The next day was much like the previous - sunny skies, light winds, warm temps. We found it really difficult to motivate this day, spending the first part of the day prepping breakfast, relaxing in the cabana, then heading back out of the sun for naps. Looking at maps and GPS, Gary noticed a small lake back around the corner which he was just able to fit his canoe through without the need to portage. When he returned, Chuck got the idea that he would head back there for some fishing, while the rest of us acknowledged his enthusiasm by raising our heads from the ground and grunting a farewell.
Just over an hour later Mr. Bass Ass returned with a boat load of fish! He caught many more in that time, but only brought back 20 or so of the best. Once Chuck beached the canoe, he hauled out his stringer for us to ogle. It was so laden with bass that he could hardly lift it! We got to work setting up a workstation for him to clean, and another location for us to fry them up. In the end we only cleaned about half of them and let the rest go.
Once the fish were fried, Gary realized that we were all together and it would be a great time to set up for some group photos in the shade of our camp. We had pretty much eaten our fill except Chuck, who kept on nibbling at the remaining fillets while Gary set up the shot. When the photo shoot was complete, Gary went to finally enjoy his first tastes of our latest catch, but it was all gone. "Where's the fish?" he cried in vain! Chuck, licking his fingers from the last pieces of oily delicacy, looked up from his spot near the plate and replied, "Huh, I was wondering why there was so much left." We had a good laugh at that, while Gary dug through our dwindling rations looking for something to sate his appetite.
The day was getting on, and Joe was getting impatient - we still had Curtain Falls portage to get through, and another campsite to locate. It was hard to leave, but we finally packed up and headed less than a mile to the flat rock outcropping above Curtain Falls to unload and begin the portage. It was shaded and cool, and mostly downhill, which was quite sweet. Also, we chose a different put-in spot that was shorter, but much closer to the falls than when we were through here before. As such, we'd have to be extra careful launching to ensure we didn't capsize in the strong current.
We were closer to the weekend, and so we encountered several people at the falls as well as fishing in boats in the strong current below. These guys were serious fishermen, but as I noticed their general girth, I realized they would only have gotten this far with some serious help, maybe from the U.S. side. Certainly not the portaging, adventuring kind! Being around these types made me miss the solitude of Argo Lake. I mean, the planning and effort it took for us to get "out there" was directly proportional to the remoteness that we experienced.
Once we cleared the falls, it was time to find a camp for our last night in Quetico. Gary paddled strong ahead to determine if our old Rebecca Falls campsite was available, and if not he'd paddle back and we'd have to look into alternatives. As we approached with no sign of Gary on the water, we knew he was already ashore on the island. Great! With tonight's site secured, we could unload, set up camp, then swim and fish in leisure.
For this round I had a pleasure of fishing with Chuck. As we circled the island, I started grabbing the paddle to maneuver, then my pole, then the paddle. After about 2 minutes of that, Chuck said "Put that damn thing away" - my paddle, not my rod & reel. Fishing with Chuck is quite a unique experience. He adeptly handles the canoe while casting about, whispering instructions to me, "There, drop a line there." "Now over there." We circled the island, fished the far shoreline, even a small bay with lots of "structure". We didn't catch much, and decided to just let go what we caught. As we headed out of the bay back to the island, we heard a blood curdling scream from Gary, "Let it go, let it GO, LET OUT THE BALE!!!" Now, what was THAT about? Turns out Jeff was casting from shore and must have snagged Gary as he paddled and fished about the island. Neither wanted to talk about it much when we all arrived back in camp...
Once again we opted for Mountain House backpack dinners instead of fish, and for the 2nd night in a row yet another Bandit was stumped by the basic directions to make the infamous Mountain House Raspberry Crumble. This would be the one essential skill that the crew might need to acquire before our next outing. For the 2nd night we enjoyed a raspberry chocolate mud pie that, while lacking the desired consistency, was still devoured with gusto.
All week long we had been having a conversation about our gear, specifically looking to vote on a "New Gear Award" for the new item that we found useful or novel, and by now all our gear had been trail tested. The nominees included:
Nite Ize Gear ties - REI had been selling these babies for a couple years, and they really came in handy to attach gear to the canoe in case we capsized. On prior trips we were stringing lightweight ropes through the packs and tying them off on the canoe gunnels. We found many great uses for these handy-dandy ties, which combined the staying power of the old Gumby and Pokey toys of my youth with the ability to readily twist and hold.
Neoprene socks - these sounded like a good idea, but I think those that had them found issues with boot fit and foot rot.
Froggtogg Hip waders - Chuck and Gary swore by these.
Lightweight collapsible table - seemed superfluous at first, but was used often to stabilize our fish fry stove, pan, and any other cooking appliance that required a level surface.
Bug shelter - not new per se, but new to the Bandits, and doubled as a spacious rain tent and cabana if the winds were reasonable.
Compact weather radio - as I said before, this little piece of electronics was extremely helpful in planning our days. We would turn it on, hone in on a signal, and get a 3 minute forecast for the coming hours and days.
Toilet Paper Tablets - One of our party, who is partial to TP to begin with, brought these along. I never did determine how much they were used, but it sure was a novel idea. I'll stick with my stones and 'cones, thank you very much.
Mini-cot - Gary's lightweight but sturdy sleeping apparatus that raised him only a few inches off the tent floor. This could serve two purposes, 1) to keep him dry should our tent take on water (huh, imagine that), and 2) limit the injuries incurred when falling out of bed in a drunken stupor. That probably happened too.
And last but not least, a compact, shiny, silver umbrella. No explanation is required for this essential piece of survivalist gear.
You may be wondering what we selected, but the debate floor never closed for a final vote.
This would be our last night in the wilderness, so it was important to finish off our stores of hooch, smokes, crude humor and nasty insults. Leave it all on the trail is my moto! After a beautiful day we experienced a glorious sunset, the orange and red sky lingering well into the evening as the stars appeared in abundance. Even the fireflies danced playfully in our midst as we toasted our last evening in Quetico.
Friday, June 5, 2015
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Tequila Beach Camp
Today we would leave Argo and find another campsite on our 3-day/2-night return trip to civilization. The forecast had predicted rain overnight and through the morning, so we were in no hurry to break camp, except to pack up our personal gear inside the tents (which alone can be a major ordeal after 4 days). As a matter of fact, the weather radio allowed us to a) know that the rain was likely to end by late morning, and b) relax and simply wait it out. In my mind, this was invaluable information from a valuable piece of new equipment. Without this information, we would have likely broken camp in the rain. There's nothing worse.
