Road Trip To the Boundary Waters (17)
Quetico Provincial Park
This canoe trip was to be quite unlike my last, because Justin was bringing all the necessary gear. No outfitting required, except for the canoe. Justin had considerable experience canoeing in this area. He had just completed a trip with his son a few days prior, then driven back to his home in Champagne-Urbana—a ten-hour drive—and after a short turnaround, planned to return to Winton to meet me for our outing. I hadn’t fully realized how close together Justin’s two canoe trips were, and the inconvenience that it posed for him, not least the back-and-forth travel. In retrospect, I should have detoured off my route to Winton, met up with Justin in Champagne-Urbana, then driven to and from Winton with him, if only to provide him some company on those long drives.
I arrived at Packsack Outfitters around 6:00 p.m., Justin wouldn’t arrive until after midnight. I knew, though, they he had secured a reservation for the night. I just needed to identify the location of the beds. But here was nobody in the office area, nor in the large outfitting area. I walked around the outside area and could see a group of people eating down by the lake, obviously the owners and employees. Instead of interrupting their meal I went back inside to look more carefully and noticed a hand-written sign directing me up the wooden staircase, the walls around which were covered with miniature wooden paddles with the names of former guests and their testimonials. A lot of them were from Boy Scout troops, which I didn’t find endearing. There were rooms on either side of the landing, the one on the left was to be ours. It was essentially a bunkhouse equipped with two bunk beds, minimally cushioned, one chair, and one side table near the only electrical outlet. The communal shower and toilets were downstairs, as was the kitchen.
I used the deck adjacent to the room to eat a makeshift dinner from what food remained in my car. The meal sucked but the view of Fall Lake was pleasant. A bald eagle flew over, which also enhanced my mood. The temperature was ideal, with just enough breeze to gently ripple the water surface. I could hear snatches of conversations about fishing coming from below.
I was tired and was early to bed, but before I fell asleep the wind increased. I was awakened by rattling windows and high-pitched howls of wind, which didn’t bode well for our first day out. By morning, though, the winds had auspiciously calmed. I hadn’t noticed Justin’s arrival so I must have slept well. He was already up before me and had begun to offload gear from his SUV. It was good to see Justin, but we didn’t have much time to catch up before our car shuttle to the departure point on Moose Lake.
We were shuttled to our departure point on Moose Lake by an unfriendly middle-aged guy, the drive longer than I had expected. Justin had also arranged a boat shuttle, across Moose Lake. From where we landed there was a short Portage across the border to the Canadian side, where there was a Ranger Station that also functioned as a Port of Entry for Passport Inspection. The Canadian Ranger there was the first logistics-related individual I had come across to that point who was at all engaging. Everyone on the American side had been impatient and sullen.
The Canadian Ranger was the antithesis of impatience. Pleasant and methodical. Even his speech was unhurried. There are strict limits as to how many people were allowed at the various destinations from this point of entry (Prairie Portage) to Quetico Provincial Park, two parties per lake it seemed. Justin had planned a trip to an area for which that quota was already filled, but the ranger reserved for us another area with which Justin was seemingly familiar. In any case, he had brought with him a good map.
The weather was perfect, mostly clear skies and little wind when we shoved off. The temperature was warmer than I expected, so I shed a couple of layers and packed them. The land/water/sky scape was enchanting to the point that I often forgot to paddle. For me this was also an exotic environment, more so than Hawaii or other tropical islands. The rocky, highly convoluted shorelines, forests--including the many forested islands--somewhat resembled the Maine coast, but being on the water, rocks and forests on all sides, it felt more immersive. This is a special part of the world, and I felt privileged to re-experience it.
The friendly Canadian ranger had warned us that rain was coming and with it, wind. Though things were placid when we embarked, it wasn’t long before the winds picked up and the skies became more steely than blue. If we stayed reasonably near a shoreline the winds weren’t a problem, but I had to help Justin out more in propelling us forward.
The goal was to get to our camping destination before it rained. We arrived at our first portage with a modest sense of urgency. It was then that I realized I had made a serious miscalculation as to footwear. At the last minute I had opted to leave my hiking boots behind. That was the first mistake. The second mistake was leaving my sketchers behind as well. Instead, I had brought with me only the water shoes I use to cross rivers in the high country, because they are quick drying. There are many kinds of water shoes, I use those that weigh the least, which is appropriate for backpacking. Water shoes of that sort have minimal soles, just enough for traction. You can feel every marble sized rock you walk on, which is good for river crossings where substrate sensitivity is of the essence. But sole-less-ness is not so good for walking any distance on land.
