Now in the early morning, the canoe traveler moves quickly on the water. Here at last the canoe can glide with each stroke, can respond to each twist and nudge of the paddle. The wind blows gently now, but the battle in the sky above is not yet decided and dark clouds fight with the morning sun. There's a point of land ahead, a last stop before the bay opens into big Eagle Lake. Here the traveler stops, carefully pulling the canoe to high ground before climbing the sloping granite shore. 

There's a fire ring here, long unused. People have been here before. Some came only to live for a few years, to hunt, to gather rice in the channels to the east. Others came later, searching for furs, stopping to look for a slight dip in the tree line, a stream into the lake where beaver might lodge. There may have been prospectors, for not far to the north gold lies buried here and there in the hard rock. Still others came to test their skill in finding and catching the powerful jack fish, or the pickerel that appear and vanish, delighting and confounding the best of fishermen. 

Trees and brush cover the western shore of the point and the canoe traveler pushes his way through, stepping carefully on the moss covered rock. As the trees part, his eyes are filled by the wide waters of Eagle Lake. The lake catches the color of an open patch of sky and the water reflects a deep indigo blue. Sunlight stabs down through cracks in the dark clouds, lighting up the distant forest in dazzling patches that move slowly across the land. The wind blows, and the smell of pine and pure water and cool moss covered earth fills his senses. He sits on the rocky shore, his eyes never leaving the vista before him. All thought of the day before, all plans for the day ahead, all time is suspended as he sees and feels the land.  

Thoughts come and go as the canoe traveler sits, but mostly he thinks not at all, and this is why he's traveled so far to be here. The distant forest shore, the horizon untouched by the hand of man, the pure indigo waters, the wind that whistles through pine and rustles through birch, the sky of rain giving clouds, of life giving sun, the flow of time that brings these things forward, then takes them away - all are known by that part of man that knows without thought what is good. The canoe traveler sits, eyes wide, and feels the good land. 

After a time, thought returns. "Where is the headland that leads to the western channel? Will wind and rain be my day, or will the sun push through?" The canoe traveler looks at his maps, lining up and interpreting the artificial world on paper. The moment in time is past. There will be another, perhaps soon, for Woodland Caribou Park is full of such places and moments. The canoe traveler knows this, and is driven to go forward, to cross the waters and walk the portages, to see what lies beyond, to relish the next morning, or suffer the hardships that bring clarity to his vision.