugs weren’t out yet. Birds were singing. We passed one older woman day-hiking—that would end up being only one of two-day hikers we would pass the entire trip. Around 11 a.m., we reached a road crossing. Our trail sign pointed one way, but I knew to detour toward a nearby boat landing. Why? Ice-cold, artesian well water. And just like that, we found Day 2’s Chill Spot.
The water was straight from the earth, icy cold, and required no filtering. We stayed for hours—eating, swimming in the lake, resting in the shade, and soaking our shirts. After the worst of the day’s heat passed, we headed out again.
Next came the “Brule Boardwalk” section—what the map called it, anyway. We expected boggy trail and sun-exposed wood planks but were met instead with endless stretches of handcrafted boardwalk under thick, shaded forest. Bright green. Lush. Dreamlike. Huge thanks to the volunteers who built that stretch—hands down one of the most enjoyable miles of the trail.
From there, we faced a road walk—about 3–4 miles on a mix of dirt road, backwoods highway, and one busy stretch of blacktop. The heat rebounded in the evening sun. The pavement radiated so much heat it felt like walking on a stovetop. Still, we pressed on to our campsite, just past a small footbridge nestled behind backyards near the town of Solon Springs.
We set up camp quickly. Mike strung his hammock over a creek that wrapped around our site. Fire danger was still high, so no campfires again. I curled up in my tent and put on Remember the Titans but barely made it 20 minutes before I was out cold.
Day 3 – Hiker Hunger and Lucius Woods Luxury
We lingered in camp, waiting for Solon Springs IGA to open and giving the day a chance to warm up a bit since today would be “beach day”. Around 9:30 or 10 a.m., we packed up and wandered into town. The IGA sign was like a beacon—we were starving. And as they say, don’t shop hungry… especially not with hiker hunger.
We loaded up: donuts, hot dogs, strawberries, blueberries. Hiker luxury. A short walk later brought us to Lucius Woods County Park—our Day 3 Chill Spot. Sandy beaches you could wade effortlessly out into the water from, picnic tables with garbage cans nearby, clean restrooms, and running water to wash up in. Simple things you forget to appreciate until you’re days into the woods. We spent the afternoon there, lounging, hydrating, and letting the bodies recover.
After a couple of hours relaxing at Lucius Woods, we checked the radar—rain and storms were on the way. We didn’t want to get caught out in the open prairie with our butts in the air, so we packed up and hit the trail again. A short road walk took us out of the park and through town before dipping into a small patch of woods ahead of Highway 53. Just before the descent to the highway, we caught a glimpse of some retaining ponds and a network of trails winding around them—looked like a great spot to explore on a different kind of day. Two minutes later, the sky opened up. A full-on torrential downpour hit just as we needed to make a dash across the busy highway. Not ideal. But we timed it right and squeezed across between two waves of traffic, soaked but safe.
Once across, we re-entered the woods briefly before stepping into the Bird Sanctuary section—and the rain finally started to let up. Just in time, too, because the trail opened up into wide, rolling prairies. It was stunning. Pocket lakes filled the dips in the land, and for a while, it didn’t feel like northern Wisconsin at all. Camp for the night would be at Rover Lake Campsite, tucked into a stand of trees that jutted into the open like an island. We hiked the next few miles under shifting skies, keeping an eye on the weather—stormy today, but no severe alerts until tomorrow. Cell signal was decent out there, thanks to the open terrain. We rolled into camp in the late afternoon, greeted by a quiet site overlooking Rover Lake, one of those prairie potholes we'd been admiring. As had become the rhythm of the trip, bedtime came early. I crawled into my tent, queued up Remember the Titans again, and faded out before long.
Day 4 – Burnt Prairie, Ticks, and the Cabin that Waited
The sun hits hard through the rainfly this morning. Not hot — just bold, warm, and clear. The birds are already going wild, same as the last couple mornings, their songs carried along in the breeze like a second kind of wake-up call. Honestly, I’ve loved it.
Alex is first out of his tent again. He’s been up with the sun every day of the trip and, true to form, he gets our bear hangs down like clockwork. We’ve developed a solid little system: I get the bear lines up when we roll into camp, Mike stays up late and hauls the bags up once he’s done snacking, and Alex retrieves them at sunrise. Efficient, dependable, no words needed.
