• What to know if you go

JILL SCHENSUL/Universal Press Syndicate (ENLARGE)

A 42-foot houseboat, with attendant motor launch for further exploring, is a fine way to navigate the lakes and waterways of MinnesotaÕs Voyageurs National Park, named for the French-Canadian fur traders who paddled the area in the 18th and 19th centuries. Top: Sadie snoozes on the sun deck.

Jill Schensul/Universal Press Syndicate (ENLARGE)

Paul Wilder gets instructions on operating the pontoon houseboat before the week of watergoing exploration begins.

Jill Schensul/Universal Press Syndicate (ENLARGE)

A houseboat deck can be a good place for a dog like Sadie to take a nap in the sun.

Jill Schensul/Universal Press Syndicate (ENLARGE)

Exploring the islands of Voyageurs is best with an eye honed for small delights, such as this jewel-like mushroom.

The boat lurched and slowed.

My husband, at the helm below, called up to me: "I have no idea where we are."

That's remarkable not simply because he'd admitted he was lost, but because we had been out on Namakan Lake all of 15 minutes. And Paul has the sense of direction of a homing pigeon.

From my aerie on the houseboat's sun deck, I called out: "Oh, no!" Silently, I added: "Yay!"

We were sailing around Minnesota's Voyageurs National Park for a week on a rented houseboat because it was payback time. I'd schlepped my husband all over the world in search of exotic experiences. He'd been a good sport, but now it was his turn. He wanted to visit a national park.

An RV without wheels

We had chosen Voyageurs because it offered houseboating. We'd been RVing several times and loved it — and wasn't a houseboat basically a recreational vehicle on pontoons?

And we could take our small dogs, Sadie and Benji. Most national parks don't allow dogs on hiking trails. But Voyageurs is the one U.S. national park that can be explored only by water, as 84,000 of its 218,000 acres are lakes and waterways.

The park borders Ontario for 55 miles and includes the route used by the "voyageurs," French-Canadian canoeists who shuttled goods between the Canadian Northwest and Montreal during the fur trade of the 18th and 19th centuries.

Houseboat rental prices were extremely reasonable by mid-September after the summer high season. We rented a 42-foot boat, which slept five, for about $900.

Life without electricity

The one drawback: no electricity. And my husband wouldn't even consider renting a generator: too noisy and expensive.

I was panic-stricken. My laptop! My digital camera! My cellphone — well, that wouldn't be an issue, since there was no reception in the area. What would I do for a whole week? I don't fish, swim or sail.

"Can you see any signs on that island?" Paul shouted. I looked around — there were islands everywhere.

No signs. But there were four cormorants standing on a rock, all facing the same way, feathers riffling in the wind. A few other boats. Pine trees, shooting straight out of rocks, towering tops swaying. And there, atop one, a splotch of white.

I clambered down into the cabin, and pointed Paul's gaze toward the treetop.

Fifteen minutes, and we'd gotten lost. Sixteen minutes, and we'd found a bald eagle.

This might be an adventure after all.

Tranquillity at last

Benji lounged atop the console behind the wheel as Paul steered us toward a crescent of sand or, more accurately, between two houseboat tie-up poles about 50 feet apart.

We eventually got close enough for Paul to jump into knee-high water and pull us to shore with one of the ropes.

When all the knot-tying was accomplished, we slid the gangplank down onto the sand.

No more motion, no motor roar; the quiet rushed into the vacuum. We listened to the lapping of the lake against the shore and began to drink in the silence.

Morning. Out the window, low enough for a perfect view while prone, clouds had gathered in gray layers. The water was the color of steel. From the "kitchen" came sounds of footsteps and clicking toenails; Paul and Benji were already up. Beside me, Sadie's nose peeked from under the blankets.

Paul was making oatmeal. I chose a maple-syrup variety from the assortment pack (we are not gourmets). The stove and refrigerator ran on propane. Some lights did, too; others ran off the houseboat's battery. But, like leaving the lights on in your car when it's off, you can't run things for too long off the battery, or it goes dead.

While I ate oatmeal and worked a Sunday crossword, Paul hunkered over the map, picking out our next campsite from among more than 200 in the park. One that was remote, with good hiking and good places to explore.

Hiking and exploring

We pulled into our camp by early afternoon. First order of business was a reconnaissance hike along the island's perimeter. From above, our little houseboat looked fabulous nestled next to glacier-sculpted rock, just water and wilderness all around.

