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Thread: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

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    Default Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    THE 1987 QUETICO EXPEDITION

    Herein is contained the
    PETRIFIED TRUTH
    regarding the Boundarians' trip to Quetico
    in July 1987
    and various
    PHILOSOPHICAL OBSERVATIONS
    made in the wilds of Southern Ontario.



    Saturday, 11-Jul-87

    The purists in the wilderness canoe trip fraternity look on a
    bush plane with abject disgust. They paddle their kevlar canoes with
    carbon fiber laminate paddles, protect their food with bags made of
    petrochemicals, sleep in vinyl impregnated nylon tents and yet they
    have the temerity to point at the lowly bush plane and yell, "FIE!
    It's an unsightly, high-tech, noise-pollution generator!" Well, get
    your form-fitted silicone ear plugs ready, boys, 'cause we're going
    North the noisy way this time.
    It was 9:30 PM and I was headed for the rendezvous at Frank's
    house. I was a couple of miles from home when the right side of my
    brain knocked on the left side and said,
    "You left something at home, Mark."
    "Yeah, Hal, I left a whole hell of a lot of stuff at home."
    "But this is something you wanted to take along on the trip."
    "Nay, nay. I made a list, checked it a blue-billion times, and
    checked it again when I loaded the car. Everything's here."
    "But you are taking a few things that are not on the list. What
    about the leather boot laces, and the extra plastic bags, and..."
    "Ok, Hal, tell me what it is, and I'll go back and get it."
    "I don't know what it is, Mark, but you are going to be really
    torqued when you need it and don't have it."
    "Well either tell me what it is or SHADDAP! If it's important,
    somebody else will have thought of it and brought it. Unimportant
    stuff I can do without."
    "But..."
    "DRY UP!"
    This happens every time I leave on one of these trips. The little guy
    is a real pessimist. I wonder how he got that way.
    The thought of pessimism made me recall the party we had in the
    middle of winter. It was the annual affair where we veterans of
    several trips to the Boundary Waters of Northern Minnesota congregate
    to view pictures of the last trip and plan the next one. We had just
    decided to try a fly-in trip and were counting those who wanted to
    join up.
    "You in with us, Jim?"
    "Welll I dunno. Looks a bit dicey to me. Do you guys have one of
    those new survival radios? You know, the kind where you raise the
    antenna and throw a switch and the rescue helicopter comes in a couple
    of hours."
    "Nope. Don't think so. Anybody? Uh-uh. Hey, Jim. This isn't a
    polar expedition."
    "Yeah, but what if somebody breaks a leg or has a coronary or
    something?"
    "If you break your leg, we splint it and schlepp your butt out of
    there. You get a coronary, an' you die. Where do you want us to spread
    your ashes?"
    Unbelieving stare.
    "Hey, Pete. If you are on the trip and peg out on us, where do
    you want your ashes to go?"
    "Umm. Phantom Lake, just South of the East portage. How about
    you, Tom?"
    "Sprinkle me at the cliff edge above Little Crab. It is really
    pretty from up there. Pour a bottle of beer on top; that would be
    nice. Mind you, if it's a light beer, I'll haunt you for the rest of
    your very short life. Frank?"
    "I can see you guys have a lousy eye for scenery. Don't know the
    first thing about it. Me, I want my ashes stuffed inside a ladies'
    riding saddle. It..."
    "C'mon, damnit. I'm being serious," says Jim.
    At the end of the trip I would remember this conversation again
    and the laughter would sound a little hollow.
    I arrived at Frank's place at 10:00. The rest of the guys began
    to straggle in a bit later. By 11:00 we had loaded our gear aboard
    Pete's van and had left for Parma to collect Mary, the only female we
    could find with enough gumption to go with us. By midnight, everybody
    was aboard and we headed West. The members of the group were, Chuck,
    Tom, Pete, Frank, Mary, and Mark.

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    Sunday, 12-Jul-87

    Everybody took a turn driving. This made light work of the trip.
    When not driving, we either slept or "cracked wise". This kept the fun
    meter pegged for the whole road march.


    Monday, 13-Jul-87

    We arrived in Ely, Minnesota between 3:00 and 4:00 pm. The
    outfitter confirmed our flight reservations for 10:00 am. the
    following day and rented us three canoes, two #3 Duluth packs, a four-
    man tent and a leech motel.
    In downtown Ely we ate at the Cranberry Restaurant. Knowing this
    was going to be my second-last civilized meal for the next ten days, I
    ordered a steak, salad, french fries and a Molson. I thoroughly
    enjoyed every bite. Then I realized how decadent that was and enjoyed
    it even more.
    That night, we camped in the public campground on Fall Lake. This
    allowed us to test the rented tent, load the Duluth packs with food,
    and shake down the rest of the gear. The campground was nearly
    deserted; a strange turn of events for this time of the year. The
    reason for this was discovered later; all the flush toilets were down
    for repairs, leaving only the "hole-in-one" variety. After the next
    ten days in the wilderness, these facilities would look lavish indeed.