The mood was light, and we continued the bandit banter until, sure enough, about 11 am, the winds picked up slightly and blew the rain out. We knew this was our time, so we got busy packing what was left, loaded the canoes, and headed south to the portage out of Argo back to Crooked Lake. On this reverse portage, the pull out was a steep-ish rock face of about 20 feet to a small ledge. After that, the portage climbed steeply for a good 1/8 mile, which was now muddy from the recent rains. We all carried what we could up to the top where the large Pinnacle Rock awaited us, making sure that nobody carried too much so as to avoid any slips, falls, twists of ankles, or sprains of knees. Once the big stuff was at the top, some started carrying down the long path to the put in spot, which was now even muddier than when we arrived a few days ago. It was getting hard to find places to set things down.
We knew this portage would take awhile, and we patiently lugged everything to the end. But wait - we were missing someone's Duluth pack - the one decked out in green camouflage. (Who's idea was it to create a camouflaged Duluth pack!) We had the portage to ourselves, so we knew it wasn't accidentally taken by another portaging party. It wasn't until 2-3 of us diligently searched the path that we finally found it perched on a rock in the foliage about 1/2 way back. One of us had set it aside as we are apt to do when we are carrying too much. We had all walked by it multiple times, focusing on the trail in front of us rather than to the sides!
With that resolved, it was time to resolve our growling stomachs. There was little space to sit at the end of the portage, so we all pretty much plopped down in the grass, surrounded by mud, water, gear, muddy boots and filthy pant legs. I just had to laugh as I looked around at the sorry state of our happy and contented lunch gang, munching away in our little pig pen. I still smile when I think of that scene, enjoying lunch in the mud, and not really giving a rats ass!
After lunch we loaded up the canoes, each trying different techniques to climb into, and launch, the canoes while rinsing our muddy boots to avoid a mess in the canoe. The day was sunny and warm, almost too warm as we paddled back down Crooked Lake. We all took turns razzing Joe as he liberally applied his sunscreen. His whole face would turn white because his beard would lather up the thick mess, looking very much like he had applied a cold cream mask. (All he lacked were cucumber slices on each eye.) All week we chided Joe with the general comment, "What's that discoloration on your face?", which would send him into paranoid hysterics.
Our destination was a 5-star campsite not far from Curtain Falls, but as we approached we could see people out on the beautiful rocky prominence, and more people farther back where the campsite must have been. Oh what a view it must be from there! Our backup plan was to check out the sandy beach site that Gary explored on our way in. Gary thought it would do, but it seemed too good to be true. We arrived, beached the canoes, then headed back into the woods to check out the camp situation. It wasn't spacious, but for 3 tents and one night, we could easily make it work. I imagined this location would be hot and buggy in the summer, but right now it was pretty ideal. And the beach! A few feet of nice sand gently sloping into the lake.
We set up our tents and broke out our wet gear for drying, then set up the bug shelter right on the sand next to the water. We anchored it down with rocks and the sand anchor method (tie guidelines to a rock or log, and bury it deep in the sand). We rolled up the sides and used it as a cabana for the rest of the time there since the bugs never really showed up to the party. We were too lazy to fish, so we broke out some Mt. House dinners, boiled some water, and made quick work of dinner and cleanup.
Winds were calm, skies were clear, we bathed and swam and watched the setting sun in our little slice of Caribbean paradise in the Quetico wilderness. It wasn't until I returned home and processed the video that I would dub this spot "Tequila Beach".
The mood was light, and we continued the bandit banter until, sure enough, about 11 am, the winds picked up slightly and blew the rain out. We knew this was our time, so we got busy packing what was left, loaded the canoes, and headed south to the portage out of Argo back to Crooked Lake. On this reverse portage, the pull out was a steep-ish rock face of about 20 feet to a small ledge. After that, the portage climbed steeply for a good 1/8 mile, which was now muddy from the recent rains. We all carried what we could up to the top where the large Pinnacle Rock awaited us, making sure that nobody carried too much so as to avoid any slips, falls, twists of ankles, or sprains of knees. Once the big stuff was at the top, some started carrying down the long path to the put in spot, which was now even muddier than when we arrived a few days ago. It was getting hard to find places to set things down.
We knew this portage would take awhile, and we patiently lugged everything to the end. But wait - we were missing someone's Duluth pack - the one decked out in green camouflage. (Who's idea was it to create a camouflaged Duluth pack!) We had the portage to ourselves, so we knew it wasn't accidentally taken by another portaging party. It wasn't until 2-3 of us diligently searched the path that we finally found it perched on a rock in the foliage about 1/2 way back. One of us had set it aside as we are apt to do when we are carrying too much. We had all walked by it multiple times, focusing on the trail in front of us rather than to the sides!
With that resolved, it was time to resolve our growling stomachs. There was little space to sit at the end of the portage, so we all pretty much plopped down in the grass, surrounded by mud, water, gear, muddy boots and filthy pant legs. I just had to laugh as I looked around at the sorry state of our happy and contented lunch gang, munching away in our little pig pen. I still smile when I think of that scene, enjoying lunch in the mud, and not really giving a rats ass!
After lunch we loaded up the canoes, each trying different techniques to climb into, and launch, the canoes while rinsing our muddy boots to avoid a mess in the canoe. The day was sunny and warm, almost too warm as we paddled back down Crooked Lake. We all took turns razzing Joe as he liberally applied his sunscreen. His whole face would turn white because his beard would lather up the thick mess, looking very much like he had applied a cold cream mask. (All he lacked were cucumber slices on each eye.) All week we chided Joe with the general comment, "What's that discoloration on your face?", which would send him into paranoid hysterics.
Our destination was a 5-star campsite not far from Curtain Falls, but as we approached we could see people out on the beautiful rocky prominence, and more people farther back where the campsite must have been. Oh what a view it must be from there! Our backup plan was to check out the sandy beach site that Gary explored on our way in. Gary thought it would do, but it seemed too good to be true. We arrived, beached the canoes, then headed back into the woods to check out the camp situation. It wasn't spacious, but for 3 tents and one night, we could easily make it work. I imagined this location would be hot and buggy in the summer, but right now it was pretty ideal. And the beach! A few feet of nice sand gently sloping into the lake.
