A white-tail doe, and her fawn, were standing in the shallows with hopeful expressions. As the canoe slowly began to drift backwards, the deer plunged into the lake, and swam strongly across our bow, to the opposite side of the channel. Wading ashore, they shook themselves vigorously, then vanished into the forest. Allison, who loves every sighting of wildlife, was enthralled. She would have more than her fill on this trip. . .
We'd left from the Portage Store on Canoe Lake, the jump-off point for most canoe trips into Algonquin Park. We have our own Chestnut canoe, a wide fifteen-foot model from a famous Canadian company. Our well-stuffed canoe packs drop easily into it, making it even more stable in crosswinds. Most travellers, however, rent from the Portage Store's extensive inventory.
As usual, Allison couldn't even lift a canoe pack. However, after I'd placed it on her shoulders, and the straps were tight, she leaned into the tumpline across her forehead, and happily headed up the trail. My diminutive bride can carry almost her own weight, using a tumpline. . . clever, those coureur du bois. I portage the canoe, using a carved yoke that makes the job more comfortable. More casual trippers employ a paddle lashed crossway on the canoe's balance point, with a lifejacket for padding. On the second trip, Al takes our paddles and the camera gear, and I pick up the second canoe pack.
We'd come up Canoe Lake following the compass bearings laid out on a topographical map, to ensure we'd find the portage easily. Islands and mainland blend into a wide green line from offshore, and you can't tell where you are.
The "Canoe Routes" map, published by The Friends of Algonquin Park, is too large in scale to use for navigation. We prefer the Ontario topo maps, issued by the provincial government.
For each trip, we sit down in advance and lay out our route, with compass bearings. While enroute, the stern paddler sits with the map close at hand, and one eye on the "artillery compass", which rests on a canoe pack. This is a compass where the scale moves under a hairline, reflecting the magnetic bearing toward which the canoe points. Could centuries of marine navigators be wrong? We'd long ago discovered that the other style of compass, where an arrow moves around a scale, was useless for our purposes.
There are two Algonquin parks. The first is the "Frank MacDougall Parkway Corridor", a 56 kilometer strip along Highway 60, that separates the small southern leg of the Park from the huge remainder. The Corridor features organised campgrounds, short hiking trails, and two excellent commercial lodges. In the summer, it also features heavy traffic, poor fishing, and picnic sites with lineups and parking problems.
In the autumn, this is where we concentrate our hiking and photographic forays.
Two portages away lies the other Algonquin park, without outboard motors, camping trailers, rock music, or cars. Only canoe trippers and stalwart backpackers can access the park's interior. Several thousand kilometers of canoe routes are described in a map called "Canoe Routes of Algonquin Park", with portages and historical notes, interior campsites and all 29 access points, laid out at a scale of 2 miles to the inch.
Our packs are stuffed with food that doesn't need refrigeration - beef jerky, rice, tea, jam, cheese, bread, and dried soups. We carry nothing in cans or bottles, as non-burnable containers are prohibited. Besides, they weigh too much. We use water from the lakes, which we treat with halazone tablets. Park information suggests boiling your water, but we've never had any problems.
The first thing unpacked upon arrival at camp is the food rucksack, and a coil of rope. We choose two trees about twenty feet apart, and tie a line between them, fifteen feet high. A second line is tossed over this 'bridge', and our food is hoisted up, out of reach of black bears and raccoons. As long as we remember not to place food, toothpaste, or candy in the tent, we should have no unwelcome visitors at night.
Lazy days are spent making camp and breaking camp, exploring, swimming and fishing, and loafing. Dawn finds us out on the lake, the mist rising off the water, the whistle of loon wings overhead. By sunset we've cleaned up after supper, and the camera is ready for the day's red finale. By dark the fire is dowsed, and we're in bed, the mosquitoes whining outside the tent.
From these canoe trips we bring home cherished memories:A small chipmunk has made off with one of our metal dishes, containing an irresistible residue of pancake and maple syrup. This determined creature will now spend a frustrating half hour, while we watch in glee, trying to fit this ten-inch plate down his three-inch hole, under a stump. Walt Disney would love it.
After a long hike, we return to camp, triumphantly bearing a large plastic bag full of raspberries. While I build up the fire and assemble our reflecting oven, Alison mixes up some dough. When I turn from my chores, my inventive bride is busy rolling out a pie crust, using a flat stump for a table, and a large coffee mug for a rolling pin.
On all our canoe trips, we only ever pack one roll of paper towelling, an essential item. Long before the word"recycle" had been coined, Allison had learned to carefully flatten all wet clean towels that we used, to be dried by the fire. Even after a week's camping, we would never run out of towel.
On the last day of this trip, Allison awakens to nature's call, shortly after dawn. Rounding the outhouse from one side, she encounters a small black bear, who was approaching from the other. Both parties now give vent to exclamations of surprise, and gallop off in opposite directions.
"There's a bear in the camp!" I am advised, as a small shape whizzes by our tent. Allison ends up treading water in the lake, while an intrigued bear watches from the near shore.
"Mike, do something!" she implores me.
"I am!" I reply in frustration. "I'm looking for the camera!"
RELATED GORP LINKS
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