Ontario's Woodland Caribou Provincial Park - A Different World for Canoe Travelers

The Story of a Solo Canoe Trip Through Ontario's Woodland Caribou Provincial Park
By James Hegyi

CHAPTER 3
Into The Storm

I'm up early, and the skies are clear! What a difference good weather makes on my motivation to get going. There's a long portage ahead, almost one and a half kilometer. I'm not looking forward to it, but it can't be any worse than the portages behind me. As expected, I start in a bog, but then the land rises, and the going is not bad. I don't realize how much the soggy land affected me until I come upon a small stand of poplar trees. The small change in color, the newness of this area makes me feel suddenly better, like walking out of a dark cave into light.

Farther along there's swamp, but the park portage crew created a log "road" that makes it easy to cross. I'm taken by surprise when the swamp ends and I'm suddenly in mature unburned forest! What a change! What a delight! I find a clear spot and dump my pack, then go back for my canoe.

Just two minutes walk past my pack, the portage ends at a wide, sandy beach. A vista of big water, framed by mature forest, untouched by the fire, brings a smile of relief to my face. I can't resist jumping in for a swim. I change clothes, and rinse the swamp out of my shirt and shoes, then push off into Knox lake. It's time to enjoy myself, so my fishing rod gets threaded and the leeches I've dragged over all of the portages are put to use. After about an hour, I've caught a walleye and a northern, but they're too small to keep.

Overhead, a plane appears and circles, checking the lake for floating logs before committing to a landing. The plane lands and I watch it pull up to a point a few kilometers to the northwest. My route takes me past the point, and I say hello to two men fishing just off of a small pier. There's a cabin here, one of several cabins I will encounter on the larger lakes in the park. Woodland Caribou only became a park in 1985, and there were many fly in cabins and lodges already in place at that time. No further development is allowed in the park, and some of the cabins will be removed in the year 2010.

"How about a walleye for lunch?" asks the gray-headed fisherman at the stern of the boat.

He puts his line down and a few seconds later pulls out a nice size walleye. Evidently this is the spot! I quickly dig out my stringer and pass it over.

"Thanks! I've been eating stew and macaroni for the past few days. I'll save this for supper." The stringer gets tied to a thwart and the walleye gets dropped back into the water. My provider is from Pipestone, Minnesota. He's curious about how I reached Knox Lake. I explain the portages from Red Lake, and how he can get a map from the Ministry of Natural Resources. He tells me about the flight up, how it only took a few hours, how the plane is a fast turbo-prop model. Quite a different trip than the one that brought me here.

I've found that many of the people that fly-in seem to believe that these lakes are accessible only by plane. It apparently hasn't occurred to some of them that a person could move through the forest, portaging from lake to lake. Some of the people know of the portages and talked as though they traveled through them when they were younger, but these people seem to be the exception.

It's still pretty early, so I point my bow north to the short stream that connects Knox Lake to Murdock Lake. I pull the canoe over a beaver dam and start the first portage. Claire Quenzence, the assistant park supervisor, wrote a portage report that came in my map package, and she warned that the next portage starts on a steep, muddy landing near the top of a falls. I don't know how fast the water will be, so I bring a rock into the canoe, and make an anchor, just in case. There's a small ripple to steer through, and a short paddle through a quiet, winding channel. The problem landing is just ahead. My rock anchor goes over the side and I scramble ashore in the slippery mud, another line in my hand. The second line goes around a tree and keeps me from slipping in as I unload.

Later that afternoon, as thunder rumbles in the distance, I suddenly find my way blocked by a moose. Her head comes up and I freeze. A minute goes by as she watches me. There's a mosquito inside my head net and he's sucking on my neck, but I don't dare twitch or the moose will run. After about two minutes, her head goes down again as she resumes feeding. The canoe slowly drifts behind some small trees; the moose can't see me and probably can't smell me now. Quietly I reload my camera, then point the canoe toward the moose and take one stroke. She knows something odd is coming now, but I'm able to get several pictures before she swims to the opposite shore and walks into the thick brush. The wind is dead calm now, and leaden clouds cover the sky. I hear thunder way off in the distance, but I can't tell if it's getting closer.