We set up our tents and broke out our wet gear for drying, then set up the bug shelter right on the sand next to the water. We anchored it down with rocks and the sand anchor method (tie guidelines to a rock or log, and bury it deep in the sand). We rolled up the sides and used it as a cabana for the rest of the time there since the bugs never really showed up to the party. We were too lazy to fish, so we broke out some Mt. House dinners, boiled some water, and made quick work of dinner and cleanup.
Winds were calm, skies were clear, we bathed and swam and watched the setting sun in our little slice of Caribbean paradise in the Quetico wilderness. It wasn't until I returned home and processed the video that I would dub this spot "Tequila Beach".
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Fishing Darky Lake
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Fishing Roland Lake
Another beautiful morning! We breakfasted, and checked the weather - yes, rain expected today, so we had best prepare camp for wind and rain. We had a variety of options including lightweight tarps, and a nice sized bug shelter that would do nicely for a hang-out location as long as it was set up strong and protected from the wind. Fortunately we had a whole area at the back of our campsite that was perfect: blocked from the wind on 3 sides, and a variety of trees to tie off for support. We set up another tarp to hang over most of our camp gear and food, and everything else was stashed in our tents.
Jeff came out from his tent area with something he had brought, but he had no idea what it was. He explained that one of us had given it to him to bring along. We all shook are heads, both to confirm that we hadn't, and to laugh at Jeff's folly! We unfurled the large covering and after a few minutes realized it was a tent rainfly, likely from one of Jeff's tents at home. We laughed while Jeff explained it away by blaming his kids for using his gear and not putting it back properly. OK maybe, but we still razzed Jeff for not checking his gear beforehand! But hey, the rainfly made a great cover for our stash of firewood, so there ya go.
With camp secure and cleaned up, we headed out together for the NW part of Argo, and once again into the narrows of the "Soybean" River. The river flows into Roland Lake, but the passage requires a short portage. Jeff and I decided not to drop a line in the Siobhan and instead head straight to the portage, after which we'd break out the rods on Roland. The other two canoes were taking their time fishing along the way. We floated closer and closer to the dense covering of the outflow, and at the very end we spotted a take-out spot about 20 feet to the left. Pulling up and walking the path confirmed that yes, this was the short portage into Roland (but not the only one, as we would learn!). The portage was so short (10 rods?) that Jeff and I decided to haul the canoe full of our gear up and over the portage in one trip. The path was a bit steep up and down, but it didn't take us long at all. Then, we plopped the canoe in the water, climbed in, and started fishing.
We had OK luck with the bass that morning, enough to keep us occupied and happy. But as we worked the bank structure with our surface lures, we noticed a loon pop up along the bank ahead of us. Crap - we knew the loon was also fishing, and likely scaring all the bass into hiding. So, Jeff and I decided to paddle out around the pesky loon, then back towards shore to continue. This was fine for awhile, until - Crap! - another loon was messing with our "virgin territory" Jeff's name for the waters we hadn't fished yet). We were about to perform the same maneuver around this loon until we saw a peculiar thing - the loon was bobbing its head up and down on the surface of the water. Upon closer inspection we could see that it was playing with a big bass. We couldn't tell if the bass was dead, or the loon was trying to tire it out. Well, this was just too interesting to ignore, so I broke out my video camera and started filming. For the next 5 minutes I filmed while Jeff maneuvered the canoe as close as the loon would let us. The loon continued to play with that fish, until....well, the video segment tells the story of what happened next! What an incredible piece of footage! (Later that evening, the bandits would gather around my camera 2x3 inch view finder to watch the replay!)
After a couple hours of fishing, we decided to head back towards the portage area because we hadn't seen the other canoes on the lake yet, and it might be time to consider lunch. The whole ride back we were surprised that they hadn't come through yet. We finally found them all, but at a different portage spot than the one that Jeff and I used. They had uncovered a longer portage than ours. Oh well. As long as they were there, and there was a bit of an opening to share, it was a good time to break out lunch.
After that, we all hit the lake and started fishing the banks in the same area. After a few minutes I was casting with the others, and my line went up and over a tree branch about 15 feet up, the lure still landing in the water. As soon as the lure hit - bang! - fish on, and a nice size one to boot! With my line draped over the tree branch I wasn't quite sure what to do. So, what the heck, I started reeling it in - or "up" as the case may be. Jeff canoed me closer until the fish was hanging right about eye level with me. No need for a net to land this baby! After removing the fish, I was still faced with the possibility of snagging my lure on the branch above, and tugging on the branch was not going to bring it down. To avoid snagging the branch, a smart man would just remove the lure from the leader/swivel, reel the remaining line up and over the branch, reattach the lure, and continue on fishing. Let's just say this is exactly what I did, and move on with the story. Ahem..
It didn't take us long to all spread out across the lake, Jeff and I choosing to fish the shallows of the big island in the middle of the lake. Even though it had threatened rain all day, it finally began lightly raining consistently by this time. We held off donning raingear as long as possible because it gets damn uncomfortable canoeing/fishing in raingear. But we could no longer avoid it.
The fish could not be found along the island, so we sought out the northern bank of the lake where information from Zup noted the greatest chance of good fishing. We headed to the far opposite end from the portage location and immediately had good luck, working our way back closer towards where we would eventually leave the lake. We couldn't see Chuck and Joe, but we could see Gary working the northern bank farther down. After a couple hours we arrived together, and Gary regaled us with a story of a big fish that had taken his lure and tangled the line in some fallen branches. Gary was convinced it was a biggie, so he was almost ready to climb out and wade through the brush to rescue his line and capture the fish. Alas, his line broke and that was the end of that idea.
Jeff and I left Gary to fish a big longer, then headed across to a campsite on an island to get out of the canoe, strip off our raingear and outer layers, stretch our backs and rest our butts. The rain had stopped, the winds were calm (non-existent!), and the temps were mild but muggy. It felt good to strip down and walk around. We assumed Chuck and Joe had gone back through the portage for home, so we decided to wait for Gary to finish fishing and paddle by. Plus, we could help Gary with his canoe across the portage. Jeff and I were done fishing for the day, and it would be a nice calm paddle back to camp.
The portage was quick, and the Siobhan was like glass. No, it WAS glass. I've seen calm winds and water before, but this was different. A heavy haze covered the nearby banks, the water reflecting the vegetation and trees on both sides and ahead of us. It was the same when we reached Argo - pure glass. This was a big change from yesterday when we were paddling against a heavy headwind. Today we could glide through the water with ease, our canoes and paddles the only ripple on the water. It was a quintessential moment for me, a memory I'll not soon forget. I used the opportunity to film alongside Gary as he quietly paddled by, his reflection on the water a perfect mirror image, the peace broken only by the crack of a whip from the stern of my vessel: "OK Kevin, you can paddle now." My, but SOMEONE was HUNGRY!