I can’t account for my thinking. But I suffered for that mistake. It made portaging painful. Also, precarious, in that water socks not only don’t cushion the feet, they also don’t stabilize the ankles. Since a severe ankle sprain as an undergraduate, I am prone to roll my right ankle, so I had to be extremely careful when walking over any uneven surface. Water shoes of the sort appropriate for backpacking are unsuited for almost anything else.
The first portage, which turned out to be the longest, was moderately sloped and rocky in places. It was something of a trial for me, in large part because of my footwear. Justin, sensitive to my age and wobbliness, took upon himself the lion’s share of the equipment transport to the next lake, starting with the canoe itself.
I believe that the lake at which the first portage ended is called Sunday Lake, which was longer than it was wide. The first section we paddled was narrow and we were protected from the winds thereby. We had decided on an island campsite that was more out in the open water but the winds were still not a problem. When we neared the island, we scouted the shoreline perimeter and could see a couple of nice campsites with rock encircled spots for campfires. And they were stocked with firewood! We chose the one we thought easiest to land near, that is, the least perilous for exiting the canoe and offloading the gear.
We found a relatively flat place to pitch the tent downslope of the campfire. Equally important there was space enough to hang a large tarp to protect our gear from the rain, which was imminent. Justin was efficient in tent pitching and tarp hanging routines and he was clearly inclined to both, as he seemed to have a system. My role was completely accessory, wrap a rope around a tree, pull the base of the tent taut, and such like. Justin also took it upon himself to hang the food beyond the reach of any black bear.
Justin’s knot skills in hanging the tarp and food were impressive. He tried to teach me the cool knots he used. But like my dad and the Boy Scout leaders who had tried to teach me knots before, my brain went into a mode much like that of the dog in The Simpson’s. It was completely lost on me. (I never earned the knot merit badge in Boy Scouts, but then I never earned a single merit badge of any kind in that fateful year, a distinction for which I am perversely proud.)
In my defense, for most of the places I have camped in the backcountry for the last four decades, hanging food is like pissing in the wind with respect to bear-proofness. Black bear culture in the west, beginning in California, has long made it so. Black bears can climb trees. And for branches or ropes that cannot bear the weight of an adult bear, the cubs do the work. Those cubs in turn grow up to be adults that teach their cubs the same skills, and so on, for generations. Ergo food lockers—not inside the automobile if you want to avoid broken windows and other damage-- for car camping, and bear proof cannisters for the backcountry.
You absolutely must carry bear-proof food containers in the backcountry. It has long been required to obtain a backcountry permit in the west and trending that way in the east. I was among the first to adopt the practice because of an experience in Denali, National Park, Alaska in 1984. With my backcountry permit the ranger handed me a hefty black cylinder and indicated that all my food—and any other substance with an odor, such as toothpaste--was to be stashed within the cannister and never brought near the tent. It was evidently a new practice designed to maintain Denali’s then clean slate with respect to bear related deaths. (Sadly, a friend of Justin’s was one of the first killed by a bear in Denali, a few years later.)
I couldn’t help but notice the tooth and claw marks covering the container, mementos of frustrated grizzlies. The ranger told me to place the container at least 50 yards from my tent. I doubled that just to be on the safe side. The downside of my strategy was that the grizzlies, then still not convinced of bear-proofness, invariably swatted that container around in frustration so that it never ended up anywhere near where I thought I placed it the night before. I had to factor in time each morning to find my food.
Knot challenged, then as now, I found the concept of bear proof food cannisters quite attractive. Before I left Denali, I asked a ranger about the source of theirs, then an experimental proof of concept. The creator, Garcia Manufacturing LLC, was in Visalia CA, not far from where my parents lived. I called them, to their surprise, and asked if I could purchase one. I was told that theretofore they had only been sent to Denali and a couple of other parks in Alaska, but they would be happy to send me one. It had the number 440 etched by hand on the underside of the lid, indicating, I assume that it was the 440th unit they manufactured. (I keep it as a memento but haven’t used it for a long time, as the technology has advanced considerably since then, not least in weight reduction.) I have never gone backcountry camping without one since. So, my knot block was never a problem thereafter. (BTW Garcia is still in the business of making what are now known as bear vaults. You can purchase one at REI)
I’m a minimalist when it comes to tents, Justin was clearly a maximalist. This was the largest tent I have ever camped in, the first in which it was possible for me to almost stand. Though it hadn’t yet started to rain, Justin secured the rain fly such that it would be easy to pull over the tent if needed. I would have been more comfortable, from long experience with tents in the rain, had the rain fly been fully staked, creating space between the fly and the tent, but Justin seemed confident that it wouldn’t be necessary. A rainfly lying directly on the tent was sufficient in his mind, if it was required at all. As it turned out, the rain fly was required.