Sometimes it pays to complain.

After my column last month about a day trip down the overcrowded Moose River, a friend stopped in the office with a piece of advice. He’s an old-timer, who’s hunted and trapped in some of the most remote country in the region. He had read of my visit to Ramshead Lake, and the miles of portages required to get there and back, and he had a suggestion.

Head up the Little Indian Sioux.

I’ve both canoed and skied the Little Indian Sioux River in the past, but always downstream from the Echo Trail, towards the Pauness Lakes and the Devil’s Cascade. It’s nice, but hardly exceptional for the Boundary Waters. And like the Moose River running north of the Echo, that stretch of the Little Indian Sioux tends to be pretty busy.

My friend assured me I wouldn’t see many people heading the other direction.

He was right, but that wouldn’t have always been the case. A hundred and fifty years ago, the Little Indian Sioux was a busy travel route used by natives of the region, offering one of the easiest and most direct routes from Burntside Lake and the surrounding country up to the border lakes.

The Little Indian Sioux River gets its start at Cummings Lake, and winds first to the west and finally north through some of what these days is the most lightly traveled territory in all the Boundary Waters. It’s beautiful country, with sweeping vistas and dense forests of spruce and pine.

My son Max and I didn’t travel the full length, of course, at least not that day. Getting from Burntside to the Echo Trail could probably be done in two days if you had to, but three or four days would give you some time to enjoy it. We set our sights on a relatively easy destination— Sioux Falls, a scenic cascade located about six river miles south, or upstream, of the Echo Trail.

It was a perfect early fall day, part of that warm and dry September that now seems a distant memory as our belated summer transitioned almost overnight to a chilly fall. That stretch of the river winds a bit, but with no portages the going was easy. Along the way, we kicked up small flocks of ducks and geese that were feeding in the wild rice stands that lined both sides of the river.

It was wild country to be sure. Signs of humans were all but absent, save for a small sign a few miles into the trip, announcing that we were entering the wilderness. As if we didn’t know.

A short portage around Sioux Falls was barely visible, and the same was true of a second portage around a rapids a mile south of the falls. As far as we could tell, it could have been weeks since anyone had passed through.

Max, who complained about all the portaging on our earlier trip (even though I was the one carrying the canoe), had a great time on the Little Indian Sioux. We cooked hot dogs over a fire we made near the falls. We ate our lunch on a rock and watched the water crash below us, enjoying the fact that we had the whole country to ourselves. “This is the best,” Max said at one point, which was music to his old man’s ears.

We saw our only other canoe of the day on the return trip. Two grouse hunters from Ely had ventured a couple miles down the river and they were returning to the Echo Trail a bit ahead of us, but by that time I was in too good a mood to fuss about the company. We paddled the last two miles slowly, trying to soak in the day, and I silently thanked my friend for steering us right. I’m already planning a trip to his next recommendation. Now I am just waiting for Indian Summer.