We quickly paddled across the lake to camp, where the other canoe had already landed. With the threat of rain very real now, we set up shop in the bug shelter, with Chuck and Jeff cleaning fish, and Joe acting as cabana boy, dolling out slurps of beer and shots of booze. With fish guts in hand, Jeff headed off to the woods to dispose of the carcasses. Upon return he told us how the pesky new forest growth had thrown the fish guts back in his face as he tried to toss the remains into the shrubbery and small trees. "Fish Face" was the apt nickname given Jeff that night.
We cooked, cleaned, and retired to the cozy confines of the shelter as the rain became steady. There was very little wind, and we were quite pleased that we had prepared the camp earlier in the day for this eventuality.
At about 11:30 I headed to bed, and was met with a horrible surprise - Gary's tent was leaking water on to our sleeping bags, pads, and gear. Ah! How could this happen?? His tent was only about 5 years old, and had been trail tested all over the U.S. The coating on the rainfly was flaking a little, and this must have been the cause. When Gary arrived we soaked up the puddles that had formed on (and in!) our sleeping bags, then set out to figure out what we were going to do. Hey, wait, don't we have a spare rainfly covering our firewood? Gary and I jumped into action, moving the wood to a spot underneath the supply tarp, then quickly rigged Jeff's spare rainfly over our tent. Fortunately we had set up the tent in an area surrounded by 3-4 nearby trees. We stretched and sloped the rainfly to hover above us, and it worked beautifully. No more rain, no more leak. However, I was really worried that I'd be climbing into a wet, cold sleeping bag, and since my bag is down (not synthetic), that stuff never dries. I was quite surprised that I slept warm and comfortable, and my bag never really retained any water. Whew! That could have been a bad deal all around.
Gary of course was majorly bummed that a major item of his gear had failed. For an avid outdoorsman, you can count on one hand the gear that you most depend on, the gear you don't compromise on, the gear that MUST work because it is impractical to bring multiples, the gear that can be a lifesaver in extreme situations. Sleeping bag and tent are two of them. But thanks to Jeff and his much maligned extra rainfly, we survived this damp experience.
Jeff came out from his tent area with something he had brought, but he had no idea what it was. He explained that one of us had given it to him to bring along. We all shook are heads, both to confirm that we hadn't, and to laugh at Jeff's folly! We unfurled the large covering and after a few minutes realized it was a tent rainfly, likely from one of Jeff's tents at home. We laughed while Jeff explained it away by blaming his kids for using his gear and not putting it back properly. OK maybe, but we still razzed Jeff for not checking his gear beforehand! But hey, the rainfly made a great cover for our stash of firewood, so there ya go.
With camp secure and cleaned up, we headed out together for the NW part of Argo, and once again into the narrows of the "Soybean" River. The river flows into Roland Lake, but the passage requires a short portage. Jeff and I decided not to drop a line in the Siobhan and instead head straight to the portage, after which we'd break out the rods on Roland. The other two canoes were taking their time fishing along the way. We floated closer and closer to the dense covering of the outflow, and at the very end we spotted a take-out spot about 20 feet to the left. Pulling up and walking the path confirmed that yes, this was the short portage into Roland (but not the only one, as we would learn!). The portage was so short (10 rods?) that Jeff and I decided to haul the canoe full of our gear up and over the portage in one trip. The path was a bit steep up and down, but it didn't take us long at all. Then, we plopped the canoe in the water, climbed in, and started fishing.
We had OK luck with the bass that morning, enough to keep us occupied and happy. But as we worked the bank structure with our surface lures, we noticed a loon pop up along the bank ahead of us. Crap - we knew the loon was also fishing, and likely scaring all the bass into hiding. So, Jeff and I decided to paddle out around the pesky loon, then back towards shore to continue. This was fine for awhile, until - Crap! - another loon was messing with our "virgin territory" Jeff's name for the waters we hadn't fished yet). We were about to perform the same maneuver around this loon until we saw a peculiar thing - the loon was bobbing its head up and down on the surface of the water. Upon closer inspection we could see that it was playing with a big bass. We couldn't tell if the bass was dead, or the loon was trying to tire it out. Well, this was just too interesting to ignore, so I broke out my video camera and started filming. For the next 5 minutes I filmed while Jeff maneuvered the canoe as close as the loon would let us. The loon continued to play with that fish, until....well, the video segment tells the story of what happened next! What an incredible piece of footage! (Later that evening, the bandits would gather around my camera 2x3 inch view finder to watch the replay!)
After a couple hours of fishing, we decided to head back towards the portage area because we hadn't seen the other canoes on the lake yet, and it might be time to consider lunch. The whole ride back we were surprised that they hadn't come through yet. We finally found them all, but at a different portage spot than the one that Jeff and I used. They had uncovered a longer portage than ours. Oh well. As long as they were there, and there was a bit of an opening to share, it was a good time to break out lunch.
After that, we all hit the lake and started fishing the banks in the same area. After a few minutes I was casting with the others, and my line went up and over a tree branch about 15 feet up, the lure still landing in the water. As soon as the lure hit - bang! - fish on, and a nice size one to boot! With my line draped over the tree branch I wasn't quite sure what to do. So, what the heck, I started reeling it in - or "up" as the case may be. Jeff canoed me closer until the fish was hanging right about eye level with me. No need for a net to land this baby! After removing the fish, I was still faced with the possibility of snagging my lure on the branch above, and tugging on the branch was not going to bring it down. To avoid snagging the branch, a smart man would just remove the lure from the leader/swivel, reel the remaining line up and over the branch, reattach the lure, and continue on fishing. Let's just say this is exactly what I did, and move on with the story. Ahem..
It didn't take us long to all spread out across the lake, Jeff and I choosing to fish the shallows of the big island in the middle of the lake. Even though it had threatened rain all day, it finally began lightly raining consistently by this time. We held off donning raingear as long as possible because it gets damn uncomfortable canoeing/fishing in raingear. But we could no longer avoid it.
The fish could not be found along the island, so we sought out the northern bank of the lake where information from Zup noted the greatest chance of good fishing. We headed to the far opposite end from the portage location and immediately had good luck, working our way back closer towards where we would eventually leave the lake. We couldn't see Chuck and Joe, but we could see Gary working the northern bank farther down. After a couple hours we arrived together, and Gary regaled us with a story of a big fish that had taken his lure and tangled the line in some fallen branches. Gary was convinced it was a biggie, so he was almost ready to climb out and wade through the brush to rescue his line and capture the fish. Alas, his line broke and that was the end of that idea.
