road the temperature had plummeted to near zero Fahrenheit and, combined with the wind chill factor created by the speed of the Skidoo, we were close to passing out by the time we reached the cabin. Hypothermia had obviously overtaken our bodies and brains and only the innate sense of survival drove us beyond that point where our systems would have shut down.
With each of us concentrating on his own personal survival mode, hardly a word was spoken during the trip back. No one had enough strength left anyhow to shout loud enough to be heard above the roar of the old Skidoo’s engine. When we finally arrived back at camp it took the last vestiges of our willpower to disengage ourselves from the machine. To any observer we would have appeared to be walking like zombies but looking like King Arthur’s Knights of Old as the thick layer of frozen armour almost entirely prevented any movement.
After an hour or so of chopping and hacking off the ice and discarding our soaking wet boots and clothing, we began to shiver in earnest. We were not without a few tears, some of relief and some in response to the pain from the frostbite, as our bodies warmed in the heat of the cabin. Luckily, no permanent physical problems resulted from that trip to Grants Lake, but for some reason or another it turned out to be our last to those waters with its absolutely unforgettable outcome.
Butternut is another small lake with a difficult approach in the Land O’ Lakes. In order to partake of its brook trout fishing, one must access a hydro road leading north from the village of Ompah, then drive another five or six miles before branching off on a bush road for several miles, then finally hiking the last mile or so to the lake. As must be evident by now, we brook trout anglers, often seeking the most distant and inaccessible waters to ply our craft, are a stubbornly persistent lot whom most other fishermen would deem foolish. Nevertheless, having heard rumours that Butternut had been deliberately poisoned by the Department of Lands and Forests to kill the existing unwanted fish species, then subsequently stocked with yearling speckled trout, its allure became irresistible.
Another fishing buddy of mine, Bill Taylor, was recruited to join me for our initial attempt to find the trail to Butternut and check out the fishing. I happen to have a lousy sense of direction, even getting completely disoriented on occasion in large malls like the Eaton Centre in Toronto, whereas Bill always seems to know which way is out of the bush and back to our car when he and I are partridge (ruffed grouse) hunting. Tagging along behind him when we began the hike to the lake, after having located the trail with little trouble, was easy and the entire exercise rewarding.
It proved to be a lovely little trout lake with a great vantage point about half-way down the shore, a rocky promontory from which we were able to hurl our lures in three directions. A half-dozen sixteen to eighteen-inch brookies were landed in short order before the bite went off for the day. All were released to do battle on another occasion. Keeping them would have been foolish anyhow as the temperature had soared and the trout’s edibility might not have survived the hike back to the car in the oppressive heat.
My two sons, Randy and the older lad Ronnie, not yet teenagers, had become quite proficient with their own tackle and fished numerous streams and bigger, more easily accessible waters with me ever since they were able to flex a spinning rod. However, neither had been on one of our more exploratory junkets. After hearing the many tales about some of these escapades, the boys pleaded with me to be taken with us on the next “mission impossible” excursion, hoping to experience some of the adventures they had been hearing from their old man since, as they put it, they were kids. After much discussion, among the boys, myself and their mother, it was decided that they were now old enough, strong enough and big enough to endure a lengthy trip to Butternut Lake in the Land O’ Lakes where Bill and I had enjoyed a fine, not too difficult to reach, day’s fishing. When the lads were told that we had put back a half a dozen fat brookies their excitement grew even more. Seldom had they been on trips where we had actually caught more trout than we wished to keep for the pan.
The following weekend saw us heading once again for the Land O’ Lakes and while I tried hard to not display my trepidation, the boys were bursting with anticipation. I didn’t have old buddy, Bill Taylor, with us to help locate the final trail to the lake and thus keep us from straying. Although spotting where the bush trail branched off the Hydro Road proved to be no problem, with Ronnie interpreting the topographical map, my concern proved to have been justified shortly after we parked and struck out on foot in the direction of the lake. Every little game trail branching off our chosen course caused a momentary pause and discussion timeout concerning which path to pursue. After a couple of hours of fruitless wandering, it became apparent that if not lost, we were certainly well off course. After my third attempt at reassuring the boys that we were indeed moving in the proper direction, I noticed the surreptitious glances between them interspersed with disbelieving looks in my direction.
I finally had to swallow my pride, admit defeat and call for a “sit down” with a chance to study the top maps and discuss the situation before we continued any further. We broke out the sandwiches that had been prepared for our shore lunch at the lake. With our appetites appeased, the alternative strategies were kicked around: Should we call it a day and try to find our way back before we end up spending the night in the bush? Continue in the direction that the compass dictated for us? Or back up until we located a more likely trail branching off in the same general direction?
Ronnie finally came up with the winner. According to the topographical map, the esker6 we could see fairly close to our position in the bush was the highest spot in the area. He suggested that we head in that direction and climb the tallest tree on the hill, hoping to see the lake and our proximity to it. With two eager and athletic youngsters vying for the privilege of climbing the tree and the honour of discovering it, we agreed that Ronnie, whose idea it was in the first place, be given the opportunity.
We worked our way up the hill, selected the tallest tree and with a boost from us, Ron began to negotiate the difficult climb. At least, it looked rather formidable to me with little space between the branches, but he scrambled up as easily as climbing a fight of stairs. Even before he reached the uppermost branches he let out a yell,
“I see it! I see it, Dad!” Pointing back in the direction from whence we had just come, he hollered, “It’s just back there a little. We must have walked right by it without seeing it.”
That is exactly what had happened. The bush is so dense in those never-logged hills that we had actually passed within a couple of hundred yards of the lake. We were probably sidetracked by another game trail, plenty of which criss-cross the bush in all directions forming a lacy network that can easily lead to disorientation.
Ron and Randy Deval fishing at Butternut Lake in the early 1970s.
Fifteen minutes later after my having to endure a number of snide remarks from the “cheap seats” about their old man’s sense of direction, we stumbled out of the bush directly onto the rocky promontory which had been our intended target all along. While I sat for a few moments to collect my thoughts and recharge my batteries, the boys set their tackle up and were in action before I was even back up on my feet. Randy was the first to score—and he scored big time with a lovely twenty-incher.
Capping the day and the memories of the trip with my sons to Grants Lake was the thrill and excitement of limit catches of specks for the boys. None was kept, other than Randy’s first, which, as it developed, turned out to be the day’s largest. The old man was skunked—but did achieve a small victory nevertheless. We made it back to the car with only a bare minimum of miscalculated trail decisions.
Bearing