The water source at this site is down through a swampy mess of mud and muck, so we skip breakfast and coffee and just grab enough water to filter for the first stretch. As we’re packing up, a solo hiker surprises us, slipping into camp from out of nowhere. He’s just out for a morning walk — and what a trail to have in your backyard for that. We trade a few words, then each carry on.
The morning is kind — a little breeze keeping the heat off as we cross through open prairie. The trail quickly brings us back into the bird sanctuary, and we’re rewarded with a surreal stretch: a section recently burned off, all blackened and charred. The smell is sweet and earthy — not acrid like you’d think — and somehow peaceful. New shoots are already pushing through, green against black. Nature rebounds fast. It’s a reminder we all needed, I think.
But then, the burn ends, and we drop into the thick of it — swampy lowlands tangled with undergrowth. The trail has tufts of ankle-high grass and not much else. By midsummer, this will be a jungle. For now, though, it’s a tick gauntlet. Every five minutes we stop and pick them off. Big, small, medium — the whole tick family shows up. You can even feel the big ones crawling up your leg. We make miles slowly but eventually reach a piney stretch with soft forest floor and fewer leg-hitchhikers. Relief.
We refill at a stream marked on the map and push on. A few miles later, we reach a junction: straight ahead is the NCST, but a side trail left takes us 0.6 miles to the Gordon Flowage Rec Area. There’s a big storm coming. Possibly tornados. We debate: take the detour and wait it out at the Rec Area or gamble on to a rumored abandoned cabin up ahead.
We choose the gamble.
The trail climbs gently into the St. Croix National Scenic Riverway. The tread shifts to broken slate — tough hiking, slow going. But then the river appears, brown and wide and moving fast. We’re close. We drop packs for a quick break near the water, but poison ivy is everywhere, so we don’t linger. Back on our feet.
We roll into the cabin mid-afternoon. It’s more than we expected — a real shelter, not just ruins. The porch is wide, perfect for waiting out a storm. There’s even access inside, though the floor is covered in animal scat. Out back, an old icehouse has been converted into a surprisingly functional outhouse. We spread out, dry out, and dig into snacks while the river roars nearby.
Mike inflates his pad and crashes out for a nap. I don’t blame him — we’ve earned it.
Then the skies shift. Lightning in the distance, then a little wind, a little rain… and then it’s over. That was it? After all that buildup? Turns out we got lucky — tornadoes hit just south an hour or so.
Feeling lucky to be spared, we pack up and knock out the last mile to camp at Scott Rapids. The site is tucked into a bend of the river, a wide eddy spinning lazily in front of us. Downstream, I spot the old Sucker Bridge — a place I remember from childhood, fishing for sucker runs in the spring. This whole trip has hovered on the edge of memory for me. Familiar, but deeper now. Rooted.
We cook a little food, then get hit by a surprise rain shower. Tents are already up, so we just dive in. Afterward, we share a few laughs, then call it a night. I finish Remember the Titans in my tent, then put on some music to stretch the last moments of the last night. Tomorrow, we will return to the world of schedules and deadlines. But tonight, I sleep with the river trickling nearby, the birds my morning alarm once again.
Day 5 – Pancakes and Peace
We’re up early. Day five. The last day. Everyone’s quiet, moving efficiently. No coffee, no lingering — just a quick pack-up and a collective desire for diner food and hot showers.
It’s a short day: 3.5 or maybe 4 miles to the car, all on soft, shaded forest roads. The temperature finally broke, and it feels incredible out — even chilly in places. After the heat and humidity of the past few days, this morning feels like a reward.
We make good time. No cars on the road, just birdsongs and the distant buzz of a chainsaw somewhere in the woods. We pass a parked truck and nothing more. The miles melted away.
By 9 a.m., we’re back at the car.
It’s almost funny — why couldn’t we do this pace every morning? But maybe that’s not the point. We did what we needed, when we needed to. And now, we’re done. 41+ miles over five days. Good trail, great company.
We stop at a Denny’s on the way home. The kind of breakfast you can only earn: pancakes, sausages, fried eggs, hashbrowns, steak and eggs — the works. It’s a beautiful mess. We eat in silence, mostly, with that worn-down satisfaction that only comes from effort well spent.
After that, the journey ends. We head home — full, tired, grateful.
Another one in the books.