    Tuesday, 14-Jul-87

    This morning we ate at Our Mom's Restaurant in Ely. Our Mom's is
    an old frame house with a lot of tables and chairs in the living and
    dining rooms. The cash register is in the hall and the rest room is in
    the hall closet. There is no sign on the rest room; you just know,
    without knowing how you know, that that is where Our Mom would put the
    crapper -- out there opposite the cash register. Our Mom's is strictly
    a breakfast joint. Ham and eggs and flapjacks are the belly timber she
    provides in hot, delicious quantity. The specialty of the house is a
    large hot cinnamon roll, carameled or frosted, your choice.
    The outfitter had a van topped with three new 17 ft. Grumman
    canoes waiting for us. We selected paddles and life vests, loaded some
    live bait, and headed for the lake on the outskirts of town. The bush
    planes (two De Havilland Beavers) were already moored at the lake side
    dock. The pilots were talking to the U.S. Customs agent. One of the
    pilots was overheard to say, "I really do have a pilot's license, but
    it is in the wallet that I lost." When Frank heard that, he wanted to
    go home.
    The pilots spent about an hour trying to tie the canoes to
    the pontoon struts. It appeared that they had never done this before.
    The outfitter's lackey had to show them how to make the ropes tight
    enough with a slip knot and a half-hitch. Frank saw this and wanted to
    go home again.
    By 11:30 we were ready to depart. Frank, Chuck and Tom boarded
    the orange plane. This plane had two canoes tied to the struts and
    carried the lightest baggage. Pete, Mary, and I boarded the yellow
    plane which carried one canoe and the heavy stuff. I was amazed at how
    quickly the plane left the water. The pilot pushed the throttle
    forward about a third of the way, adjusted the propeller pitch, looked
    out the window, pulled back on the stick, and we roared up into the
    sky. Then he fiddled with the fuel mixture and some thumb wheels on
    the ceiling and began to study his map. Our destination was the
    Canadian Customs Station at Cache Bay. The ride was noisy and the
    plane behaved as if it wanted to fly sideways. I think the single
    canoe roped to the port struts made the plane yaw a little.

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    We landed at Cache Bay and the pilots moored both planes to the
    customs station's dock. Frank walked up to the customs office to
    answer the obligatory questions. I followed him a few minutes later,
    thinking that everybody was going to be grilled. I wanted to get it
    over with. An old man in a uniform was sitting at a desk, asking Frank
    a series of loaded questions and trying to look intimidating.

    Colonel Chop-Sausage: "Did you bring any liquor?"

    Frank: "Yes."

    Colonel Chop-Sausage: "How much?"

    Frank: "Thirty ounces apiece." (forty ounces is the limit.)

    Colonel Chop-Sausage: "Did you bring any beer?" (meaning, "Do you have
    any cans?" -forbidden fruit in Quetico)

    Frank: "No beer."

    Colonel Chop-Sausage: "Did you bring any wine?" (meaning, "Do you have
    any bottles?" -also verboten)

    Frank: "No wine."

    That was it. Having been shriven and sanctified, we were free to
    camp in Quetico, but we could not yet fish. In order to fish, one's
    wallet must be purified. If you start with a pure wallet (one
    untainted by filthy lucre) it won't answer. You must start with a
    purse defiled by large quantities of the oil of Saint John Goldbeard
    and have it made clean again by an official anointed for that purpose.
    Moreover, the Anointed One does not reside at the customs outpost. We
    had to get back into the planes and taxi a quarter mile to a fishing
    lodge where the rites of purification are performed.
    The dock at the lodge had room to moor only one plane. Our pilot
    taxied out into the bay, cut the engine, and we drifted while the
    other party bought fishing licenses. As they were climbing back into
    their plane, the other pilot yelled out to us,
    "I want to fly on ahead. Do you think you can find the lake?"
    Our pilot looked at his map for a minute and shouted back, "Uh,
    yeah...I think so."
    This time, I wanted to go home.
    The other plane buzzed down the bay and took off. Our pilot
    started the engine, began a wide, sweeping turn to the right, and
    studied his map some more. I noticed that we were turning toward a
    canoe with two women in it. They looked at us with vacuous grins. They
    had quit paddling.
    "Gee, Alice! Look at the pretty yellow airplane."
    "Yeah, Gertrude, I wonder if that propeller will cut us into fish
    bait."
    "Let's wait here and find out."
    I slapped the pilot's shoulder and pointed. He made a cut to the
    left and missed the canoe. He said,
    "Thanks, I didn't even see them."
    The women continued grinning. I wanted to go home.
    We purchased our fishing licenses at the lodge and took off
    again. Our air speed was 110 mph. and we flew at an altitude of 1500
    ft.

