Middle of Somewhere: Quetico 2005 Journal

The Legend of Kashipiwi

Trip log of Damien “Gravel Pit” Geoffrion
Quetico Provincial Park, June 2005


First camp, Day 1:
Dell Lake, after two rugged and thankfully short portages. 76 rods of rock and pudding, easy. (One rod = 32 feet. The portages are measured in rods, according to the methods of the early Voyageurs, Lewis and Clark and their contemporaries.) The mosquitoes are bad, but we still smell nice on day 1. I anticipate my internal repellent systems will kick in soon. Must eat more garlic.

Should have been here sooner, should have been farther in tonight, The Quetico had other plans for us. We aimed for Kashipiwi tonight, but found no portage off Shady. Two or more hours lost for search and backtracking. Camp here on Dell is a nice spot. For dinner, grilled cheese with a fine stinky Dubliner cheddar, tomato soup. I am glad for the spork. Laying in my tent, I don’t sleep until near first light, just listening to the deep woods. The distant lightning, showing for a few hours over the horizon, finally closed in from the south under a heavy cloud mass. Moments before the wrath of the storm hit I saw a strange light weave through the trees along the edge of our camp, looking every bit the part of a lantern carried by an unseen hand. No explanation.


Day 2 (6/27/2005):
First on the agenda today was clearing up the confusion of day 1, so we groused out the portage from Dell Lake back to Shady Lake. It was spotted with relative ease from the Dell side, pointing suspicion for the previous day’s foundering at malicious deadfall and bleached shore stones obscuring the way. On with the planned route we intend to portage from Dell Lake to Grey Lake. The Quetico troubles us again however, as somehow we run the Dell-Shady portage a second time by accident. It is almost baffling and several moments are lost wondering how in the hell we could screw this up. Apparently it is very easy, but we blame the trickery of these woods. We finally find our path; It was an uninviting bog that had to be crossed, 55 rods mucking between two impressive bluffs wrapped in tattered sheets of lichen. We finally made Grey Lake. Lunch of PB&J in tortillas, pistachios and Electrolyte powder, the last of which displeases Dances With Trees. The banquet table is an exposed slab of Canadian Shield, cracked and split and looking about as exhausted as the four of us. Portage Brutality. I feel a lot better after much needed protein and a dash of shade and shut eye. The bugs are mild as the sun is high and the wind is strong.

We paddle on to the next portage, 115 rods to Yum-Yum Lake. A very pretty lake, with 100 foot cliffs straight to the water’s edge, coated in brittle, flaking lichen. We were greeted by waving white caps and a head wind as we dug in and crossed the mile or so diagonal. The lee side of Yum-Yum Lake was a bit easier going. We close in on the last portage for the day, the way to Kashipiwi Lake. It is 280 rods, crossing the gamut of our civilized descriptions of life and occurrence in the portage community. That is to say, you had to be there. Roughly defined; much of this leg was passed staring at my own bog-blasted feet as they heaved me up and forward, under the rude beam of the pig boat Sawyer. Before long I saw the tracks of a very large cat, then moose scat, then crusty mats of what may have been wolf hair. Next, some unknown carnivore scat thick with hair and a few gnawed shirt buttons. Perhaps I imagined the buttons. My feet hurt. By now the trail has climbed a couple hundred feet up a steep and painful slope. Coming down again seems like a positive thing until the trail bogs out into muskeg again. Mmmm, muskeg. The air is still, stirred only by the wings of countless sinister insects, we are nowhere near any lake or stream. After twenty rods or so the soup gives way to another steep rise. High stepping up and over cracked stone slabs and ankle clutching roots, the goal is to find the path of grace and least resistance, the effort required to do so negating any profit over simply trying to keep my ass from tumbling into the curiously deep muck. Abu Patches and I double back for the last pack. One load too many. We announce our presence loudly, wary of the uninvited large mammal encounter. Seems like a good idea. This was a murderous portage, on a good day.

Finally on Kashipiwi, we discover The Island only moments before a white squall sits down to thunder for a spell. Hard and fast, we’re all soaked through. The storm exhausts itself briefly, enough for us to set up shelter and the impostor of dry space, then it returns. The rain is softer now, but prepared to spend the night.


