Taken at a campsite on Gaskin Lake in the Boundary Waters, I sat beside the fire beneath a sky filled with stars while clouds drifted overhead, backlit by the moon. Surrounded by the dark silhouettes of the pines, I found myself thinking about all the trips that had come before this one—the portages, the campsites, the rainy skies, the clear nights, the long days on the water, and all the quiet moments in between.

After enough trips, the details begin to blend together, but certain things stay with you: the smell of smoke, the sound of water against the shoreline, tired legs at the end of the day, and the glow of a fire beneath an open sky. That night on Gaskin, I wasn’t thinking much about where I was going next. I was simply grateful for all the miles, storms, clear skies, and campsites that had brought me there—in the pines.