Red berries dripped the vestiges of the previous night's rain; the ground was strewn with pine needles, soft and muffling as the cloud-choked sky. We sat on a rock and inhaled the sticky scent of pines.

Benji, unfortunately, had caught a whiff of storm and crawled into my lap, shaking. Time to retreat to home- sweet-floatable-home, where all that elusive leisure time awaited.

I had brought a notebook and pens and went outside and sat on a rock. The blank page waited for ink. I waited for muses.

Sadie clattered by on her way into the trees, where she began to rummage around eagerly. Fearing she'd unearthed something disgusting, I rushed after her. But all I found was a tangle of grass and ferns beneath the trees.

Then I noticed a fat orange mushroom standing stalwart in the weeds. I bent down, then lower, then knelt in the wet grass to get a close look. Subtle red dots emerged then, and in places the skin was cracked and curled, exposing the pale yellow mushroom insides.

I walked around it and noticed tiny white flowers where I'd seen only grass before. And a pair of dragonflies, with iridescent bodies and transparent wings, resting in a nearby bush.

Fascinated by this tiny universe, it was 20 minutes before I walked another few steps.

An hour later, having walked about 300 yards, I opened the notebook and tried to write it all down.

The sounds of rain

It rained and rained. Unable to go sightseeing, we sight-listened: the splash against the shoreline, the chirping and cheeping, wet branches groaning in enormous tall pines that use wind like a comb to brush away the torpor.

A lone woodpecker kept up a stalwart clonk-clonk-clonking on a nearby tree. I went out and watched it, drenched in the downpour, furiously drilling until 15 minutes had gone by and it'd gotten to the bugs.

A small reminder: Keep your eye — or your beak — on what matters.

For dinner, Paul made miso soup from a package and added peas from a can. We popped popcorn on the stove and sat down to dinner by candlelight.

By the time we finished, night had come. All was deep black: not a moon, not a star, not a light.

It was time to crack out the short stories.

We huddled around the kitchen table. Paul pulled the candle closer and chose a story by the flickering light.

And the tale of Stephen Crane's "The Open Boat" unfolded like a movie before us. Crane's words, and our imaginations, created bone-chilling images of four men left stranded in a tiny boat in a giant sea, facing the slatelike walls of water and snarling crests. Of the hugeness of the ocean, and the insignificance of their lives.

The candle flickered, sending our shadows dancing, and the flame reflected infinitely in the blackness of the window panes.

Stormy seas

The weather wasn't glorious, but good enough for cruising, we decided, ignoring the whitecaps and wind we'd been warned about. Paul propped his navigation map before him and we were off.

Within minutes, it began to rain. Then waves began slapping at the underside of the boat. Soon the front of the boat was rising out of the water entirely and crashing down hard on the waves.

I snagged the dishwashing soap midair and tried collecting skittering silverware that had flown out of what I thought was a well-shut drawer.

And then we heard a bang as the door of the screened porch at the front of the boat slammed open. Water was surging in, leaving no indication where the lake ended and our boat floor began. Paul was wrestling the wheel, so I had to deal with the crisis. I pulled the sliding glass door to the porch fully open and rushed into the churning water, already up to my calves.

Slogging my way across the room, I leaned with all my might against the door, finally shoving it shut.

Now we knew what the little hole in the corner of the porch floor was for.

Despite that, it was a good day, especially since we wound up at a very good campsite. The rain stopped and the sun was coming like spotlight beams through openings in the clouds. You notice the sun more when you have the clouds to compare it with. Pay attention; look at this.

I had been looking at everything. There is more, infinitely, to consider, to appreciate, when you take your eyes away from the computer, the television, the traffic, the tiny numbers and text messages and video games on your cellphone.

We took a walk up the trail as the sun got ready to set. Through the pine forest our feet barely made a noise on the carpet of fallen needles. At the end of the path, orange light was pouring in. We walked toward it, as far as we could, to rock cliffs with a view of the lake and the setting sun.

We were bathed, really soaked, in an otherworldly golden light that in photos you'd never believe was real. A raindrop shivered on the end of a pine needle, shot tiny prism-sparks and fell.

Then darkness swallows all the light up. Too misty for stars yet. We all crunch into bed and I turn my face to the window and smell the air, and in the distance a loon laughs.