Day4 (6/29/2005)

Slacking off now in James’ red birthday hammock, I watch through binoculars as two We-no-nahs, followed later by a third, land seven men on shore across the lake. It is perhaps a mile away. Probably not at all near that, but everything is perhaps a mile away when you are in a hammock, on an island, here in this lake. A mile or a damn great deal more. The group has landed by the remains of the ranger station. Scant rumors of a foundation, footprints and mortar crumbs. Deliberately placed on a rock lay a rusted barrel hoop and a quart jar. Left by whom? What? Perhaps the cabin itself rose up from its foundation and walked right into the lake, leaving only these odd clues behind. Perhaps… The lid of the jar is rusted on with age, and through the glass can be seen an unidentifiable substance. Blue and white and crystalline, it reaches the 4oz graduation line, creeping further here and there. Water-Strider and I saw all of this yesterday. I wonder if the seven paddlers, miniature on the far shore, think this is the place to stay the night. If the wind drops at dusk I think we should be able to speak to them across the water. It is still early, maybe they’ve only stopped for second lunch.

30 minutes later;

Another We-no-nah and a tin boat have come down Kashipiwi from the north. The Turbo Beaver makes its third and closest pass, visible for a brief moment over the tree tops far to the Southeast. Yesterday, from the top of the old watchtower we could discern no other sign of human presence – save for the bright red hammock on the island, perhaps a mile away – only well aged forest and lakes like long black fingers reaching to the horizon. Today humanity abounds in relative terms, giving a little peace of mind after all.

Yesterday Water Strider and I could have come to serious harm in any number of fantastic ways with not a human soul in reach for all we knew. (Patches and Trees had taken a day trip of their own, and were long gone to parts unknown. ) Perhaps a sudden unexpected encounter with a large and incensed animal - four distinct species were likely in the area. A slip on moss while ascending a long and sketchy 5.7+ climb with no protection. Electrocution while standing atop the tallest object for a hundred miles or so, which happened to be made of metal. Well, we’re no fools. We take educated risks, we find great joy in this. Praise be to Turbo Beaver!

We had seen the watch tower from our island, rising through the trees on a bluff across the lake, too inviting to pass up. We paddled across the calm waters of Kashipiwi and began bush whacking up a cliff and through tick infested woods. Finally we arrived at the base of the structure. The ladder didn't start right away - we had to climb about twenty feet up the over-sized erector set and traverse a thin steel beam to reach the first rung - then it was another 80 feet or so to the top, where a rickety wooden platform gave us a hexagonal perch about six feet across. No railing, just a little deck, swaying in the wind, 100 feet above the forest floor. At the top we rested, and took it all in. Endless beautiful insolent wilderness. I plucked a couple bear ticks off my inner thighs and flicked them into space.

Returning to the lake, we found Abu, paddling solo. We spent some time fishing here, and had some small success. Too late in the day and too tired to clean the small mouth bass, we released it to continue the life of a fish. I hear tell of old sturgeon in the dark depths of these waters, dwelling in the cold and lonely heart of the ancient, submerged mountains. Great scaly beasts that may live more than a century. I'm glad we didn't catch one of them.

We returned to the island as dusk set in, passing two gorgeous loons on our way across Kashipiwi. Of a species old and mysterious, these birds own the Quetico shores and show little fear of our human intrusions, as if to tell us "We'll be here when you are gone." I hope that this is true. That night, just offshore from our little island, the loons sang wild songs into the small hours. I wish I knew what they sang about.


Day 5 (6/30/2005)
Today I am staying on the island with Dances With Trees. Across the water the landers are now entrenched under a long blue tarpauline. I wonder if they’ll hike to the tower, brave the climb up the swaying ladder, and find the note Water Strider and I left there.

(The rest of this journal was written in Chicago after the trip, as the final two days offered little time for reflection.)

Leaving the comforting hug of the birthday hammock that afternoon, I set to exploring the island. The area of it was roughly three acres. Our base camp was at the top of a long slow rise of roots and stone, a natural staircase with soil filled ledges between the roots. At the bottom of this seventy foot slope was the canoe garage, a perfect little bay some twelve by fifteen feet, sheltered on two sides by sloping granite slabs, shallowing to only a few inches depth and with a fine sand and gravel bottom. On the island side of this bay the root mass overhung the water’s edge, providing a pleasant and welcoming first step ashore. This Northwesterly slope was clear of any undergrowth, probably the result of centuries of use, from early Ojibwe and hearty Voyageurs, to us in our high tech sneakers and fragile skin. Only mighty tall white pines stood here now. We would stay for three nights – the island too fine a place to leave without good reason. Small island camping is the best, but never forget that bears swim well.