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    nice story. Vera

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    Quote Originally Posted by Pelikan-Vera View Post
    nice story. Vera
    Thanks, Vera.
    I like to read these old journal entries again myself. I am getting a little long in the tooth to be making more of them.

    Paddler

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    As the plane circled Clay Lake, I could see the Greenwood River.
    It is the lake's outlet and was the first stretch of water to be
    traversed on our trek back to civilization. It looked like a real
    bummer; shallow and meandering, with trees fallen across the channel.
    It was no wider than a small creek.

    The pilot landed the plane on the water and we unloaded from the
    pontoons. There was no dock on the edge of this lake. I boarded a
    canoe with Tom. Tom and I would be canoe partners for the whole trip.

    The plane taxied down the lake and took off. The pilot circled
    the lake below the tree line. Suddenly, he topped the trees to the
    west and, gunning the engine, buzzed us, wagging the wings in
    farewell.

    We were alone in the wilderness, approximately sixty miles from
    civilization. The only way out was a chain of lakes, rivers and
    portages. We were certainly in a wild place, but it didn't look
    menacing. That could definitely be changed by an injury, a badly holed
    canoe, or by a bear grabbing our food. I was determined to keep a
    sharp eye on the maps and not do anything stupid.

    I told the rest of the group what I had seen of the lake's outlet
    from the air. A decision had to be made whether to camp on the lake
    shore or try to reach the camp at the rapids halfway down the Wawiag
    River. The outfitter told us to camp at the lake if we arrived after
    2:30. It was 2:30. We decided to "scout" the Greenwood River for a
    short distance and then make the decision to return or press on.

    The Greenwood was narrow and meandered through a large swamp.
    Some of the curves were so sharp and the creek so narrow that we had
    difficulty maneuvering the canoe through them. The water was very
    shallow and we had to stop often and get out of the canoes and pull
    them through mud and over sand bars and deadfalls. The outfitter
    mentioned a "few pullovers"; he must have seen this territory when the
    water was higher. After an hour of paddling and dragging those canoes
    through the mud and deer flies, nobody wanted to return to the lake.
    Thus, our "scouting" expedition turned into the actual start of our
    Quetico canoe trip.

    Each canoe took a turn in the lead position so each pair of
    paddlers could get "first squint" at the wildlife encountered on the
    shores. The changes were usually made when traffic piled up at a
    deadfall. Once, when Frank and Chuck were in the lead, they rounded a
    bend and came face to face with a moose. The creature was standing in
    the stream eating water plants (moose moss?). It looked at the two
    canoe jockeys and walked up the bank toward the tall weeds. By the
    time I arrived on the scene, all that was visible was Bullwinkle's
    arse disappearing into the brush.

    After several miles of this paddle-and-drag locomotion we finally
    arrived at the Greenwood's junction with the Wawiag River. The Wawiag
    is about thirty feet wide and is deep and black. Its banks are so
    regular, the river reminded me of a canal. We stopped at the junction
    and took time out for a good squint at the map. The river had no
    visible current at this place, and a wrong turn here would have put us
    "up the Wawiag" for sure. The map and compass agreed, so we made the
    indicated left turn after a short break.
    Last edited by Paddler; September 8th, 2016 at 01:02 PM.

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    Everyone agreed it was time for a snack so we passed around bags
    of gorp and jerky. Mary gnawed off a bite of jerky and said, "You
    make all the jerky, Mark?"

    "Yup."

    "This looks different from what we tried last night. Kinda black.
    Different recipe?"

    "Uh...oh, yeah. Different recipe."

    She shifted the food to her cheek and said with exaggerated
    patience, "Alright. What is it?"

    "Bambi."

    "Huh?"

    "Venison. White-tailed deer. Chuck shot it last fall."

    "Oooh," she wailed, then took a couple of tentative chews and
    said, "Hey! Bambi is GOOD!"

    This river meanders its way through a swamp toward Lake Kawnipi.
    The banks were regularly dotted with beaver lodges whose inhabitants
    slapped the water in alarm as we paddled into sight. Once, when we
    stopped to rest, I spotted a graceful plant growing in the mud. It
    had feathery leaves and white flowers growing in umbels, quite similar
    to a wild carrot. Pete produced a field guide for plants and
    identified the plant as water hemlock, possibly the most poisonous
    herb in the northern hemisphere. Once the identification was made, we
    found it growing all along the river banks.

    Rounding a bend in the stream, we came upon two moose browsing on
    the bank. The bull immediately walked into the brush. The cow watched
    us for a while and walked off into the weeds as we drifted near.

    We decided that we could not make our objective (the portage at
    the rapids) before nightfall, so we looked around for a possible
    campsite. The first feasible place lay on a bit of high ground where
    Mack Creek joins the river from the south. Here it was necessary to
    kneel in the bow of the canoe and chop a path through dead brush and
    floating branches to the shore. The site was a jumble of fallen and
    rotting, moss-covered trees. Most of the ground was uneven and
    unsuitable for pitching tents. We spent about a half hour
    reconnoitering and found suitable places for the tents, a place for a
    campfire, trees for bear ropes, etc.

