When we awoke, little did we know that the day would be a "Trains, Planes and Automobiles" type of day. What we did know was that we had a long boat ride through many lakes to drop us off at a portage entrance into Quetico Provincial Park - Gary had told us a bit about it. But there were modifications to the route that surprised even him.
All but Gary went down for breakfast (included at Voyagaire Lodge because we were guests of Zup's Resort), then back up for final packing. We watched a snow squall blow across the lake while we ate, making us wonder aloud what dunderheads would actually bother to leave the warmth and comfort of Voyagaire for that. Gary had a great deal more to do to ready for the trip, and Chuck and Jeff packed a solid lunch for us.
We loaded the vehicles, checked out, and drove down the road about 1/8 of a mile to Scott's Resort where our boat journey would begin. We were to be there at 9 am. Zup's Resort was our host for the trip, but they are located on an island in the middle of nowhere (OK, just on the Canadian side of the border on the large and long Lac La Croix). They contracted with Scott's Resort to boat us all the way to Zup's - or so we thought.
We parked our vehicles for the week after unloading them onto the dock, then waited for our driver to signal that we could load the jet boat with our gear, as well as Gary's solo canoe (we would rent two others from Zup's when we got there). We also had to wait for 3 bass boats (laden with provisions, beer, and heavy set gents from Arkansas) to get ready, because they would follow us as far as their boats would allow.
We knew the forecast for the next couple days - near freezing temps overnights but 50 degree days, but no precip. Now, who could ask for anything better up here at this time of year! The boat ride was pretty cold, but we were somewhat enclosed on 3 sides so the wind wasn't blowing on us. With 3 bass boats on our tail, we whipped across Crane Lake then on to Little Vermillion Lake. Since Gary didn't get any breakfast, he began munching on some left-over bbq ribs that he had stashed away from the night before. Now, I'm partial to my bacon and eggs, but there was something intriguing about the way he devoured his make-do breakfast that had me wanting for something a bit more tangy.
Our first stop on this long journey was Canadian customs, located on another remote island in the middle of nowhere:
"How long you boys in Canada?" 7 days in your lovely country.
"Got any firearms?" You mean these handguns? Ha ha, aren't we Americans so funny..... Ahhhh OK, no. Please sirs, put your pistols back in their holsters now.
"Any alcohol?" Is Gretzky Canadian?
"How much alcohol ya have?" Oh, I'd estimate 7 liters for the 5 of us.
The two Canadian border agents looked at each other, then said, "You're allowed 1 liter for each person, and the fines for anything greater are pretty stiff..........but we'll overlook it."
Well, let me tell you, I was this close to handing over Joe's craft beer, Chuck's wine and (Jeff's) brandy, but OK, we can live with that. Just keep your bloody hands off my .44 Magnum.
After customs, we were back on the jet boat to continue our journey, fat Razorbacks still on our tail, but now entering tighter quarters where the bass boats had to be careful and follow the jet boat exactly through more narrow straits lest they drop a prop or lose a skeg. All of a sudden we stopped at a random boat landing...again in the middle of nowhere....where a rickety van pulling a canoe trailer was waiting for us. Hmmm, what gives here? We helped them unload our stuff into the van, strapped on Gary's canoe, left the Scott's Resort jet boat and 3 heavily laden bass boats behind, and began a 40-minute overland journey across the Canadian wilderness. Our van driver was a handsome young Aussie (complete with Crocodile Dundee hat) who explained that the boat route to Zup's was too shallow, and that maybe when we come back this way in a week we can skip this detour. Joe the Aussie (I'm sure he had a last name) was quiet at first, but we finally got him to talk, primarily to listen to his accent, which is so fun to hear. "Roight, you booys headin inta Quetico, ahy? Roight then..." I've been to Australia, and in my book, the brits got nothing on the Aussie's when it comes to accents. Shreemp ahn the bahbee, fowstahs beeah an' ohl tha Mayt. Could listen to it for hours.