Jeff and I left Gary to fish a big longer, then headed across to a campsite on an island to get out of the canoe, strip off our raingear and outer layers, stretch our backs and rest our butts. The rain had stopped, the winds were calm (non-existent!), and the temps were mild but muggy. It felt good to strip down and walk around. We assumed Chuck and Joe had gone back through the portage for home, so we decided to wait for Gary to finish fishing and paddle by. Plus, we could help Gary with his canoe across the portage. Jeff and I were done fishing for the day, and it would be a nice calm paddle back to camp.
The portage was quick, and the Siobhan was like glass. No, it WAS glass. I've seen calm winds and water before, but this was different. A heavy haze covered the nearby banks, the water reflecting the vegetation and trees on both sides and ahead of us. It was the same when we reached Argo - pure glass. This was a big change from yesterday when we were paddling against a heavy headwind. Today we could glide through the water with ease, our canoes and paddles the only ripple on the water. It was a quintessential moment for me, a memory I'll not soon forget. I used the opportunity to film alongside Gary as he quietly paddled by, his reflection on the water a perfect mirror image, the peace broken only by the crack of a whip from the stern of my vessel: "OK Kevin, you can paddle now." My, but SOMEONE was HUNGRY!
We quickly paddled across the lake to camp, where the other canoe had already landed. With the threat of rain very real now, we set up shop in the bug shelter, with Chuck and Jeff cleaning fish, and Joe acting as cabana boy, dolling out slurps of beer and shots of booze. With fish guts in hand, Jeff headed off to the woods to dispose of the carcasses. Upon return he told us how the pesky new forest growth had thrown the fish guts back in his face as he tried to toss the remains into the shrubbery and small trees. "Fish Face" was the apt nickname given Jeff that night.
We cooked, cleaned, and retired to the cozy confines of the shelter as the rain became steady. There was very little wind, and we were quite pleased that we had prepared the camp earlier in the day for this eventuality.
At about 11:30 I headed to bed, and was met with a horrible surprise - Gary's tent was leaking water on to our sleeping bags, pads, and gear. Ah! How could this happen?? His tent was only about 5 years old, and had been trail tested all over the U.S. The coating on the rainfly was flaking a little, and this must have been the cause. When Gary arrived we soaked up the puddles that had formed on (and in!) our sleeping bags, then set out to figure out what we were going to do. Hey, wait, don't we have a spare rainfly covering our firewood? Gary and I jumped into action, moving the wood to a spot underneath the supply tarp, then quickly rigged Jeff's spare rainfly over our tent. Fortunately we had set up the tent in an area surrounded by 3-4 nearby trees. We stretched and sloped the rainfly to hover above us, and it worked beautifully. No more rain, no more leak. However, I was really worried that I'd be climbing into a wet, cold sleeping bag, and since my bag is down (not synthetic), that stuff never dries. I was quite surprised that I slept warm and comfortable, and my bag never really retained any water. Whew! That could have been a bad deal all around.
Gary of course was majorly bummed that a major item of his gear had failed. For an avid outdoorsman, you can count on one hand the gear that you most depend on, the gear you don't compromise on, the gear that MUST work because it is impractical to bring multiples, the gear that can be a lifesaver in extreme situations. Sleeping bag and tent are two of them. But thanks to Jeff and his much maligned extra rainfly, we survived this damp experience.
Monday, June 1, 2015
Fishing the Siobhan
The day broke sunny and very breezy, but the temps were reasonable. With Gary's weather radio, we dialed in to learn that today would be beautiful, but starting tomorrow night and into the following day there would be rain. This concerned the bandits enough to discuss our upcoming itinerary. Starting tomorrow we planned to pack up camp and move on to Darky Lake, spend a couple days there, then we'd have to begin our Quetico exit via the nasty Gratton Death March portage. The portage led from Gratton Lake on to McAree, and was known to be steep, muddy, rocky, boggy - in other words, a real bear. And with rain in the forecast, it could get dangerous. Some bandits were willing to move on to continue our full loop tour of Quetico, others were hesitant. In the end, we all agreed that it was best to alter our plans, not move on from Argo, but instead day trip from this spot for the next 3 days, then work our way back the way we had come. There was one big problem with this: our agreement with Zup's had them picking us up at an exit point several miles from where we were dropped off. It was imperative then that we get a hold of Zup's to let them know of our change in plans. Fortunately we had rented an emergency satellite phone, which gave us a chance. But these things can be spotty, and not very reliable. We tried to get a signal and call Zup's for a while that morning, but we had no luck. So, we agreed to head out fishing and try again upon our return later that afternoon.
After reviewing maps, four of us decided to take two canoes and head across Argo and into the entrance of the Siobhan (aka "Soybean") River to slay some bass, but Gary decided to take his solo canoe and head the opposite way. He would explore more of Argo, its giant Basswood Island, and see if he could catch any walleye. Gary told us he'd be back at camp late, so he told us not to worry and not to send out a search party if it got dark. He had map, compass, GPS, and light, so he'd be fine. We all shrugged, like "oh, ya, uh, sure, OK", like we really cared what he did.
So, after a good couple hours of rigging our multiple poles, we hit the water and headed north and west. Fishing along the banks of Argo was not very productive, but once we reached the narrows of the river the action started picking up. Joe and Chuck worked one bank while Jeff and I worked the opposite. The action was still pretty slow, but the "structure" of rocks and fallen timber was promising. After passing some time in the narrows, the river opened up to a small lake, where we fished more, and found a large rock overlook to stop for lunch. We each had caught a couple nice size bass, but "Bass Ass" (Chuck) already had a nice haul going. For his part, Joe had caught the first fish (worth $50 from the Joe Oberle Fishing Pool that nobody ever contributes to), as well as a monster 19" bass that was over the limit and he had to let go. We shared a lunch of meats, cheese and crackers, as well as the sweet treats for dessert which was very new to our bandit menu thanks to Lori. The rock ledge was sunny, the temps were reasonable, and a slight breeze kept it from getting too warm.
After a nice break, we hopped back in the cramped canoes and continued to fish this large area, each working our way back into the narrows that would lead us back on to Argo. The fishing was good, and we each had to throw back some really large bass. That was really fun, catching the big 'uns, and helping our canoe mates haul in theirs!
