Saganaga Lake was so calm that I could see boulders 10 feet below the surface. The water reflected a mirror image of the clouds above as my partner, Brian, and I paddled between earth and sky. On the horizon, a forest of white pine, spruce and cedar delineated the northern shoreline, in Canada. The border between the two nations floated in the middle of this vast lake, one of more than 1,100 within Minnesota’s roadless, 1.1-million-acre Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.

It was warm for mid-September — high 70s. We found a campsite on a small island dwarfed by a towering white pine. We quickly hauled up the canoe and jumped into the lake. I lost my breath, embracing the numbing water and letting it strip away 48 hours of grime.

What a difference a day makes. The previous afternoon we were stormbound, sitting under a tarp hastily strung between pines, watching lightning flash around us as rivulets of rainwater slowly flooded our campsite. Every so often a red-eyed loon would break the lake’s surface carrying a minnow in her beak to feed her chick.

But a nagging concern kept pulling me from the present: The beauty of this thriving ecosystem is increasingly shrouded by the threat of a proposed copper and nickel mine within the Rainy River watershed, which encompasses most of the Boundary Waters. Environmental groups warn that sulfuric acid, a byproduct of the mining operation, could contaminate the water and endanger everything living in it.

I grew up in northern Minnesota and have been paddling these lakes since I was a young child, first with my parents and four siblings, and later guiding teenagers out of a camp based on Sea Gull Lake. Now I paddle whenever I can string together a few free days and secure a permit.

A Pristine Ecosystem

Every year more than 150,000 people use the Boundary Waters, making it the most heavily visited wilderness area in the United States. At the height of summer, campsites on popular lakes can be in high demand. But “heavily visited” is a relative term; Glacier National Park, also roughly one million acres, welcomed 3.1 million visitors in 2025.

Designated a federal wilderness in 1964, the Boundary Waters stretches 150 miles along the international border and sits within the three-million-acre Superior National Forest.

The wilderness also sits within the five-million-acre 1854 Treaty Area, lands that the Ojibwe ceded to the federal government four years before Minnesota became a state. In return the Ojibwe reserved the right to hunt, fish and gather there in perpetuity.

This still pristine ecosystem of forests, lakes and rivers supports big animals like moose, black bear and lynx — and an abundance of mosquitoes. It’s not uncommon to watch a bald eagle dive out of the sky to spear a walleye, or to be lulled to sleep by the haunting trill of a loon.

There are almost 100 entry points to the wilderness and 2,000 designated, first-come-first-served campsites. Some lakes are no bigger than a pond. Others take hours to paddle across.

Paddlers can find ancient petroglyphs, carved by the Indigenous inhabitants who used this natural superhighway to move with the seasons and trade with neighboring tribes. In the 1600s their trade partners expanded to include French voyageurs in search of beaver pelts. In the 19th century, Europeans began to settle in the region, including my great-grandfather, who left Sweden in 1883, homesteading a patch of forest 20 miles west of Ely, the western gateway to what is now the wilderness.

Wildfires, hurricane-force winds and other natural disasters have altered the landscape, but what has remained nearly constant is the purity of the water. The Minnesota Pollution Control Agency recently declared water within the Rainy River drainage as “immaculate.”

Immaculate water is not a given. An eyelid-shaped deposit, known as the Duluth Complex, that arcs through the Superior National Forest and portions of the Boundary Waters, reportedly holds one of the largest undeveloped masses of copper-nickel on earth.

Iron ore and its derivative, taconite, have been mined to near depletion in northern Minnesota. In 1978, the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness Act banned mining within the wilderness and established a 222,000-acre protected zone along entry corridors. More than a decade before the ban, the Bureau of Land Management issued two 20-year federal mineral leases on 4,800 acres of Forest Service land, one directly adjacent to the Boundary Waters and the other within five miles. Twin Metals Minnesota, a subsidiary of the Chilean mining giant Antofagasta, eventually acquired the leases, though efforts to mine were paused after the B.L.M. denied a third lease-renewal request in 2016, citing environmental risks.

Conservation groups, tribal entities, politicians and locals have been working together to permanently ban copper mining here for more than a decade, since the process for extracting the metal creates dangerous byproducts, namely sulfuric acid.

“The only way to permanently protect this great wilderness is through legislation that bans copper mining in its headwaters,” said Becky Rom, a retired lawyer who grew up in Ely and is the national chair of the nonprofit coalition Save the Boundary Waters, in an interview last fall.

Twin Metals takes a different stance. Kathy Graul, the company’s director of communications, wrote in an email that Twin Metals would have to undergo years of regulatory review before it could begin mining, and “must prove through this process that we can meet the stringent environmental standards” set by the state of Minnesota.