The van ride was pretty good at first, 45 mph on a nice road, but then deteriorated into a pot-holed, 5 mph slog that had us bouncing around the van like kids in an inflatable bounce house at a birthday party. We finally arrived at another boat landing, this time on Lac La Croix, where another jet boat - this one from Zup's Resort! - awaited us. We offloaded our stuff onto the new boat, said goodbye to Joe and hello to Jan our boat driver, who explained that before going to Zup's Resort she was taking us to the Quetico Ranger District office to pick up our Quetico permit first. "If we don't get them before they go to lunch, you never know when they'll be back." I gather things up here run on Native American time, which was confirmed when we arrived there.
The Quetico Ranger District is a remote outpost on Lac La Croix. We paid our hefty Quetico permit fee to the plodding Native American woman, who tried multiple times to run our credit cards through those old fashioned swipe machines that use carbon copy papered forms. Imagine this setting. Are we the only people in the last, oh, 5 years that have been through here to purchase Quetico permits with credit cards? I would quote her words here as she struggled with this financial transaction except, well, she didn't utter a word. So, the one-sided conversation went something like this:
"Hi. Quetico Permits please. I gather by the inquisitive look in your eyes that you are maybe looking for a name? Or maybe some form of payment. Which? Johnson party of 5. Good? You want a form of payment? Do you take credit card? No? Yes? Here, take this rectangular piece of plastic. Do I get it back? I suspect by that glance at the clock that it must be lunch."
That painful step taken care of, it was back on the boat to Zup's Resort island. Zup's dock area is a busy place, teeming fishermen and jet boat traffic coming and going. The resort building is wonderfully quaint, with a variety of northwoods furnishings and wall hangings. We were greeted by Kathy Zup with coffee, lemonade and cookies. Gary ironed out the details of our itinerary with her, including the rental of 2 Kevlar (lightweight) canoes and a satellite phone in case of emergency. Being it was Saturday, other paddlers were coming in from their jet boat pickup, and the reception area was getting pretty busy. We were promised some one-on-one time with Mark Zup about our proposed route, what to avoid, where to fish, etc. Mark and Kathy are a busy couple, but Gary is a repeat customer so he was afforded a little TLC!
Mark gave us some good info, especially as it related to some of the side trips we were considering on our layover days. Our route alone was aggressive, and Mark dismissed some of the other side lakes we wanted to visit as unattainable on a day trip. He also eliminated an alternate route that we were considering which would allow us to avoid one very nasty portage, generally referred to as the "Gratton Death March", replacing it with small portages along a narrow river channel. Mark stated that blowdown from the storm in July 2014 still clogged the narrow riverway - the Death March was the only portage available to us on our loop route. We even met another young group that had just come through there yesterday, and we asked how bad the Death March was. "It is what it is, it wasn't too bad", really meaning, "You gotta do it if you want to go that way, so suck it up, strap on your big boy pants, and get to portaging ya lazy ass old timer." Well, I never...
OK, with 3 canoes and all our gear on the boat, we were off again on a long boat ride across a long expanse of Lac La Croix, this time with Wesley our Native American driver. As is typical with Zup employees, language is at a premium for individuals like Wes. You can't help but ask yourself what their lives are like in these northern locations. It's like when you drive through a remote town and ask yourself, "What do all these people do?" We knew what Wes was doing at this moment, but really, what do Wes, Joe, and Jan do when they aren't driving us city slickers around? Their silent, knowing eyes are so intriguing, are they not?
Or maybe they're all just hung over like us.
It was about 2 pm when we were finally dropped off on a rock outcropping, with still another 100 yards of water to the actual beginning of Bottle Portage into Quetico (the boat couldn't get any closer). So, we unloaded the jet boat, said our goodbyes to Wesley (which was acknowledged with a silent "fare thee well" or so I imagined), and then decided to GET BUSY - at which point we plopped down for lunch. With all that sitting around for hours, I was famished!
The morning snow squall was long forgotten as we enjoyed a beautiful, clear, sunny afternoon. I really couldn't help but comment on my self-proclaimed position as the group's weather shaman, and declare to all within earshot, "My work here is done." I mean, from 20-degree blustery morning to clear skies and light spring breezes? Damn right.