While fishing a particularly heavy structured area with his son's favorite rod, Jeff got a snag in his line. I maneuvered the canoe at different angles so he could try and work the snag free. At one point Jeff lowered the entire rod in the water and was about to give it a mighty yank when the rod slipped free of his hand and floated to the bottom! OMG, what did you do??? Now, the water was clear as air, and the sun was at a pretty good angle, so we could see the rod on the bottom in 10 feet of water. Unfortunately there was no where to land the canoe for Jeff to swim for it, and I was VERY nervous about his suggestion to jump out of the canoe - I was certain he would tip us from either exiting or entering! I handed Jeff my rod and he spent about 10 minutes trying to snag the rod with my lure, while I expertly and deftly maneuvered the canoe in and out, left and right. He finally brought the rod to the surface, happy in knowing that he wouldn't have to buy his son (an avid fisherman!) a new rod. Tyler would certainly have demanded top of the line from his old man.
The wind continued to build in the afternoon, but we were quite protected in the river narrows - that is, until we hit the entrance to Argo! A strong wind was blowing directly in our faces from our camp about a mile away. There was no hope of following any shoreline that would protect us from the wind - we had no choice but to head out on the big lake and take the wind directly off the bow. For the next, I don't know, 30 minutes? we paddled our asses off, until we finally reached the quiet water on the backside of our island campsite. After a brief rest we skirted the island into the wind again to land in the protected bay next to our camp, where we unloaded our gear and fish, and pulled the canoes safely into camp. It had been a good day fishing, and we were back in camp with plenty of daylight to clean fish and still have time to swim/bathe and relax.
It was a surprise when not long after, Gary pulled up from his adventures around Argo. He had not spotted a soul, nor did he catch any fish - but then he was probably not trying all that hard. Once again we attempted to contact Zup's, and we succeeded! Yep, they'd pick us up at the same spot they dropped us off. Sweeeeet! We now had plenty of time to explore the area, and still have 2-3 days to work our way back. Being that we all loved our campsite, we decided to spend the next 3 nights here, and avail ourselves of the great day trips that surrounded Argo Lake. Well, if we were going to spend some time here, we best collect some firewood and have some bonfires! Not 100 yards due south was a small island with loads of timber, so we took a couple canoes and headed over with a couple saws and started collecting boat loads (literally!) of firewood.
With those duties out of the way, it was time to get down to a serious fish supper. Chuck and Joe managed most of the cleaning, Jeff did the fillet rinsing, and Joe manned the stove and oil, cooking our fish to greasy perfection. (Hmmmm...what did Kevin do, that load.) While prepping the menu for the trip, we agreed that we would dispense with "shore lunch" (flour/bread seasoning for fish fillets). We would make due with just oil, which would be much easier to clean up. The bass was excellent, but we struggled to find our stash of garlic mashed potatoes. We had brought enough garlic mashed to have some every night of the trip. We had one large barrel of rations for the trip, and no matter how many times we rummaged through that barrel and other gear, we could not find our beloved potatoes! It would remain a mystery (until we returned to our cars).
No matter - we drowned our sorrows with a variety of alcoholic libations, and topped it off with Backwoods cigars and a nice bonfire. With Zup's informed, we all were quite comfortable knowing we'd spend 4 nights total in this idyllic location. We retired that night looking forward to more days of light canoe travel, heavy fishing, and bandit companionship. Now, off to bed you drunken sots - we have a big day tomorrow!
After reviewing maps, four of us decided to take two canoes and head across Argo and into the entrance of the Siobhan (aka "Soybean") River to slay some bass, but Gary decided to take his solo canoe and head the opposite way. He would explore more of Argo, its giant Basswood Island, and see if he could catch any walleye. Gary told us he'd be back at camp late, so he told us not to worry and not to send out a search party if it got dark. He had map, compass, GPS, and light, so he'd be fine. We all shrugged, like "oh, ya, uh, sure, OK", like we really cared what he did.
So, after a good couple hours of rigging our multiple poles, we hit the water and headed north and west. Fishing along the banks of Argo was not very productive, but once we reached the narrows of the river the action started picking up. Joe and Chuck worked one bank while Jeff and I worked the opposite. The action was still pretty slow, but the "structure" of rocks and fallen timber was promising. After passing some time in the narrows, the river opened up to a small lake, where we fished more, and found a large rock overlook to stop for lunch. We each had caught a couple nice size bass, but "Bass Ass" (Chuck) already had a nice haul going. For his part, Joe had caught the first fish (worth $50 from the Joe Oberle Fishing Pool that nobody ever contributes to), as well as a monster 19" bass that was over the limit and he had to let go. We shared a lunch of meats, cheese and crackers, as well as the sweet treats for dessert which was very new to our bandit menu thanks to Lori. The rock ledge was sunny, the temps were reasonable, and a slight breeze kept it from getting too warm.
After a nice break, we hopped back in the cramped canoes and continued to fish this large area, each working our way back into the narrows that would lead us back on to Argo. The fishing was good, and we each had to throw back some really large bass. That was really fun, catching the big 'uns, and helping our canoe mates haul in theirs!
While fishing a particularly heavy structured area with his son's favorite rod, Jeff got a snag in his line. I maneuvered the canoe at different angles so he could try and work the snag free. At one point Jeff lowered the entire rod in the water and was about to give it a mighty yank when the rod slipped free of his hand and floated to the bottom! OMG, what did you do??? Now, the water was clear as air, and the sun was at a pretty good angle, so we could see the rod on the bottom in 10 feet of water. Unfortunately there was no where to land the canoe for Jeff to swim for it, and I was VERY nervous about his suggestion to jump out of the canoe - I was certain he would tip us from either exiting or entering! I handed Jeff my rod and he spent about 10 minutes trying to snag the rod with my lure, while I expertly and deftly maneuvered the canoe in and out, left and right. He finally brought the rod to the surface, happy in knowing that he wouldn't have to buy his son (an avid fisherman!) a new rod. Tyler would certainly have demanded top of the line from his old man.
The wind continued to build in the afternoon, but we were quite protected in the river narrows - that is, until we hit the entrance to Argo! A strong wind was blowing directly in our faces from our camp about a mile away. There was no hope of following any shoreline that would protect us from the wind - we had no choice but to head out on the big lake and take the wind directly off the bow. For the next, I don't know, 30 minutes? we paddled our asses off, until we finally reached the quiet water on the backside of our island campsite. After a brief rest we skirted the island into the wind again to land in the protected bay next to our camp, where we unloaded our gear and fish, and pulled the canoes safely into camp. It had been a good day fishing, and we were back in camp with plenty of daylight to clean fish and still have time to swim/bathe and relax.