In mid-April, after a decade of back-and-forth political battles, Congress narrowly overturned a mining ban instituted by the Biden administration. In an email, Representative Pete Stauber, Republican of Minnesota, said he was thrilled that the Senate passed his resolution, citing the development of critical minerals, helium and other natural resources. “The passage of this legislation is not an automatic green light for any proposed project,” he wrote. “Now, established federal and state permitting processes will determine the outcome.”

The resolution prevents a future Department of Interior from issuing similar protections without new congressional authorization. In response to the vote, Ingrid Lyons, the executive director of Save the Boundary Waters, said that “Congress has set a dangerous precedent for America’s public lands across the country.”

Ultimately, it is a state agency, Minnesota’s Department of Natural Resources, that will grant or deny the permit to mine, a process that may take years. In the meantime, a bill is pending in the Minnesota Legislature that prohibits copper mining in the headwaters of the Boundary Waters. Minnesotans could also pass an amendment to their Constitution to enshrine such a prohibition.

The beauty of the Boundary Waters is that excursions can be epic, weekslong adventures or short overnight trips to one lake. Brian and I had only a long weekend. Our plan was to paddle and portage roughly 20 miles through a chain of lakes, stopping to swim when the spirit moved us.

After a late start on the first day, under a bluebird sky with a light headwind, we met up at noon on Sea Gull Lake with Jim Wiinanen, 78, my old boss and the former director of a youth camp where I worked. Jim first set foot in the Boundary Waters in 1963 and hasn’t strayed far since, living 60 miles away in Grand Marais. Among other wilderness skills, Jim taught me how to use a compass, which feels quaint in the age of GPS, but is still invaluable when route-finding on a lake immersed in fog.

When I led canoe trips out of Sea Gull Lake in the early 1990s, we’d leave the comfort and safety of camp behind, paddling the narrow maze between the mainland and a string of islands that was lined by towering white pines and fragrant cedar. I felt exuberant and free until the 3,958-acre lake opened into an immense and intimidating expanse, at which point it would sink in that I was responsible for the health and well-being of eight other people, sometimes for up to two weeks.

Parts of Sea Gull’s shoreline are still densely forested. But a series of weather events — including powerful windstorms in 1999 and major fires in 2005, 2006 and 2007 — have drastically altered thousands of acres of forest, leaving behind a sparse, alien landscape of broken, charred trees.

Paddling Sea Gull Lake after the fires was gut-wrenching. Slowly, life has bounced back. I marveled at the clusters of young birch standing 15 feet high as we ate lunch at an island campsite near the southwestern corner of the lake.

“We are blessed with a natural system that from the beginning has absorbed catastrophic changes,” Jim said, diving into a turkey sandwich. “The ecosystem may not look the same, but it’s still there.”

We ate in silence, enjoying the warm rays of a weakening September sun. Inevitably we circled back — as most conversations in these parts do — to the omnipresent cloud of sulfide-ore copper mining.

“The scary part is the water,” Jim said. “ You probably won’t see the mercury accumulation, and you probably won’t see sulfuric acid accumulation. But how can anything live here if the lakes are poisoned?”

If you go:

How to reserve a permit: Plan your trip early. Permits are required between May 1 and Sept. 30, and quotas limit the number of visitors. Reservations on Recreation.gov open in the morning on the last Wednesday of January. The most popular put-ins go within minutes, so have a backup plan. Group size is limited to nine people and four canoes.

How to get there: The western gateway to the Boundary Waters is Ely; the eastern gateway is Grand Marais, which marks the beginning of the Gunflint Trail, a scenic byway; and there are multiple points of entry in between. Seasoned outfitters in both towns and along the Gunflint Trail offer every level of service, from canoe rentals to fully guided trips.

What to bring: Come prepared for a wide range of temperatures from May through September, from below freezing to 90 degrees. Bring layers, rain gear, tick and mosquito repellent, sturdy shoes and an extra dry pair for the campsite. Fisher or McKenzie maps, both of which are waterproof and show designated campsites and portages, are essential, as is a compass or a dedicated GPS device, which is usually more durable than a smartphone.

Fatimah Shepherd knew she was not supposed to get pregnant — not now, while her illness was acting up, and maybe never.

Lupus, an autoimmune disease, was gnawing away at her kidneys, and doctors had warned her that pregnancy could tip her into full-blown kidney failure.

But in December 2023, there it was, a positive pregnancy test: two bold lines on the test strip, bright pink and indisputable.

“I almost passed out,” said Ms. Shepherd, 41, a New York City Fire Department dispatcher who lives in Brooklyn and had always wanted a child. “All I was thinking was, ‘What am I going to do?’”