The south side of the island was easily reached by a wide path running parallel to the west bank. Here along the path was room for a few more tents. Sudden granite buttresses rose at the end of the path, forming a headwall that dropped instantly to deep dark water. Normally I would have hurled myself off the rock, but I was spooked by the ghostly white fingers of a giant drowned pine, reaching up from the dark abyss, failing to break the surface but for a few feet. The headwall broke from the water into a loosely terraced slope which was covered with dwarf blueberries, and little white flowers that kept the bumble bees busy. Dwarf blueberries? Maybe just normal, not the typical GM variety. I picked about a pint over the course of three hours – this early in the summer each bush could offer only a few fully ripe berries. Yet the most tempting berries dangled out of my reach, growing right off the vertical rock, fifteen feet above the water. I didn't feel like swimming - not today, so I gave up on the berry hunt.

While I was busy on the far side of the island, Dances With Trees spent the day alternating between the hammock and the fishing rod. Abu Patches and Water-Strider had left camp at first light with the intention of running a fifteen to twenty mile loop through the Quetico interior, thereby connecting with passages made in expeditions from seasons past. We expected their return around dinner. Around dinner, however, the weather turned foul and we eventually gave up on keeping a strong fire. We just tried to keep the red beans and rice warm for the return of our friends, and mulled over various contingencies. Soon the rain worsened, and a strong gale began to blow, causing three foot waves to rake from south to north up the length of Kashipiwi, in the direction from which we expected the boys to return. More time passed, and the wind began to howl in the tree tops. We could only hide in our tents, or stand in the dark and driving wet, waiting for some indiscernible sign that they were almost home. We nested our brightest lights in the rocks at the foot of the little bay, hoping to provide a target beacon but only illuminating a narrow patch of the tempest. Around 11pm I thought I heard a shout. And again. The wind? I looked at DWT - he heard it too. The wind was indeed howling, but a third time there it was - no words, just a gutteral call. We ran to the end of the litte bay and shone our lights into the dark rain. Finally I heard paddles striking the gunnels of a canoe, and then actual words. They cried, "Get that light out of my eyes!" I pointed the light towards the calamitous surface of the lake, and soon the kevlar bow of our We-no-nah came into the light, followed by the hunched form of Strider, and then Patches at the stern. The boat was half full of water, within a few minutes of being swamped by the waves. They struck shore and we pulled them out of the water. Later map consultation revealed that they had paddled over 40 miles in fifteen hours, with little more than a couple Cliff bars and a demonic will to fuel them onward. A man's a man, for all that.

A long and much needed night of rest, and we struck camp for the trip out. The weather had improved, slightly. With ambition driving our souls (and thoughts of pizza and beer in Ely, MN) we decided we would paddle out of the park that day. We knew the path, and we had strong motivation. As it happened, however, the weather was much stronger, and utterly indifferent in regards to the pizza and beer. We made it to the last big lake crossing and were greeted by a seething mile of white caps under a wicked headwind. We let the current bank us up on some barren split rocks among several small islets. Taking a break and looking for some moss to nap in, we kept a baleful eye on the water for signs of a clear crossing. The waves were just too big, the wind too strong. To capsize in these conditions surely would mean losing gear, swimming and drifting with the swamped canoe for a few miles until making some random and uninspired landfall, well off course. As if to prove the point we saw two tin boats, probably boy scouts, make a feeble attempt against the wind. Both were swamped within minutes. They barely managed to pull their boats and themselves ashore on a miserable little island half way between us and the far shore. We decided to camp on this dark little patch for the night.

The following day the wind had calmed sufficiently, and we set out for the last ten mile paddle to our first put-in. Nearly sprinting our final portage into Basswood lake, we were driven by a redoubled desire for civilization - showers, hotel beds, a hot tub, maybe seeing a pretty girl or two. We could not paddle hard enough across Basswood. The lenticular clouds looked just like pizzas, the lake itself began to smell like a fine sudsy Northwoods brew. Perhaps because this lake in particular allowed for motorized boat traffic, but whatever gave us that extra push. Finally the dock drew into sight, our arms and backs aching, our canoes driving nearly surfable wake behind us. Dry ground. My filthy SUV. A twenty hour drive to my future wife. Life was good. Our trip had come to an end.

Abu Patches: James Janega
Dances With Trees: Matt Cassidy
Water-Strider: Scott Steiner
Gravel Pit: Damien Geoffrion

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