Early in the morning the winds picked up a little and blew the rain out, which allowed us to exit our tents to a cool, dry morning, have some breakfast, and prepare ourselves for another major day trip, this time across a 134-rod portage into Darkwater (aka "Darky") Lake to the north.
Gary and I also used this time to clean out our tent and hang all our wet gear to dry on clothes lines strung around every tree in the vicinity. The breeze really helped dry our stuff in 2-3 hours - modern fabrics are great for this quality alone!
We thanked Jeff profusely for the use of his spare rainfly, but he was having none of this faux obsequiousness. He wanted, no he demanded recourse: some form of repayment. It started as a demand for money, but what good is that out here?? He quickly realized his error, and cut to the chase - the one thing that means more to Jeff than anything - FOOD! He wanted our rations, and I promised to catch an extra big bass for him today. (As it turned out, he caught himself a huge northern, so he pretty much fed himself with that.)
As we readied for the day, we listened to the forecast - more rain expected later today and overnight. No problem. When we were ready to head out, Gary and I stuffed everything back in the tent, and we teamed up to paddle across Argo to the portage into Darky. The portage itself was not too bad even given last night's rain, especially since we were only hauling what we needed for the day.
Gary lent his solo canoe to Jeff, and Gary became my stern man for the day's fishing. Our first order of business however was to find two different sets of pictographs located on the sheer granite walls on the south end of the lake. Gary had been through here a couple years ago, and remembered them being not far from the portage. We found the first set quite quickly, but the 2nd set was difficult to locate - there were granite walls for a good mile or so along the eastern shoreline. Gary and I took the lead, but with each unsuccessful foray into a bay or cliff, the gang started spreading out and searching themselves. It turns out we were searching much too close to the portage. The pictographs were right at water level, and continued up the rock for another 30 feet or so. We floated right in front of them, and speculated what they might mean. Along with moose, snakes and mules, there was a person shooting a gun, and even handprints.
We photo'd and video'd to our hearts content, then got busy searching for some honey holes where the fish were congregating. Gary and I pushed on to the NE corner of the lake where a small river flowed into Darky, and at this inlet was lots of structure that should support a good deal of bass. We spent a couple hours paddling up, then floating down the narrows, at first having very little luck. But as with most every day this week, right around 3:00 pm the fish started biting, and today was no different. Once we got going, we quickly caught several nice ones, having to throw some big ones back (as was also typical each day!) that exceeded the size limit of our permits.
While fishing, I realized I had been hearing a distinct sound all week and never knew what it was, or even bothered to ask. And here it was again, a distinct beating sound emanating from the woods that would hasten to a rapid pulsing climax, go quiet, then repeat again a minute or so later. It was the sound of ruffled grouse flapping their wings, which was simply amazing when you consider how fast the beating was when it reached a crescendo!
My butt was getting sore, so we pulled up to an exposed rock landing to stretch our backs, have some lunch, and explore what looked like a potential campsite (for future reference). It served as a great break spot, but as campsites go it left a lot to be desired. The weather was overcast, winds were calm and the lake was covered in a haze similar to yesterday. As we stood there, it started to sprinkle, and being it was about 5pm we thought the boys might be looking for us to start portaging out and back to camp. So we donned our raingear and started paddling back the way we came. We encountered the other canoes fishing not far from the portage site. Jeff got off a cast and couldn't believe how far his lure was sailing through the air - a cast for the ages really - until he realized that it was no longer attached to his line. Poor Jeff, he probably has the same reaction with his beloved Dodge Duster: a thing of beauty, until he puts the key in the ignition.
We agreed we had all caught plenty of fish to satisfy our dinner, and so we pulled up and began our portage. This time though, we thought it would be a good idea to clean the fish right at the entrance and portage the fillets, so we upended a canoe on some wood and rocks, and Gary and Chuck did most of the cleaning while the rest of us portaged all our gear across in a couple trips. This took some time, and with calm winds, heavy forest, and fish guts everywhere the no-see-ums (infinitely small biting insects) started attacking. Gary's exposed hands and face were especially susceptible while he carved, and he didn't want to use bug spray around the fish fillets.
Once that was complete, we walked the final portage with the single canoe, paired up again and headed across Argo back to our campsite. This time I was paired with Chuck for the short trip back. About mid-lake there was a loud thunderclap, which was the signal for us all to get the hell off the water and back to camp. All was well until we reached our campsite. I stepped out of the canoe awkwardly, leaving Chuck to flail in the back while he tried to balance himself and the canoe - to no avail. The canoe tipped, and Chuck ended up falling in the shallow water near shore. I felt bad, since it was mostly my fault (mostly?). Chuck was wearing his high wader boots to keep his legs dry, and these filled with water as he and the canoe tipped into the drink. He found it difficult to stand with two vertical pools of lake water caressing his legs from toes to crotch!
The rain that had threatened all afternoon never developed to more than a constant sprinkle, and we retreated into our bug shelter for happy hour and a fish fry. Jeff elected to fry up the fish this night, and it was quite a sight to see! Jeff had liberally applied some of Chuck's brandy to the lining of his empty stomach, so we all watched in fascination as Jeff straddled the small stove and large pan balanced on our little fry table. We were praying that he wouldn't slop hot oil on himself, and the pan did tip a couple times. We also pondered how Jeff was going to deal with the immense northern pike fillets that his fish produced. One technique that someone might have considered would be to cut the fillet into 4 smaller pieces. Jeff thought this too....inefficient. When it came time to flip the first fillet, Jeff pulled this off with a gigantic flip, swoosh and splash of hot oil. Thank the gods none of us were in the line of fire! At our urging, Jeff did cut the 2nd fillet into more manageable sections, perplexed as to why we felt this was necessary.
The evening continued as most nights did: delicious fresh fish, brandy, bourbon, Fireball whiskey, Backwoods smokes, no mashed potatoes, and raucous bandit banter. Joe was enjoying his usual spot at the "bar" when he reached for a container of booze, brought it to his lips, and realized he was drinking cooking oil. We got a good laugh out of that, plus I'm guessing Joe's BM the next morning was smoother than normal.
This would be our last night on Argo, so with the rain holding off we were able to have a nice bonfire for ourselves, after which it was time for bed. Tomorrow we would begin retracing our route, with the goal of one (and only one!) portage each day.
