Quetico Provincial Park, 1987

[Paddler]

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.