    It was nearly dark by the time we had finished making camp. The
    temperature was falling and a cold dew was settling through the
    trees.

    "Hey, up there! Hey!"

    I was interrupted by the little demon who lives in my medulla.
    He's in charge of the housekeeping chores. He inflates the lungs,
    pumps the heart, makes the kidneys distill, things like that. He has
    the mentality and disposition of a lizard. His name is Grinulf.

    "Yeah, Grinulf, what is it?"

    I'm cold, I'm hungry and my shoulders are tired. Do something
    about it. Today, dammit. Today!"

    "I'm going for dry shoes and socks now, Grinulf. You'll have to
    wait for hot food until we light a fire. How about some gorp in the
    meantime?"

    "Bag the gorp! I'm tired of chewing jerky and grinding gorp. And
    just look at this place. Am I going to sleep here? The ground is
    covered with moose marbles!"

    "Moose marbles are softer than roots and rocks. Besides, remember
    Italy, back in 1970 when we camped in the field covered with liquid
    pig manure? Count your blessings."

    "I can't count that high!"

    I have to parry Frank's backhanded witticisms, mug for Pete's
    camera, and endure Tom's disgusting puns. Now my lizard is making
    sarcastic cracks. Why did I join this itinerant asylum, anyway?

    Frank and I put up the bear ropes while the others pitched tents
    and gathered firewood. The day's exertions were making us stiffen up
    in the cold and nobody felt like cooking a real meal. Supper was
    Ramen noodles, fruit, and hot chocolate laced with rum. By 10:30 it
    was bag time and we turned in, tired and muddy, on the banks of the
    wild, silent Wawiag.

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    Wednesday, 15-Jul-87

    I unarsed the tent at about 8:00 am. My head was a bit stuffy and
    my throat was a little sore. I probably inhaled a snootful of pollen
    and breathed against a tonsil all night. That would do it.

    It was time to light a breakfast fire. The others awoke, poking
    tousled heads from their tents as I broke sticks and raised general
    bedlam in camp. (The first one up generally doesn't cut the lay-abeds
    any slack.) Breakfast was a handful of "old roats", a handful of granola,
    and a packet of hot chocolate mix flooded with boiling water and topped
    with a good wallop of 151 proof rum. This mixture was stirred until
    thickened and eaten piping hot. It acquired the name "Wawiag Wheaties".
    After one bite, the rain stops. After the second bite, the clouds clear.
    After the third bite, fish begin to jump on the river.

    During breakfast, Mary and Chuck
    casually mentioned that their throats were sore also. Nobody felt
    sick, however, so we ignored the discomfort and pressed on.

    We broke camp, sponged the mud out of the canoes, and continued
    down the river. In our travels that day we paddled into the territory
    of a family of river otters. They hissed and barked at us while Pete
    and Tom took their pictures.

    The ruffed grouse were extremely tame in this area. One pair
    allowed us to approach them to within four feet.

    A 2.5 hour paddle brought us to the rapids. Here was a twenty rod
    portage with a campsite at each end. Camp was made at the downstream
    end of the portage. Frank and I filtered water while Chuck and Pete
    fished the pools and eddies in the rapids. The fishermen had good
    luck; there would be northern pike and walleye for supper.

    The fried fish were eaten with beef stroganoff which the cook
    extended with extra noodles. Everyone agreed that camping doesn't get
    any better than this. In the evening, cocktails were made with Wyler's
    wild cherry drink laced with rum. This mixture would taste better if
    it didn't remind the drinker of watered-down cough medicine.

    At bag-time, the sound of water pouring over the rocks put us to
    sleep in short order.


    Thursday, 16-Jul-87

    I crawled out of the tent in the morning and zipped the door
    shut. When I stood up, the world turned upside down about four times
    before I could get back on the ground again. The sore throat was
    worse. Time for a war council.

    "Hey, Grinulf!"

    "Yo."

    "What's wrong with the gyroscope's roll gimbals this morning?"

    "It's that case of throat-rodents you've come down with. They
    have gummed up the inertial platform. It takes more time to spin it up
    in the morning."

    "Did you turn out the boys in white yet?"

    "Yeah, yesterday already."

    "What's your assessment, Grinulf? Is somebody going to have to
    carry me out of here?"

    "Nay, nay. That beer gut you so industriously built up last
    winter gives me a lot of reserve. Just don't make an Olympic event out
    of this thing, and we'll make it with bells on."

    "Give 'er hell, Grinulf."

    "Keep our butt out of drafts!"

    Pete was already up, bustling around the camp. He had the fire
    going and was cooking a panful of scrambled eggs. I heard some
    wallowing noises coming from up the trail where Tom had pitched his
    bivy tent. The tent was undulating and bulging as if there was a big
    caterpillar inside getting ready to pupate. He could save himself all
    that cussing and dratting if he would just dress outside.