It was a surprise when not long after, Gary pulled up from his adventures around Argo. He had not spotted a soul, nor did he catch any fish - but then he was probably not trying all that hard. Once again we attempted to contact Zup's, and we succeeded! Yep, they'd pick us up at the same spot they dropped us off. Sweeeeet! We now had plenty of time to explore the area, and still have 2-3 days to work our way back. Being that we all loved our campsite, we decided to spend the next 3 nights here, and avail ourselves of the great day trips that surrounded Argo Lake. Well, if we were going to spend some time here, we best collect some firewood and have some bonfires! Not 100 yards due south was a small island with loads of timber, so we took a couple canoes and headed over with a couple saws and started collecting boat loads (literally!) of firewood.
With those duties out of the way, it was time to get down to a serious fish supper. Chuck and Joe managed most of the cleaning, Jeff did the fillet rinsing, and Joe manned the stove and oil, cooking our fish to greasy perfection. (Hmmmm...what did Kevin do, that load.) While prepping the menu for the trip, we agreed that we would dispense with "shore lunch" (flour/bread seasoning for fish fillets). We would make due with just oil, which would be much easier to clean up. The bass was excellent, but we struggled to find our stash of garlic mashed potatoes. We had brought enough garlic mashed to have some every night of the trip. We had one large barrel of rations for the trip, and no matter how many times we rummaged through that barrel and other gear, we could not find our beloved potatoes! It would remain a mystery (until we returned to our cars).
No matter - we drowned our sorrows with a variety of alcoholic libations, and topped it off with Backwoods cigars and a nice bonfire. With Zup's informed, we all were quite comfortable knowing we'd spend 4 nights total in this idyllic location. We retired that night looking forward to more days of light canoe travel, heavy fishing, and bandit companionship. Now, off to bed you drunken sots - we have a big day tomorrow!
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Push on to Argo Lake
We awoke to a cloudy morning, dawn breaking as early as 4 am up here! The nights are clear and cold, but the days warm up nicely. We rolled out of our tents at 8 am for breakfast of bacon and rice pilaf left over from last night. Unfortunately we threw out the eggbeaters before leaving Crane Lake because we were told that Canadian Customs would confiscate them anyway. Don't worry though, nobody would starve on this trip! We took our time hanging out and packing up, leaving camp around 11:20. Our first stop would be Curtain Falls and the Curtain Falls portage, but first we canoed around a large island to check out campsites there for future reference. The island, and the Curtain Falls portage, are actually on the U.S. side of the border. Mark Zup suggested we not canoe up towards the falls to the canoe landing there, but instead disembark around the corner in quieter waters. It added 20 rods to the 120 rod Curtain Falls portage, but it would be free of any water flow that might tip us with our full loads.
The portage was uphill most of the way because we were going up to the falls, which was in earshot for the entire length of the portage. Towards the end the trees opened up to the glory of Curtain Falls itself and expansive views of Crooked Lake. On each trip we would pause at this point to gawk for a minute before continuing on another 5-10 rods to a large flat rock outcropping with calm waters away from the falls. With Gary's instability, we made sure he took it easy, and by taking 3 trips nobody had to overburden themselves. Actually, this was a pretty nice portage as these things go - nice and wide, with hardly any obstacles to trip us up.
Once done portaging, we plopped down at the falls for lunch of sausage (aka, "horse c*ck"), hard cheeses (aka "clog ass"), and crackers. While eating, another group came portaging through, going the same direction we were. They told us they had a lot of gear though, so they would stay out of our way as we launched from the rocky put in. Gary recognized the group leader as a well-known BWCA trip leader and outdoor writer, Stu Osthoff. Gary had consulted with him a few times, and traveled once with him as well. Stu is a no-nonsense canoer and trip leader, and can't understand why people wear those stupid hiking pants with all those dumb pockets. Stu swears by his jeans. We were sure to hide our legs from sight as Stu portaged by each time.
By this time the skies had cleared, and the falls were beautiful (and loud!). After lunch we loaded up the canoes and pushed off across Crooked Lake about 2:30 pm. We headed mainly east, following the northern shoreline for about an hour in search of the inlet for the portage from Crooked up into Argo Lake.
Along the way Gary spotted a sandy beach tucked away in a deep bay, and swung in to check it out while we continued on. Gary could easily outpaddle us in his single canoe, and he never took long to catch up when he ventured off. Also, he was easy to spot because a) his solo canoe was bright yellow, b) Gary festoons himself with neon shirts and headbands, and c) sticking up in the back of his canoe was a bright red fishing rod bag! Each canoe had maps and compasses, and Gary and I each had GPS units that worked really well. I really loved looking at our location on my GPS, much to Jeff's chagrin. The poor sop was left to paddle solo while I took my time getting a bearing on our next destination. "Kevin, you can paddle now" was a common utterance from my sternman, while at the same time from across the lake came the constant cry from Joe, "Hey! How much farther??"
We found the inlet, unloaded, and started portaging about 4 pm. This was definitely the hardest (and longest) portage of the 3 we had done so far: 160 rods starting in mud for a few rods, then the first 3/4 was a never-ending uphill grind, peaking at what I called "Pinnacle Rock", a slippery ridge of rock about 5 feet high that was nearly impossible to climb up and over without unloading, working your load and yourself over, and loading up again on the other side. Others proffered more graphic names for this obstacle. Along the way we encountered wolf scat and moose tracks in the mud. The last 1/4 of the portage was a steep, somewhat dangerous downhill to the end, but what a glorious end it was - Argo Lake! You could only see a small section of it from the put-in site, but what we saw was beautiful.
After portaging everything across, we dropped down for a much needed rest, cracked a beer, and broke out some snacks. As bad as the portages had been, the temps were nice and cool, there were no bugs, so we really couldn't complain. We imagined these portages in the heat of the summer, with the bugs and intermittent rain/mud to deal with. The bandits were lucky to count a real life weather shaman amongst their party.