For much of the 20th century, doctors instructed patients with lupus — a disease that strikes women during their prime childbearing years and that disproportionately affects Black, Hispanic and Asian women — to avoid pregnancy at any cost. The miscarriage rate was high, and pregnancy appeared to aggravate the disease.

That advice has changed in recent decades, as treatments have improved. But pregnancy can still be a precarious enterprise, and women with lupus that attacks the kidneys are advised to become pregnant during periods when their disease is stable and has been in remission for six months.

Ms. Shepherd’s disease was far from stable. Her kidney function was so compromised that she had started the process of getting on a waiting list for a donor kidney. A nervous Ms. Shepherd called her nephrologist, Dr. Mala Sachdeva, a professor of medicine with Northwell Health in Great Neck, N.Y.

But Ms. Shepherd recalled: “When I told her my news, she said, ‘Wow! Congratulations!’ And the way she said it, I could finally breathe.”

The doctor told her that pregnancy posed serious health risks, but that she had cared for other women who had done well and given birth to healthy babies. She told Ms. Shepherd, “We’re going to get through this.”

“It was a thing she said over and over again, throughout my pregnancy, every time I saw her: ‘We’re going to get through this,’” Ms. Shepherd recalled.

‘A lot to wrap your head around’

The team of doctors managing Ms. Shepherd’s care at Northwell Health — all women, most of them mothers themselves — met with Ms. Shepherd early in the pregnancy. They described in detail the risks that pregnancy entailed for both her and the fetus, and urged her to think carefully about whether to proceed.

The stress of pregnancy would almost certainly push her into kidney failure, and it could be permanent. Her high blood pressure could escalate out of control, which could restrict the baby’s growth. And she was at high risk for developing pre-eclampsia, a life-threatening condition that might force her doctors to deliver the baby prematurely.

“If her blood had clotting issues, if she had a seizure, then we would be delivering her to save her life,” said Dr. Hima Tam Tam, director of obstetrical medicine at North Shore University Hospital and Long Island Jewish Medical Center

A premature baby also would face risks. “There’s a risk of cerebral palsy; there’s a risk of blindness; there’s a risk the baby might have difficulty with ambulation,” said Dr. Dawnette Lewis, the director of the Northwell Center for Maternal Health.

There was also a risk the baby would not make it at all.

The doctors had several conversations with Ms. Shepherd because they wanted to give her time to process the information. “It’s a lot to wrap your head around,” Dr. Tam Tam said.

But they told her they would support any decision she made.

“And she definitely knew what she wanted,” Dr. Tam Tam said. “I knew that from the minute I saw her. I just wanted to make sure that she knew how long this journey was going to be.”

A room with a view

In January, Ms. Shepherd went on a planned vacation to the Bahamas. But a month later, when she came in for a checkup, the doctors were alarmed. Her potassium levels had spiked, which could cause cardiac arrest. Her blood acid levels were also high, putting the fetus at risk. She needed to start dialysis immediately.

Most kidney failure patients undergo dialysis three times a week. But pregnant women are recommended to have four-hour sessions, six days a week, in order to minimize fluid fluctuations that can restrict blood flow to the fetus. The fetal heart rate is monitored before, during and after dialysis.

Dialysis is exhausting, and Ms. Shepherd would be commuting from Brooklyn to Long Island for her care. All the doctors agreed: The safest thing at that point was to admit her to the hospital.

“We all kind of felt we wanted to just pack her up and take her home with us,” Dr. Tam Tam said.

But Ms. Shepherd had just come for a doctor’s visit; she didn’t even have a change of clothes with her. Still, she trusted the team. “It was their suggestion, but it was my choice,” she said. “And I said, OK, I’m going to do it. If you’re saying this is going to better for my child, I’ll stay here.”

She would remain at Katz Women’s Hospital at North Shore University Hospital in Manhasset for the next five months.

Ms. Shepherd was given a room with a view: on a corner, with large windows looking out over the parking lot on one side, where she could see the hospital staff’s comings and goings, and a small waterfall nestled in a grove of trees on the other.

She decided to make the best of it. She did her hair every morning and got dressed — no hospital gowns for her — and she took up painting. She had dialysis in the afternoons, and spent the mornings walking the halls of the hospital to maintain good circulation in her legs. Darnell Wilson, the baby’s father, came every Friday and spent the weekend with her; family members visited, and her colleagues from the Fire Department set up a rotating schedule of visits, so she was never alone.

When Ms. Shepherd was in her sixth month of pregnancy, she had a gender reveal party in her hospital room. She was having a boy, and she painted her nails blue in celebration. In May, she hired a professional photographer to do a pregnancy photo shoot of her.