    We ate the eggs with toasted English muffins and hot chocolate.
    Powdered eggs always taste better in the woods than anyplace else.
    Maybe Pete has a special recipe. I'm going to watch how he prepares
    them next time.

    After we each had "washed his dish", we broke camp and paddled
    the last stretch of the river. Chuck caught a three pound smallmouth
    bass near the mouth of a large bay.

    The wind was kicking up whitecaps on Kawa Bay as we exited the
    mouth of the river. A three hundred yard paddle through very rough
    water brought us to a campsite on the North end of the bay. The wind
    continued all afternoon.

    I have never seen fishing like this. The fish are large and
    stupid; they seem to bite on anything. Pete and Chuck could catch
    supper for six in about fifteen minutes. (Usually they need a half
    hour.)

    Naturally, there was a fish fry that evening. Freeze dried
    lasagna and tea topped off the bill of fare. For cocktails, we mixed
    some of Pete's Peppermint Schnapps with the wild cherry slosh. This
    tasted even more like cough syrup.

    That evening, two moose walked out into the shallow bay to the
    North of the camp and began to feed. Pete and Tom took some telephoto
    pictures of them and then launched a canoe to try for some close-ups.
    The moose heard the first bump of the canoe on the rocks and lit out,
    water and mud flying from their hooves as they ran for the shore. They
    had vanished into the brush before the canoe was even afloat.

    We wanted to continue our journey the next morning. A wake up
    call was left with Frank for 5:00 am., thinking the wind would abate
    in the early morning. (You might know that some twit would bring an
    alarm clock to the wilderness.)


    Friday, 17-Jul-87

    At 5:00 am. we awoke to the insectile chirp of Frank's watch.
    Frank took one look at the lake and crawled back into his bag. We were
    wind bound. It was blowing straight down the length of the bay, right
    into our teeth. A thunderstorm blew in after breakfast. The wind
    abated after the storm. We took the opportunity and made a break for
    it.

    Our route took us down the length of Kawa Bay and into the main
    body of Lake Kawnipi. We made a short stop at the North shore of the
    lake to look at an Indian pictograph. The drawing was found in a
    sheltered nook in the granite, about eight feet above the water. It
    was red on a brown background and very faded. I could barely make out
    a representation of three men in a canoe.

    There were two islands with campsites at the North end of McVicar
    Bay. The first island we checked was occupied. We paddled by a large
    rock upon which perched a mob of little girls dressed in bathing suits
    and life jackets. They were cannon-balling into the water, trying to
    decide who could squeal the loudest. Egad! I could just envision them,
    each with a five million candle-power flashlight, ripping and tearing
    through the woods at night, giggling and riding saplings to the
    ground. The second island was deserted. Luckily, the best campsite was
    out of earshot from our neighbors. Frank and Chuck caught more fish
    for our supper; mostly pike and walleye. Frank, however, brought back
    a four to five pound smallmouth bass. He turned it loose after a
    photography session. The fish were cleaned on the rocky point of the
    island. The scraps were left to the gulls, who cleaned up the place in
    short order.

    At supper time a large pan of lentils pilaf complimented the fish
    fillets. Frank thought some of his gin might tame the wild cherry
    mixer. We tried it. I got mine down, but just barely. On previous
    trips the portages improved our moral fibre; this year the drinks
    would do it. An inquest was held to find out who bought all that wild
    cherry mix, but "Brer Fox, he lay low and didn't say nuthin'."

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    Saturday, 18-Jul-87

    The wind changed 180 degrees during the night. In the morning it
    was blowing out of the Northeast. The sky was heavily overcast and it
    rained fitfully throughout the day. Pete and Chuck went fishing before
    breakfast. They brought back a stringer loaded with pike and walleye.
    Most of the fish were turned loose after the obligatory photo session.

    I watched Pete fry the fish for brunch. His culinary engineering
    secrets are secrets no longer. He just gets the best ratio of bugs and
    bark in the food when he cooks. I kept dark about this discovery. I
    bided my time. The next batch of hoppin' john would be unbelievable.

    The day was spent exploring the island and "gathering wool"
    around camp. I took a couple of naps; Grinulf needed a free hand in
    the war with the "throat-rodents".

    Supper was freeze dried macaroni and cheese.


    Sunday, 19-Jul-87

    We broke camp early and set out to the South, down McVicar Bay.
    The sky was overcast and we had frequent rain squalls; sometimes heavy
    rain, sometimes a thick mist. An easy 20 rod portage took us to a
    small pond. From there an easy 36 rod portage put us in Anubis Lake.

    Anubis was breathtaking. Thick streamers of white mist slowly
    swirled through the trees and coalesced over the water. The piney tang
    in the air and the thin rain sprizzling on the surface of the water
    reminded me of a giant gin and tonic in a Jules Verne dream. I reached
    for my camera and then thought, "No, I'm not going to share; people
    will see this and want to come here."

