It was an unbelievable beginning. A night of cooking over an open campfire and watching the stars and glowing embers was surreal. Evenings in canoe country are simply magical. So much so that it is a rare occurrence now for me to spend a night cleaning and frying fish. I rapidly distanced myself from this fly-in fishing habit and much prefer catch and release, as the evening time around camp is just too precious.
Every bit as incredible was the dawn of our first full day. There is no better feeling in the world than to be serenaded by dozens of chirping birds while zipping open the tent fly to discover a calm, clear morning. So many people are reluctant to sleep in a tent, but I would choose having just a thin nylon wall between me and the shoreline over a five-star hotel in Paris any day.
After another fantastic campsite and great fishing on Maria Lake, we faced an inadvertently self-imposed challenge. The portage to Jesse Lake looked straightforward enough on the map, since it began at the end of a skinny bay. Trying to distance ourselves from an approaching group, the first we had seen that trip, we hastily disembarked on a moose trail and completely missed the very obvious path just thirty feet across the bay. I had a GPS with me at the time and had been marking the coordinates of each portage until then, but on this occasion it was left with the second load of packs.
Rod had only been this way once before and had been travelling in the opposite direction at the time. When we encountered a downed tree blocking the trail, we assumed that the portage crew had yet to arrive that year. Soon, however, when the trail narrowed and then evaporated we realized what should have been obvious from the start — we were slightly misplaced (a distant relative to the word “lost”). Not even certain that we could retrace our way back, we pulled out the map and compass. Thankfully the north shore of Jesse Lake extended quite a bit east of where we were, or at least thought we were. Should we head due south, there was very little chance of us completely missing the lake. I volunteered as pathfinder, and we communicated by means of the safety whistles that we each carried. The plan worked as expected, but it was still a very difficult trudge through swamp and alder to the lake. From there we easily found the true portage but were now faced with the necessity of carrying the canoe back so that we could cross the bay and retrieve our gear.
It had taken over two hours to transport our outfit less than a mile. It was a tough way to learn a valuable lesson, but at least we were on our way. The next portage was a difficult one, yet it seemed as though we were on a highway when compared to the bushwhack we had just completed.
Later that day I was about to get an introduction to the bane of all paddlers. While crossing Walter Lake we were faced with a stiff headwind. It was a wind that would increase in velocity and stay with us for most of the next three days. Rod had been very successful fishing Walter in the past, but we were unable to comfortably and safely work the fertile waters of this pretty lake.
We even considered opting out of our planned day trip to Draper Lake. Fortunately we persevered and fought our way to this sheltered lake off the beaten path, where we enjoyed a memorable afternoon catching small bass from shore. Returning to Walter, the winds remained uncooperative. The local walleye would be safe from us, as there was little else to do but pack what we could to facilitate an early-morning departure.
The frustration of missed fishing opportunities was abated by the wonderful landscape of the Lonely Creek. At its entrance we met two men from Wisconsin. They had just ventured north through the creek and vividly described the huge bull moose that they had watched feeding along the banks. They shared other stories of their trip as well as some tasty venison jerky. Their report of large walleye on Cairn Lake laid the cornerstone for one of our future trips.
We eventually settled on a quaint little campsite in the Sturgeon Narrows. Two days without walleye left me itching to wet a line. Rod, always obliging, paddled with me throughout the narrows and repeatedly under the base of the powerful Russell Rapids, but with little luck. Returning to our site demoralized, we began supper. Suddenly we turned around and saw a canoe anchored a mere fifteen feet off of our campsite. Within minutes they pulled in a fish. Before we finished eating they had pulled in three more. We were flabbergasted. After paddling up and down the lake we were watching these two catching walleye right under our noses. As badly as we were itching to join them, we felt it inappropriate to park right beside the only people within ten miles of us.
“They’re leaving,” Rod quietly exclaimed. “Let’s get out there.”
It was early evening, and the temperature was beginning to drop. By the time we finished the dishes and put away the cook set they had returned from their tiny island in the middle of the narrows wearing hats and winter jackets.
As we walked towards the canoe Rod looked up in disbelief. “What! Now there’s two more guys there!” By the time he finished the sentence he realized that it was obviously the same two people, and we both laughed hysterically.
The pair were a retired father and his son from Wisconsin who had spent a week every year at the very campsite that we now occupied. They invited us to join them, and we chatted casually for over an hour with only the occasional walleye interrupting the conversation. They informed us that even though they had experienced better fishing in other areas of the park, this was their favourite and it had never failed to provide them with a meal.
The Transformation
Our original itinerary involved heading across Chatterton Lake to camp near Split Rock Falls. While we weren’t going far by our current standards, it felt back then as though all we were doing was paddling. I much preferred to spend this time fishing, so we amended our plan.
While travelling with Rod, I made several interesting observations. At the time we covered only three to four hours a day, and to me it seemed like a long time. I couldn’t wait to get there, wherever there was. But Rod was never in a hurry, often guiding our canoe from our straight-line path just to check out a campsite we wouldn’t be using or to say hello to another group. Where I accepted the paddling as a means to an end, he actually enjoyed it — just as he did portaging, chopping wood, setting up the tent, and cooking.
To him everything was great. His motto in regards to fishing was that any success was merely a bonus. The same attitude was prevalent among the other canoeists we chatted with along the trails. They were all thrilled just to be in the park. To my shock, many didn’t even bring fishing rods; others confessed they spent an entire week at the exact same campsite year after year, without exploring new territory. What insanity! Were they missing something? Or was I? I felt like an outsider, whereas Rod and these complete strangers connected immediately as if long-lost friends. These seasoned canoeists seemed to share the ability to submerge themselves in nature and enjoy each day for whatever it might bring.
Then, on about the sixth day, something magical happened. I was sitting lakeside on a rock looking across towards Chatterton Falls as the clouds started to dissipate and the sun broke through little by little. As I sat by myself in awe watching the beauty of the north woods reveal itself one ray of sunshine at a time, I became completely enveloped in an overpowering sense of peace and fulfilment. I felt humbled and insignificant yet empowered and profoundly alive all at the same instant.
Looking back now, I realize that the moment had actually been building gradually over the course of the trip, but its culmination is something that I will never forget. While the fire inside is not always as bright as it was on that day, it is a warmth and light that reveals itself to me on every trip.
It is that feeling of being completely alive and contented that best explains why I go to Quetico. Every trip is different and there is always something new to discover. Sometimes the feeling comes out of nowhere as you stop to see the beauty in less than ideal situations. And often, if you are preoccupied or worried about a schedule, it can pass you by.
That