“I kept myself busy,” she said. “I would take nice walks around the hospital and socialize with everybody. And I prayed every night and throughout the day. I had to keep a positive mind-set.”

Her doctors were checking her labs daily, constantly making adjustments in her medications and monitoring for any signs of pre-eclampsia. It was tricky, because lupus flare-ups during pregnancy can look like the condition, and when blood pressure spikes, it is not always clear whether it is from hypertension or pre-eclampsia. “You don’t want to deliver someone early because of a wrong diagnosis,” Dr. Lewis said.

“We were scared,” Dr. Tam Tam said, then corrected herself: “We were terrified.”

Ms. Shepherd’s official due date was Aug. 3, but her medical team planned to induce her on July 8, if she made it that far. But at 3:30 a.m. on July 5, Ms. Shepherd went into spontaneous labor, and Baby Oakari was delivered a couple of hours later via cesarean section.

Oakari was a healthy little boy who weighed five pounds at birth. Ms. Shepherd had carried him just short of 36 weeks. It was an incredible outcome: Most women with lupus whose disease inflames the kidneys develop complications and are forced to deliver much earlier, by about 33 weeks.

“She really beat the odds,” Dr. Lewis said.

But she wasn’t quite out of the woods yet.

The fourth trimester

As soon as Ms. Shepherd and her partner, Mr. Wilson, got their hands on an infant car seat, they took Oakari home. Mr. Wilson was on a few weeks of paternity leave, and Ms. Shepherd continued her dialysis treatments, now three times a week instead of six.

But in late August, Ms. Shepherd started having chest pain and shortness of breath. She went to the nearest emergency room, where she was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy, a disease of the heart muscle that develops in rare cases after childbirth, during the period known as the fourth trimester, which is fraught with risk for new mothers.

Ms. Shepherd was hospitalized for a few days, and then referred to Dr. Evelina Grayver, director of women’s heart health at Katz Women’s Hospital for a follow-up. But when she arrived on Long Island for her appointment in early October, Oakari in tow, she was breathing rapidly and gasping for air.

“My nurse, Paula, ran into my office and said, ‘There’s a new patient, and she doesn’t look good — she’s huffing and puffing,’” Dr. Grayver said.

Oakari had started crying, so Dr. Grayver scooped him up and held him while she examined Ms. Shepherd, who was struggling to breathe, and gave her oxygen.

“She told me she thought she just needed to go to dialysis, but I told her, ‘I think you’re going into heart failure,’” Dr. Grayver said.

Dr. Grayver called the transport services to take Ms. Shepherd to the emergency department, while Ms. Shepherd tried to reach her partner. But Mr. Wilson was on a job several hours away, and Ms. Shepherd’s sister could not get to the hospital right away.

“I was worried she would have to go on a ventilator, but the only thing she was worried about was the baby,” Dr. Grayver said.

Dr. Grayver went down to the emergency department, still holding Oakari. He was fussy, so the emergency nurses warmed a bottle for him, and Dr. Grayver sat herself in a corner and fed the infant.

“Fatimah was in such distress, and she saw the baby took to me, and said, ‘You’re so good with him,’” Dr. Grayver recalled. “So I said, ‘Do you want him to stay with me?’”

And that’s what they did. Ms. Shepherd got started on a nitroglycerin drip, and while a bed was prepared for her in the cardiac intensive care unit, she gave permission for Dr. Grayver to watch the baby until a family member could pick him up.

Dr. Grayver kept Oakari with her all afternoon, and her nurse practitioner took him whenever a patient came in. Dr. Grayver was preparing to take him home with her when Ms. Shepherd’s sister came to pick him up. “Just between us, I was secretly quite disappointed,” Dr. Grayver said. “He is such a cutie.”

Ms. Shepherd was fortunate. About one-third of patients with postpartum cardiomyopathy get worse, about one-third stay the same and about one-third improve. Ms. Shepherd improved. “I am beyond happy,” Dr. Grayver said.

Oakari is almost 2 now. He is walking — well, when he’s not running — and loves soccer and picture books and other children.

But Ms. Shepherd’s kidney function did not recover after the delivery. For a while, she hoped that a live donor would come forth to give her a kidney. Organs from living donors last longer, and the waiting time for a kidney can be up to five years.

But on Sunday, at 6:40 a.m., Ms. Shepherd got a call from North Shore University Hospital: A kidney from a deceased donor was available, and it was a good match for her. Could she get to the hospital in an hour?

She did, and by Sunday afternoon, she had a new healthy kidney. It was the ultimate happy ending.

Now she is looking forward to a taking Oakari to swim lessons, and to the many other things she could not do while on dialysis. Most of all, she said, “I want to get my energy back. and play with my son like a normal mom.”