    The 64 rod portage from Anubis to Bird Lake began at a long,
    sloping, lichen-covered rock. The wet lichens made the rock very
    slippery and treacherous, especially for a man with a canoe on his
    back. The rest of the portage was covered with jumbled, slippery rock,
    making for extremely dicey footing. It rained like an idiot the whole
    time we were on the portage. Everything became damp in spite of all
    our rain gear and "waterproof" bags.

    Bird looked much like Anubis but the mist was thinner and the
    rain at times fell very hard. Sometimes it splashed so high the
    surface of the lake became indistinct and we seemed to paddle (and
    bail) across a cloud. The cameras stayed in their bags here too.

    We crossed Bird to the West of the island at the South end of the
    lake. This was a mistake because the river parallel to the portage had
    silted up the bay on that side. The water was three inches deep in
    places. We paddled through the silt, each stroke making six inches of
    headway and leaving a stinking pile of mud on the surface of the
    water. Getting stuck in that mess would make a dynamite subject for a
    Gothic nightmare. The eighty rod portage from Bird Lake was a path
    through sharp, slippery rocks. Again, we made the carry in a downpour.

    The rest of the day's trek consisted of an easy paddle up the
    Agnes River, ending at a nice camp on an island at the North end of
    Agnes Lake. By the time the camp chores were done, it was supper time.

    Supper was meant to feature beef stroganoff. However, the beef
    stroganoff proved rancid and inedible. A bowl of Ramen noodles was the
    highly unsatisfying substitute. The company which made the stroganoff
    goes to the top of the black list!

    The sky began to clear toward evening. By nightfall the heavens
    were empty of clouds and shining with stars. Happy-hour brought more
    wild cherry slosh and topped off my day's already brimming allotment
    of moral fibre.

    We sat on logs around the fire, sipping our cocktails, swapping
    lies, and easing our "boundary buns" as best we might. Mary borrowed
    my flashlight for a return to the overturned canoe which served as a
    bar. She replenished her drink and handed the flashlight back to me.
    We missed connection and the light fell on the ground and went out.
    Drat! The filament probably broke. I went to my pack for a spare bulb;
    the bulbs weren't there. They weren't in my floating pouch either.

    "Hal, did I leave the spare bulbs behind?"

    "I tried to warn you when we left home, Mark."

    "Thanks a lump. You were a big help."

    "Its not my function to be explicit in such matters."

    "Don't give me the 'its not my job' routine, Hal. Now we are
    going to be groping around in the dark for the rest of the trip."

    "You said someone else would bring really important things."

    "Your memory is explicit enough now, Hal."
    I mooched a spare bulb from Frank.
    Last edited by Paddler; September 30th, 2016 at 08:51 AM.

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    Monday, 20-Jul-87

    We slept late in the morning. I planned to make a batch of
    hoppin' john for the evening meal. The beans would have to soak while
    we were on the move. I poured the beans into a plastic garbage bag,
    added a gallon of lake water, tied the bag shut, and stashed the whole
    works in one of the Duluth packs.

    By the time the chores were done and the canoes loaded, the wind
    was blowing at a pretty good clip from the SSW. We slanted our course
    toward the shelter of the western shore. In the open, the waves were a
    foot high; sometimes higher. The bows of the canoe slammed into the
    waves, sending sheets of spray flying to either side. Halfway down the
    lake, we cut across to the Eastern branch and found a camp on the West
    shore. Here the lake had high granite cliffs and bluffs on both sides.
    Our camp lay at the bottom of one of these bluffs.

    It was time to fix supper. I put the washed beans in a deep pan,
    added a half box of rice, a packet of freeze dried beef, and a handful
    of cut up Slim-Jims. A gallon of water and onto the fire she goes. At
    the boil, I put in some salt, pepper, dried celery, and (is Pete
    watching?) walked away while Mother Nature added the bugs and bark.
    The crew liked it. At least they ate it and said they liked it.

    At happy hour someone found a packet of lemonade mix. With rum,
    gin, or peppermint schnapps, it made the end of a perfect day.


    Tuesday, 21-Jul-87

    Mid-morning found us on the move again. After paddling a few
    miles South, we stopped at Louisa Falls where Lake Louisa empties into
    Lake Agnes. The waterfall is about a hundred feet high and splashes
    its way down a steep rock slope. Halfway down the slope the water
    pours into a natural oval "bathtub" eroded into the rock. It is a
    beautiful place with broad vistas of green forest and blue water. The
    woods was crawling with groups of boys and their guides.

    One of the guides approached me and asked what kind of pipe
    tobacco I was smoking. He said he was going to take up pipe smoking in
    order to enhance his image as a guide. Frank almost burned out a
    bearing, trying not to laugh. He managed it, but today he's a broken
    man. I don't get no respect.

    The second guide described the next two portages we would
    encounter: the 140 rod "Bastard" and the 193 rod "Bitch".