Knowing we still had some paddling to do to find a campsite on Argo, we pushed off about 6:30 to check out some highly rated campsites that were located near the middle of the lake. Argo is quite large, with many islands, inlets, bays, and peninsulas of land. Some consider Argo the gem of Quetico, and we were there! After breaking out into the larger lake, we followed the shoreline of a couple islands in search of their desirable campsites. The first we encountered looked to have an OK landing, but the campsite was up a steep hill with what looked like excellent views in all directions. Gary stopped to check it out while we paddled on to another campsite on a nearby island only a couple hundred yards away. This site was glorious, with multiple flat, rocky landing spots, good protection with trees, and plenty of tent pads strewn around a big open interior that also sported a big firepit and benches. Sweeeeet! Gary came by and tried to convince us that the other site was MORE glorious than this one, that once you got to the top of the hill you could see forever in all directions. How do we decide? Our reply: "Well, we're all here now." And that was that.
We pulled our canoes out, unloaded, and quickly set up camp. By this time the wind had picked up from the east, and while the site was mostly protected, the firepit and seating area were somewhat exposed. But the views of the rising full moon over Argo, and the growing twilight from that location were simply incredible. And we were staying here for two nights! We got the normal camp stuff going (like water and alcohol), and broke out our food and Backwoods cigars. Tonight's dinner would be cooked pork chops, cold but still tender. They were soooo good, almost like thick pieces of ham on bone! Perfect to have with the bandit favorite Garlic Mashed Potatoes!
We were all tired and sore, but we also knew that we were "out there". Once we hit Argo, we never saw another soul any where on the lake. It seemed we had paradise to ourselves! Tomorrow would be our first fishing day, but tonight we ate, drank, smoked and laughed ourselves to bed. But really now, that pretty much describes every night with the Bandits.
The portage was uphill most of the way because we were going up to the falls, which was in earshot for the entire length of the portage. Towards the end the trees opened up to the glory of Curtain Falls itself and expansive views of Crooked Lake. On each trip we would pause at this point to gawk for a minute before continuing on another 5-10 rods to a large flat rock outcropping with calm waters away from the falls. With Gary's instability, we made sure he took it easy, and by taking 3 trips nobody had to overburden themselves. Actually, this was a pretty nice portage as these things go - nice and wide, with hardly any obstacles to trip us up.
Once done portaging, we plopped down at the falls for lunch of sausage (aka, "horse c*ck"), hard cheeses (aka "clog ass"), and crackers. While eating, another group came portaging through, going the same direction we were. They told us they had a lot of gear though, so they would stay out of our way as we launched from the rocky put in. Gary recognized the group leader as a well-known BWCA trip leader and outdoor writer, Stu Osthoff. Gary had consulted with him a few times, and traveled once with him as well. Stu is a no-nonsense canoer and trip leader, and can't understand why people wear those stupid hiking pants with all those dumb pockets. Stu swears by his jeans. We were sure to hide our legs from sight as Stu portaged by each time.
By this time the skies had cleared, and the falls were beautiful (and loud!). After lunch we loaded up the canoes and pushed off across Crooked Lake about 2:30 pm. We headed mainly east, following the northern shoreline for about an hour in search of the inlet for the portage from Crooked up into Argo Lake.
Along the way Gary spotted a sandy beach tucked away in a deep bay, and swung in to check it out while we continued on. Gary could easily outpaddle us in his single canoe, and he never took long to catch up when he ventured off. Also, he was easy to spot because a) his solo canoe was bright yellow, b) Gary festoons himself with neon shirts and headbands, and c) sticking up in the back of his canoe was a bright red fishing rod bag! Each canoe had maps and compasses, and Gary and I each had GPS units that worked really well. I really loved looking at our location on my GPS, much to Jeff's chagrin. The poor sop was left to paddle solo while I took my time getting a bearing on our next destination. "Kevin, you can paddle now" was a common utterance from my sternman, while at the same time from across the lake came the constant cry from Joe, "Hey! How much farther??"
We found the inlet, unloaded, and started portaging about 4 pm. This was definitely the hardest (and longest) portage of the 3 we had done so far: 160 rods starting in mud for a few rods, then the first 3/4 was a never-ending uphill grind, peaking at what I called "Pinnacle Rock", a slippery ridge of rock about 5 feet high that was nearly impossible to climb up and over without unloading, working your load and yourself over, and loading up again on the other side. Others proffered more graphic names for this obstacle. Along the way we encountered wolf scat and moose tracks in the mud. The last 1/4 of the portage was a steep, somewhat dangerous downhill to the end, but what a glorious end it was - Argo Lake! You could only see a small section of it from the put-in site, but what we saw was beautiful.
After portaging everything across, we dropped down for a much needed rest, cracked a beer, and broke out some snacks. As bad as the portages had been, the temps were nice and cool, there were no bugs, so we really couldn't complain. We imagined these portages in the heat of the summer, with the bugs and intermittent rain/mud to deal with. The bandits were lucky to count a real life weather shaman amongst their party.
Knowing we still had some paddling to do to find a campsite on Argo, we pushed off about 6:30 to check out some highly rated campsites that were located near the middle of the lake. Argo is quite large, with many islands, inlets, bays, and peninsulas of land. Some consider Argo the gem of Quetico, and we were there! After breaking out into the larger lake, we followed the shoreline of a couple islands in search of their desirable campsites. The first we encountered looked to have an OK landing, but the campsite was up a steep hill with what looked like excellent views in all directions. Gary stopped to check it out while we paddled on to another campsite on a nearby island only a couple hundred yards away. This site was glorious, with multiple flat, rocky landing spots, good protection with trees, and plenty of tent pads strewn around a big open interior that also sported a big firepit and benches. Sweeeeet! Gary came by and tried to convince us that the other site was MORE glorious than this one, that once you got to the top of the hill you could see forever in all directions. How do we decide? Our reply: "Well, we're all here now." And that was that.
We pulled our canoes out, unloaded, and quickly set up camp. By this time the wind had picked up from the east, and while the site was mostly protected, the firepit and seating area were somewhat exposed. But the views of the rising full moon over Argo, and the growing twilight from that location were simply incredible. And we were staying here for two nights! We got the normal camp stuff going (like water and alcohol), and broke out our food and Backwoods cigars. Tonight's dinner would be cooked pork chops, cold but still tender. They were soooo good, almost like thick pieces of ham on bone! Perfect to have with the bandit favorite Garlic Mashed Potatoes!
We were all tired and sore, but we also knew that we were "out there". Once we hit Argo, we never saw another soul any where on the lake. It seemed we had paradise to ourselves! Tomorrow would be our first fishing day, but tonight we ate, drank, smoked and laughed ourselves to bed. But really now, that pretty much describes every night with the Bandits.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Journey into Quetico
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...
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...
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