Les Misérables - Part 2
"Please see below for the final version of the trip report (Post #29)"
Waking early, I heard the steady drum of rain on my tarp. All night it had been the same, a steady light rain followed by the dripping of fat drops from the trees whenever there was a lull in the weather. I opened my eyes and saw the first glow of morning and was grateful that we had no plans to travel today. A wonderful rest day. After yesterday's early morning rise, the long drive to the Park and the even longer portage into Louisa, I gratefully closed my eyes, snuggled deeper into my quilts and snoozed for a few hours more. Only one thing broke my peaceful slumber: who was that watcher in the woods I had seen on the Rock/Louisa portage?
It was closer to nine when I eventually swung my legs out of my hammock, pulled on my boots and emerged from underneath my black tarp. The rain had eased off and Keewaykeno and Sknox were talking quietly by the firepit. Quiet's hammock hung out from below his tarp and still appeared to be weighed down by his slumbering mass. Branches, leaves and ground, everything was damp.
Coffee. I pulled out the orange mesh bag of my cook kit, a Toaks 1100ml titanium pot with bail inside of which was nested my beloved Bushbuddy. It's funny, since last winter I was sure that my stove had rolled underneath the railing of my arartment's balcony when a windstorm blew through Toronto in the spring. Amazingly, a few weeks before the trip, long after I had resigned myself to its loss, I was rummaging around my apartment and pulled out an old plastic toolbox from behind some boxes. Lo and behold my Bushbuddy was inside. How it got there I don't recall, but I assume that I was having an early senior's moment. No matter, I was elated! I gave it a good cleaning and packed it away properly.
Now back on Louisa I diligently prepared the kindling, from starter twigs to thumb-sized main fuel. I loaded the stove like a smoker loads his pipe and then set it ablaze, eagerly expecting to drink my first hot coffee within minutes. First wisps of smoke and then little flames began to lick the bottom of my pot and I confidently reached for a little pack of Via powdered coffee. I turned my attention to tearing the little pouch and carefully emptying it into my mug. That done and I turned back to find that flames had gone out and only a smoldering pile of twigs remained. I repeated the process two more times. Suffice to say that I worked for that coffee that morning. I'm certain making that coffee cost me was considerably more difficult than carrying it across the 3K portage. I looked down at my Bushbuddy in disappointment. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't her, that it was me, but we both knew it would have been a lie. How could I love something that was so dang high maintenance, an incessant struggle to keep shoving lumber into her hungry maw. Meanwhile the rest of the guys were happily warming up what seemed like gallons of hot water on their little isopro stoves. Of course they wouldn't openly laugh at my feeble attempts to boil water, but every time I turned my back I was sure I heard a snicker, sure that they were re-enacting the Zoolander gas station scene, but with boiling water in place of petrol. I'd show them. Half an hour later my first coffee was ready but tasted a bittersweet. I have to admit, my love affair with this short, stocky, little Bushbuddy was up against some stiff competition when I daydreamed about my tall, slim and sexy Kelly Kettle Trekker. Sure she only boils up two cups of water at a time, but she does it in a couple of minutes and who can resist those curves and that sweet little whistle. I digress. Coffee was fine.
Our second day passed too quickly. Casual banter was supplemented by constant snacking and a general good cheer. Quiet woke up a little while later and joined us under the tarps. The weather during the day was a light miserable. Winds whipped up whitecaps out on the lake and the intermitent rains kept us huddled under the tarps. In disgust I retreated to my hammock and napped for an hour or so. Keewaykeno, eager to make the best of the last day of trout season, cast furtively from shore but to no avail. I managed to do a little photography but misty shorelines are so passé.
Sure the weather could have been better. Sure it could have been warmer but appreciation for the good times only comes through experiencing the bad. All in all we just relaxed on our precious down day. On the positive side, we were waiting expectantly for the remaing two members of our little expedition.
Iguana had planned to join us back at the put-in the day before, but life, as is it's wont, got in the way. While I was still driving up to the Park, he updated me with his new plan was to paddle in Wednesday and join us on Louisa. The other missing member of our group was Jiblets. We knew that he was already in the Park, camping with family along the western borders. Like Iguana, he'd planned to join us on Wednesday, but all of the extra variables around his arrival made the mental game that much more delicious. When did he leave Ralph Bice? Was there a headwind? Based on our weather, that was probably a yes. Then he'd have to drive out and around to Rock. How long would that take? Would he come to Louisa or just go directly to Pen? Like a group of bushwise Sherlocks , we weighed all of the variables.As noon turned to late afternoon, we amused ourselves by playing our favorite game "If he had left at so and so time, he'd likely be arriving around so and so time". As the hours passed we continued to wait and revise the parameters of our little game with an eye down the lake for approaching canoes.
A little while before sunset we heard a call from the water. Unbeknownst to us, Iguana had paddled stealthly up on us. Few men can confidently paddle the north woods with a big hairy beast between his legs, but we're happy to say that Iguana is one of those. As he approached shore, his year and a half old purebred Australian shepherd "Charlie" jumped out from midships and began running around, first cautiously and then eagerly greeting everybody. After so many years of travelling without a dog in the group, Charlie was an absolute pleasure and became the centre of attention. Oh yeah, it was nice to see Iguana, bringer of dog.
Now, including Charlie, we were six.
As darkness fell, we began to wonder whether Jiblets would be able to make it all the way out after all. Would he wait until tomorrow? Had he pulled off and set up camp along the way? Had he deceided to go directly on to Pen and skip the loop althogether? We pessimestically performed our mental calculations knowing full well that there was one parameter that was impossible to quantify: The Jiblets Factor.
Understand that Jiblets is a man of focus, commitment, sheer will. I once saw him cook three sausages over a fire with a skewer, a frick'n skewer.
It was well after dark and everyone was beginning to think about turning in for the night. Iguana shot a glance back down Louisa and noticed a flashing light making its way towards us. Soon a dazzling array of headlamps shone back, guiding the errant traveller ashore. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Jiblets coasted nonchalantly into view, as if paddling and portaging in the dead of night was as commonplace as running down to the cornerstore for a can of soda.
Baggage was quickly hoisted up onto land and greetings were exchanged. Once onshore, Jiblets set about preparing his hammock and tarp. We made some jokes about how his arrival was such an inconvenience, interupting our plans for turning in and how now we'd be forced to spend extra time around the fire entertaining our recent arrival. With a laugh Jiblets explained how his brother had had car trouble leaving the Magnetewan Access Point and that he hadn't been able to launch into Rock Lake until the sun was low on the horizon. After a hurried paddle to the portage, he had loaded up all of his worldly possessions; his backpack, his trademark assortment of supplemental nylon bags, flipped his carbon fibre canoe onto his shoulders and then plunged down the now dark three kilometer forest trail guided only by the narrow beam of his headlamp. For Jiblets, it's single carry or bust! How he didn't slip and break a leg on the now wet leaves and roots, I'll never know. Someone must have been watching over him. Once on the other side of the portage, it was a simple matter to paddling along the north shore until he found us.
Now we were seven.
End of Day 2
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