    The "Bastard" began at the South end of Lake Agnes. It was a
    middling long portage strewn with rocks. A short paddle after
    "Bastard" brought us to the "Bitch".

    "Bitch" was similar to "Bastard", in that it was rocky. However,
    it had a few extra attractions, namely extra length, hills, and muddy
    places. This carry put us on the North shore of Sunday Lake. (I must
    say that neither of these portages seemed very arduous to us. We
    had been through much worse conditions the day before.)

    A three mile paddle down Sunday Lake brought us to the Singing
    Brook portage. This portage was a ten rod carry along the brook
    through which Sunday Lake empties into Burke Lake. We stopped there to
    filter some water. Nearly everyone was nursing his last pint, and
    getting pretty parched doing it.

    The next portage was on the other side of Burke Lake, a 1.5 mile
    paddle from Singing Brook. While paddling by an island in Burke Lake,
    we saw a man standing on a high rock overlooking the water. He waved
    and said, "Hi!" Mary waved back and asked, "Got any cold pop?" The guy
    would not dignify that question with a reply.

    The twenty eight rod portage at the South end of Burke Lake took
    us to Bayley Bay. This was an easy carry along a level sand and gravel
    path. We camped on Bayley Bay at a campsite to the left (East) of the
    portage. The bay had a wide sand beach and was very shallow. Fifty
    yards from shore, the water was only waist deep.

    Pete and Mary pitched their tent on the beach. The rest of the
    tents were erected under the trees, nearer the fire ring and bear
    ropes. The previous campers had left the makings for a fire in the
    rock fire ring. Twigs and birch bark were all arranged, ready for a
    light. I had to take it all out of there so I could rearrange the
    rocks to fit our fire grate. We always tidy up our campsite, and
    usually leave some fire wood behind, but tinder and kindling ready to
    light is a nice touch.

    Supper was Rice-a-Roni and Ramen Noodles. Another packet of
    lemonade mix surfaced from the depths of the food pack, making happy
    hour an unalloyed pleasure. There was another advantage to this place;
    after a week of sitting on logs, stumps, rocks, and aluminum canoe
    seats, here we had some nice soft sand to park our "boundary buns" in.
    Small pleasures after a long day. The gang sat around the fire,
    drinking tepid lemonade laced with various and sundry "ardent spirits"
    and brailling down the day's yield of moral fibre. With this
    persistent sore throat, I felt I was getting more than my share. It
    was time for an accounting.

    "Hey, Grinulf, old snake!"

    "Yeah, what is it now?"

    "I want a status report. These throat-rodents are beginning to
    annoy me. And I spell "ANNOY" with capital letters!"

    "The leukocytes had trouble figuring the combination there for a
    while. Now they are playing catch-up. It's gonna take time."

    "They'd better get the lead out, Grinulf. In eight hours I'm
    gonna have a nice gargle with some 151 proof rum."

    Happy hour is the only time I can call Grinulf on the carpet and
    get away with it.

    Later that night the wind kicked up and a rain storm blew in. The
    waves made such racket on the beach, I thought Pete and Mary might be
    washed out into the bay. Frank went out in the night to make sure the
    canoes were beached above the surf.

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    Wednesday, 22-Jul-87

    For breakfast we ate "old roats" cooked in hot chocolate. By that
    time the supply of sumptuous viands was running low.

    The wind on the bay was moderate, but there was so much fetch to
    the South that there was a high swell running. At the outset I
    arranged with Tom to help steer if the wind caught the canoe and
    threatened to broach it. We steered quartering into the West wind,
    aiming for the lee of a large island. I gave the tiller to Hal. He has
    parallel inputs and dual ported processors which make vector analysis
    much easier when protractors and dividers are not available.

    The sky was overcast and threatening rain again. A large bird was
    soaring over the forest, moving back and forth in the blustery wind.
    Was it a buzzard or an eagle? It was a bald eagle. Below it was an
    Osprey that was trying to catch fish and take them back to its nest.
    The Osprey would dive to the water and grab a fish in its talons and
    then try to fly away with it. At that point the eagle would attack
    the Osprey and cause it to drop the fish. The eagle would catch the
    falling fish and fly off with it. The Osprey would try again and another
    eagle would fly out of the woods and repeat the robbery. We found this
    so interesting we almost let the canoe be blown broadside to the waves.
    Not good. We both had to work hard to bring the boat into the wind again.

    We paddled through Bayley Bay and South through Birch Lake to
    Prairie Portage. This twenty rod portage follows the river where
    Sucker Lake empties into Birch. We took time to fill our canteens and
    water bag at the Canadian Customs office at the North end of the
    portage.

    Sucker Lake is the northernmost lake in a long chain. Newfound
    Lake is in the center of the chain and Moose Lake is on the South end.
    Motor boats are allowed on these lakes and a canoe towing service
    plies the water between Moose Lake and Prairie Portage. The tow boats
    were large aluminum punts with canoe racks on top.

