With the ever decreasing amount of daylight, I now arise to Wilson at 4:30 am on August 14. What a change from the spring when the sun was up before 3 am.
Making my way on this large lake, I have to wind through a series of turns in an "S" fashion, some of the time with a tailwind, but a hard paddle against a headwind exacerbated by a channel producing a "tunnel effect". The whole country is burned as far as the eye can see from a forest fire eight years ago.
Near my target location there is one island that escaped the fire and I hope it will serve as a base from which to explore. However there are no suitable campsites on this very steep and high isle. I even circle it to check all sides, and walk inland on both the leeward and windward sides. The very strong wind is producing waves that bash the canoe against the shore on the windward side, splashing water on board.
I canoe across the bay to the location where I hope to make my way inland through two small lakes to the target river. I know it will probably take some portage cutting, and the sight of all the burned bush and its down trees is not confidence-inspiring. When I reach the entrance to the first lake, which the map shows has a channel into the main lake, it is completely blocked with an old beaver dam overgrown with sweet gale brush. The beavers are long gone because of the fire. There is no opening in the one metre high dam, over which I can hear the sound of water running. Time for lunch along the mainland nearby at a small rock face.
The water is running over the dam all the way across it, but there is a somewhat dry area on the left side where I unload the canoe to make a short eight metre portage.
Leading out to the small lake there is a beaver channel where I can load the canoe.
The blackflies are very bothersome so I don a hat scarf.
Canoeing up the lake I stop on the right side but there is nothing suitable as a camp site.
Across on the left side there is a promising expanse of bare rock exposure but with a one metre vertical shoreline and an old beaver lodge at the right end. Landing there I find a somewhat level spot that will require extensive clearing of regrowth pine and birch trees, but is the best available spot within several kilometres.
Averse to bathing in the muddy bottom at the beaver lodge after my experience two years ago with giardiasis, I do find a place on the left side where I can carefully climb down into chest deep water to stand on a narrow rock ledge, below which is deep water with muddy bottom.
Averse to bathing in the muddy bottom at the beaver lodge after my experience two years ago with giardiasis, I do find a place on the left side where I can carefully climb down into chest deep water to stand on a narrow rock ledge, below which is deep water with muddy bottom.
At the left end, there is a peculiar mishmash of fire-killed trees in a "tepee" shape.
Looking back from the campsite to the exit of the lake at the beaver dam.
It takes over two hours to clear all the small and medium-sized trees to make way for the tent and tarp shelter. I pull dozens of small trees and saw the larger ones. A big job! The fireplace and canoe are situated closely to the tent and tarp shelter. Supper is my go-to meal of macaroni and cheese after a hard day. I travelled 14 km including the eight metre portage. Camp is on a rise with no big trees but there is better shade than anticipated. The tent floor slopes too much, but I place the Rubber Pack at the bottom of my bed to keep me from sliding down.
All the moss in the area was burned, so to make a cool "fridge", in a low place near the lakeshore, I dig a water-filled hole covered with a big pile of pine branches from trees cut to make room for camp.
The fireplace is backed by a large boulder. There is unlimited firewood from fallen trees as a result of the forest fire. A cinnamon bannock is baking in the Dutch oven.
This small lake has markedly brown water, a consequence of decaying vegetable matter.
Canoeing to the upper end of the small lake on August 15, I pole up the creek as far as possible but it is impassable.
Landing at the side of the creek, I make my way through, on, over and under the myriad of fallen trees to the next small lake. It is a difficult job taking over 30 minutes to go the 500 metres. When I get to the shore of the next lake I can see that all the country has been burned. I try walking closer to the creek in the spongy wet muskeg covered in a deep bed of moss and Labrador tea, but it is easier to go on the higher land through the down trees. The blackflies are very bad, especially so as I am sweat-soaked in the 33℃ heat in the humid dead calm conditions. Aie!
The target river is over the horizon at least one km at the upper end of this second small lake. Getting there would entail a lot of cutting virgin portages. There has not been any evidence of old trails. I stand and debate back and forth about continuing. The probability is high that the burn includes the target river, which is narrow and may not be easily passable. I do not know if I will have enough time to do it all. I want to, but all of a sudden some lines from Kenny Rogers' song "The Gambler" (written by Don Schlitz) pops into my head "... You've got to ... Know when to fold 'em, Know when to walk away ...".
On the way back to camp, I try fishing for at least one hour but only catch one small pike with no other nibbles. My young self berating old self, I decide not to advance any farther and plan on returning the same route back to my vehicle.