Even though the days grow longer, we are still in the heart of winter. Thoughts of soft water, warm nights and new routes through the BWCA and Quetico increase as we draw closer. The mind travels, but unfortunately the body cannot follow, yet. At best we can relive old trips, and plan new ones. The best part about keeping a journal during Boundary Waters trips is enjoying them on cold January nights. Even entries involving driving rain and heavy winds entice when the thermometer drops below zero. Maybe some of my experiences will stir your imagination in planning this summers adventure...
Oct 8, 2012~Lonely Lake-Quetico Provincial Park
Considering the forecast rain, the tough days leading up to
now, and the desire to fish, we decide to make it a shorter day. Scripture Island on Sturgeon is our easily
attainable goal. We begin the day as we
have the past four, under decidedly complete gray skies. The map shows four portages between us and
Fred Lake. At this point in the life of
Cutty Creek, its waters are much diminished.
The first marked portage turns into two, and our ankles are put through
the rigors of traversing algae covered rocks of a drained narrows. The portage out of Nan Lake is there, but so
is an unmarked second portage, around a set of dry rapids. We portage four times, when expecting to
portage twice, it makes everyone angry.
The landings are littered with unstable rocks and muck warming the blood
even further. As we cross the second to
last “marked” portage Tori takes a spill and slams her knee cap into exposed
rock, and it starts raining. Tempers are
close to boiling over at this point. It
has been a slow and irritating start to the day. Standing on an expansive beach on the south
side of Fred Lake we celebrate our final release from the vexing grasp of Cutty
Creek. We can hardly anticipate the
trials still waiting for us. The
precipitation is in constant flux. One
moment it is barely noticeable, the next it drives into us, determined to soak
us to the bone. Our boats thread the
narrows between Fred and Heron Bay, and out into Sturgeon Lake proper. It is early in the day yet, and the rain
still ambivalent, so we decide to press on past Scripture Island. This means we have two more portages if we
want to camp on Lonely Lake. A downpour
ensues as we reach the first of two portages.
Again moods sour. After two short
steep climbs up to an unnamed creek we stop for lunch. Huddled under a clump of spruce trees we
enjoy peanut butter and Nutella tortillas.
Nobody says anything, were soaked.
Slick angled rocks invite us for a swim at the landing. We decide it better to load canoes and be on
our way. The half-way point of the creek
is blocked by a two foot high beaver dam.
I sigh as our canoe slams into it.
Tori hops out, I scramble over packs and we both lug the packed canoe up
and over, then Tori scrambles to the bow.
This is a skill we would continue to master throughout the coming weeks. As the canoe slides out into higher water I
jump in, and try giving us one more shove off.
My foot hunts for something solid, finding nothing it searches deeper,
then my knee starts looking. From the
depths my leg yells out, “Hey, I think that arm should help look, and send Tori
down here while you’re at it.” The canoe
lurches to the left; quickly we adjust and send it wobbling back to the right. Our gunnel kisses the rain pocked surface of
the creek, and for an instant I picture us floundering in the bottomless
squalid muck. As the canoe comes back
level Tori turns and offers a glare that threatens my manhood. All I offer in return is, “whoops.” Through pouring rain we press on, climb over
the last portage and start probing for someplace high and dry to lay our heads. We deem the first site unworthy, and head out
into the open part of the lake.
Considering the relentless rain, Lonely Lake is stunning. An ominous dark blue wall of clouds quickly
wheels up from the southwest and catches us off guard. Swiftly our tranquil (albeit wet) scene turns
to chaos. White caps materialize in
minutes and the rain becomes a torrent.
We need to find a site. Our two
diminutive boats move towards the north shore, where the Fisher map promises
campsites. Only one site is found. Closer scrutiny reveals it could not possibly
provide us with safe shelter. Most of
the already flooded site rests on a barren spit of Canadian Shield that juts
out into the whipping elements. It seems
like a nice summer spot. Everybody wants
to stop, but we can’t. The waves are
lumbering masses now, making the last mile of the day the most harrowing. We are relieved to find a tolerable spot on
the last point of the lake. If it had
not existed, our weary group would have been forced to press on into dimming
wilderness, attempting two more portages, a scary thought. Hastily we pitch camp in the unyielding
deluge. I plunge into the dripping
forest hoping for dry wood. My rain gear
had kept me mostly dry up to this point, but slogging through this water-park
proves to be their breaking point. Every
time I bump a tree it dumps gallons of water on me. By the time I return with a few scraps of
wood it looks as if I've been for a swim.
I’m soaked to the skin. The
previous occupants of this modest site were thoughtful enough to leave behind a
nice stack of wood under the bench next to the fire. With this mostly dry wood we light a fire and
start drying out, one layer at a time.
After finishing rice and beans with kielbasa, exhaustion hits us like a
wet wool blanket. The rain recedes
slightly as we unzip sleeping bags.
They’re the only dry place for miles.