Seeing northern lights

Time went slowly, and too fast. Little things became big. An inadvertently locked bathroom door was good for an hour's entertainment.

A bald eagle's presence was Paul's birthday surprise. A spider's industrious weaving left us awestruck, once more, by nature.

We took the motorboat out to explore the smaller inlets. Unfortunately, neither of us had paid attention when the man from the rental office had showed us how to get the motor into the water. Also unfortunately, the boat was equipped with just one oar.

Still, Paul did a commendable job of rowing, and we drifted slowly into tall grass and webs of lily pads. The water gently rippled the reflection of towering clouds, and four long-winged bugs sat in formation on their lily landing pads.

In the stillness came the occasional mystery plop in the reeds, the laugh-cry of a loon, the meowing of a catbird. And the whine of a speedboat's motor, eventually fading away.

No need for watches; we could tell time by pink wavelets we left in our wake, and the coming of the mosquitoes.

Finally, a clear night. Stars appeared, first one by one, then in massive, shimmering sprays. Paul set up blankets and pillows on the roof deck, and we looked up into the velvet black for shooting stars.

Then we noticed, toward the horizon, a glow. I sat up and squinted. It was moving, undulating. And turning colors.

The northern lights show had begun.

For an hour or more we watched the spectacle of rushing, streaming light, ripples of green and purple dancing in the darkness. We could hardly believe what we were seeing.

But there it was, with the occasional shooting star skittering through, just to remind us nature always has something up her sleeve.

Back to daily life

Sadie and I had oranges and blue cheese for breakfast. Benji got sandwich meats and fish. We were eating the last of everything. We were heading back to civilization.

At first I'd thought this trip would get boring. Now I wanted more time out here in our little floating home — with time to reflect on how little we really need and how much we are missing.

Jill Schensul is travel editor of The Record in Hackensack, N.J.

IF YOU GO

Getting there

Voyageurs National Park is about 300 miles north of Minneapolis-St. Paul. Commercial airlines also fly into International Falls, 30 minutes north. Some rental companies will provide transportation from the airport.

About houseboating

• You don't need boating experience to rent a houseboat. You'll be given instructions in how to navigate, as well as how to operate everything on your boat, before the rental agency lets you out of the marina.

• Houseboats range from about 30 to 120 feet, sleeping three to 12 or more. Most rental houseboats are in the 40- to 70-foot range. Ours was a pontoon houseboat, a living area on pontoons. Fiberglass houseboats are built more like condo boats. Ours was also fairly basic; you can rent a boat equipped with everything from TVs to hot tubs. Most rentals include linens, silverware and other necessities.

• Our houseboat also came equipped with a radio so we could contact the rental agency if we got into trouble.

Where to boat

• There are places to houseboat in just about every state, on lakes and canals. In metro Atlanta, a good place to rent houseboats is Lake Lanier. Kentucky is known as the U.S. houseboating capital; most manufacturers are near Lake Cumberland.

• In the West, Lake Powell on the Utah-Arizona line is most popular, followed by Lake Mead on the Nevada-Arizona line, Lake Havasu in Arizona and California, Shasta Lake in Northern California and Shuswap Lake in British Columbia. In the East, we took our second houseboat trip in St. Lawrence Islands National Park in Ontario.

• Outside of the United States and Canada, Australia has the highest number of houseboats. You can also rent on a canal in Europe.

• Reserve early during high season. Not all rental agencies permit pets, so you'll have to shop around if you want to bring your animals with you. Find out exactly what is furnished and what you'll need to supply.

About Voyageurs

• Renting: We rented from Ebel's Voyageur Houseboats on the Ash River in Orr, Minn., 1-888-883-2357 or www.ebels.com. Rates for a week range from $1,100 for a two- to three-person boat to $6,360 for a 12-passenger, 65-foot model. The rental season in Voyageurs is mid-May to late October. Ebel's offers a 20 percent discount in May and June as well as after Sept. 15.

• Voyageurs National Park is open all year. No entrance fee, but permits (free) are required for camping in the park. Information: 218-283-9821 or www.nps.gov/voya.

Information

• DiscoverHouseboating (www.discoverhouseboating.org) has a houseboat starter packet available through the Web site or 1-800-635-0135.

• HouseboatMagazine, www.houseboatmagazine.com, is another good source.