    No tow for us. We are paddlin', portagin', pike-eatin', bad-
    weather lovin', hard arsed denizens of the Boreal Forest! We paddle
    the creeks and stare down moose! We dilute our rum with cough syrup! A
    tow boat? FIE! Its an unsightly, high-tech, noise polluting mechanical
    contrivance so far beneath our dignity that it's driver must think a
    snake's arse looks like the North Star.

    Halfway down Newfound Lake we made our last wilderness camp. Here
    was the first Forest Service fire grate and latrine we had seen on the
    whole trip. Supper was Ramen noodles (the hors d'oeuvre) with macaroni
    and cheese for the main course. Cocktail hour featured rum with wild
    cherry slosh.

    The sky was overcast with a dull glow of lightning in the west.
    We sat around the fire, telling lies and enduring Tom's unspeakably
    bad puns until 11:30. The lightning was now closer, bringing with it
    the distant mutter of thunder. We prepared for a wet night and turned
    in.

    I awoke to a hell of a crash. The lightning was nearly
    continuous. The strikes were so close we could hear the "click" of the
    leader about a half-second before the lightning struck: Snick...BAM!
    The thunder claps made the walls of the tent quiver. Rain began to
    splash in through the tent's screen door. Chuck and I closed the storm
    flap. Even in the closed tent, a flashlight's beam was washed out by
    the lightning. Later, I awoke to a continuous and nearly deafening
    uproar. Click..spup-snick WHAM BABAM! The bottom of the tent was
    floating in the center so that when I pushed down on the floor, waves
    radiated outward. Chuck and I looked at the storm flap we had closed
    earlier and water was squirting through the zipper in little streams.
    Would we drown before we were electrocuted, or afterward? It is at a
    time like this that you begin to think:

    "We camped at the bottom of a cliff. Not the place to be in an
    electrical storm. Pitched the tent under a tree. We are sleeping on
    top of all those nice conductive roots...in a tent with an aluminum
    frame." It was a bit late in the game to do anything about it.

    I put some plastic bags under the foot of my sleeping bag and
    went back to sleep. That was, by far, the most violent storm I had
    ever been in.

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    Default Re: Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

    Thursday, 23-Jul-87

    There were five inches of water in the canoes that morning. The
    level of the lake was up.

    Breakfast again brought "old roats" cooked in hot chocolate.

    Mary helped Pete dismantle their tent. She found that a mob of
    night crawlers had taken shelter under the ground cloth. She delivered
    herself of an explosion of opinion; she was "grossed out".

    "Yeah, Mary, think of all those slimy annelids wriggling around
    in the mud, less than an inch from you all night."

    (More heartfelt and prolonged expressions of revulsion.)

    "Think of it, Mary. Every time you rolled over, you probably
    squashed about fifty of 'em."

    (More vehement and fervent exclamations of disgust.)

    "Yup. They were probably squirming around under there all night,
    mixing their nacreous exudations into the churning ooze, their nitrous
    breath welling through the tent floor to poison your dreams with
    'fungeous abnormalities too hideous for the grave's holding.'"

    Mary tumbled to our little game. It was probably the Lovecraft
    quotation that put her wise. She gave us an old-fashioned
    look and shut up.

    The gear was loaded and the canoes were launched for the last
    time. Our journey ended at La Tourell's Landing and Tow Service on the
    shore of Moose Lake. Frank called the outfitter to come and pick us
    up.

    While we waited, an ambulance came and took away a man and his
    son. They had been struck by lightning on Ensign Lake the night
    before. The man's brother and nephew were sleeping in the same tent
    and were killed. We watched as the Forest Service bush planes taxied
    down the lake to retrieve the bodies.

    The outfitter's lackey drove in with a van. He opened a cooler
    full of beer and soft drinks for us. Beer! Tall, cool long-necks! Back
    in Ely a hot shower was waiting for us.

    So ends the saga of the 1987 Quetico Expedition; a tale of ten
    days in the boreal wilderness, during which six friends shared camps
    and canoes, fair weather and foul, dangers and pleasures. In length,
    the trek measured 1.9 miles by portage and 62 miles over water.

    We six still get together in the middle of winter to look at the
    pictures and remember the miles of paddle-and-drag travel through mud,
    dead falls, mosquitos, and deer flies on the Greenwood River, the
    hours of paddling through the swamp and its teeming wildlife on the
    Wawiag River, the joy of camping and fishing on the wild solitude of
    Lake Kawnipi, the eery fogs and eldritch mists of Anubis and Bird
    Lakes, and the exhilaration of heavy weather on the vastness of Lake
    Agnes. We recollect portages in the rain and humid heat and laugh at
    the japes traded with fellow campers. And then the six of us plan
    another trip: a trip that is a little longer and just a bit more
    challenging in the stony woods and wide water of Quetico.

    Grinulf says we are crazy.

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