We finished lunch, loaded up the canoes, floated across the little bay, unloaded, and started the portage. Mark Zup had warned us that the portage had two routes - a shorter low road that is terribly muddy, and a longer high road that is a bit more difficult, but worth it. As would be our typical portage process going forward, Jeff, Joe and I portaged the 3 canoes first, then all would participate in the multiple trips (usually 3 total) it took to get all our gear from one end to the other. As I said, we were blessed with cool weather and no bugs, and once everything was across we launched on to Iron Lake for an hour long paddle in search of a campsite. We had a few to choose from on both the US and Canadian side, and struck out for a small island site very near Rebecca Falls. We found it unoccupied and perfect, with a nice flat access to land and launch from, log benches and a big stone fire pit! We unloaded, set up camp, and hung around to nap and fish. Gary and I roomed together in his 2-man Marmot, Joe and Chuck were roommates in Joe's REI Half Dome, and without Steve along, Jeff was alone in my REI Quarter Dome. After some relaxing, we canoed over to Rebecca Falls, which was so near that we could hear the constant roar from our camp.
Rebecca Falls is actually two falls that flow on either side of an island. Mark Zup was clear on this point: head directly for the middle of the island to land your canoes, and don't dally lest you get sucked into the falls to the left or the right. Once we landed, we walked a short path to the falls on the left, which ran down from our Iron Lake into McAree Lake. We took some pictures, enjoyed the beauty, then walked across the small island to view the falls on the other side, which were a bit more exposed. We lingered here for about an hour, and with darkness setting in we headed back to the canoes to return to camp. While untying our canoes, Gary discovered that he had laid his hiking poles in a patch of poison ivy, and then wondered if the rest of us had actually tied our canoes off in the nearby shrubs. Thus would begin the PI (poison ivy) saga - which ropes had touched PI, which ones needed to be destroyed, and who would develop a PI rash (Jeff). For his part, Gary was pretty bummed about this, and spent several minutes scrubbing his hands and poles and anything else that he could think of that might have come in contact. The problem with PI is that it takes a couple days to really develop a PI rash, so you never really know whether you have cleaned yourself, your clothes, your gear well enough. Gary was taking no chances.
Back at camp, we lit a charcoal fire and dug out the huge steaks which would be our supper. We always eat fresh food the first night of a trip because we can pack it very cold or even freezing, knowing it won't spoil on the first day. We ate (and drank*) by the light of our dorklights, and the rising moon which was only a couple days away from being full. The waxing moon was joined by Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn, which made for a beautiful evening sky the entire trip.
*And by drink, I mean both our purified water stash and the many aluminum containers (we used to call SIGGs for the brand) that accompanied us. For our water purification process we had two gravity filters working for us in camp: Fill a plastic container with lake water, attach it to a tree or branch as high as possible, hook it up to a hose that runs the water through a filter via gravity to an empty clean water container on the ground. Walk away, come back in 10 minutes, repeat as often as necessary. This works well when base camping, but it's not practical if you are on the move - or in Utah where there are no trees!
As for the liquids of the distilled sort, we had a plethera of choices for the discerning Quetico explorer. First and foremost, we always travel with some high octane (e.g., 124 proof) bourbon, and while not the smoothest, it sure does the trick when weight is a concern. Lately we have been partial to Knob Creek Special Reserve, and Gary likes to bring along its little brother, plain ol' Knob Creek. Next, we are happy to accommodate Joe who has an issue with bourbons and whiskeys, but adores tequila - especially when limes and salt can be found in the vicinity. "I'm carving boys, who's with me?" brings joy and gladness to my heart at the end of a long day. In addition, Joe loves his beer, and while it isn't the most practical thing to travel with, we all agree that splitting a Surly fill-in-the-blank (Hell, Furious, Cynic...) is a great way to toast a campsite or a portage well done.
Now, Chuck likes to bring his own stash of brandy and wines (little juice boxes like your kids used to squeeze and spill all over). And last but not least, we were introduced to a new distillation this year, Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey. Remember those hot little cinnamon candies from our youth, "Red Hots"? Leave it to someone to capture that exact flavor in liquid form, and throw in some alcohol to boot. Delicious! Let's see, did I miss anything?? Whew, get to bed you drunks...