Beaver have been busy near the landing for the third portage. A large birch is down, blocking the path. Again I have to land in clay and mud; the canoe and packs go over the downed tree to get to the portage trail. The falls on this third portage are the largest and most beautiful on this small connecting stream. The portage ends and the canoe glides into a slow, winding channel. The thunder is louder now, and more frequent. It's no time for sightseeing; I lay on the paddle and get moving.

Far away, in the paved and wired city, there's little concern for the forces of nature. A cloud covers the sun, and ten thousand hands casually switch on lamps. Rain comes, and windshield wipers are turned on. A touch of the radio volume control may be necessary if the drumming rain gets too loud.

Out in the suburbs, some of the curious may be drawn to curtained windows where flashes of lightning can be seen and muffled, subdued thunder can sometimes be heard. A few minutes of this show is usually enough. The sound of canned laughter, or rapid gunfire or the squealing tires of an automobile chase soon draw the curious back to the electronic reality that will not upset or frighten or inspire...

Up here in Woodland Caribou, the approaching storm has my complete attention. It's only six-thirty; I know there are three more hours of daylight, but I'm not looking at my watch, I'm looking at the sky. Thick, black clouds are moving in, pulling a shroud of darkness over the land, changing the inviting wilderness shore into a forbidding, ominous boreal jungle. I'm paddling as fast as I can now, hoping to make it to Murdock Lake before the storm hits me.

The channel finally widens and I quickly open my map case and bring the next map section to the top. There's a point of land just a short way ahead. Maybe there's a flat spot on the point, maybe I'll reach it before the rain hits. I think of my leaky tent, the panel that needs my raincoat to make it waterproof. It's going to be another miserable night.

Now a hard slap of thunder explodes in the sky. I flinch in my tiny boat. The wind sweeps down onto the water, rippling the surface with an invisible hand before slamming into me, stopping my canoe and driving me toward the wall of rock to my left. There's no place at all to land here. The rock shore climbs two meters before it curves into the impenetrable brush. I hug the shore anyway; the open water to my right is a bad place to be when lightning is coming down.

Flash! Boom!, then the moan of the wind. You've really done it now, Jimbo. In a few minutes you're going to be stranded, soaked and miserable. I'm really bending the paddle now, the point HAS to be close...

What the? There's a patch of brown up ahead. An unnatural patch of brown. I duck my head and paddle hard. There's a cabin! I'm at the point and I can't believe my eyes! A pretty large cabin with a pier and an assortment of gas containers sits right on the point. Ahead is the widening channel that leads into Murdock Lake. I can see the rain coming, and the wind is strong and steady now. I quickly pull the canoe onto shore in front of the cabin and dive into my rain pants and coat. The cabin is dark inside, I knock on the door, but there's no one home. Whoever is staying here must be out fishing. A few minutes later the rain starts, a pounding, driving, hard rain that rattles on my coat and digs small craters into the thin soil around me. Gazing out on the lake, I see two boats racing in at full throttle. As the first boat pulls up to the pier I quickly introduce myself and offer to help haul fishing gear up to the cabin. Two young men hop out and we quickly unload the boat. The other boat brings a man and two women. I quickly explain that I'm traveling by canoe, and try to make myself helpful.

Fifteen minutes later, as I sip beer and gulp down spoonfuls of delicious hot chili, I still can't believe that I'm dry, comfortable and well fed. I'm not a real sociable guy, and I feel awkward, imposing on the nice people that have taken me in. The steady, heavy rain outside, and the unbelievable pleasure of a sound roof and hot food get the better of me, and I accept everything that is offered.

I talk with my benefactors about the weather, my trip so far, the cabin I'm in...

My host Jon Merrill also lives in Wisconsin, not more than thirty miles from my home town. We both work for the same company! As the rain dies down, I suggest that I should get going, but I'm invited to spend the night in the cabin. I don't want to impose, but again the comfort of a good roof and a warm dry bed is too good to pass up.

I talk for an hour with Jon's sons, Kyle and Eric, then take a warm shower and change into my sleeping outfit. I really only have two things to wear: my soaking wet daytime pants or my Sears and Roebuck green quilted underwear. I've only met these people an hour ago, but now I'm walking around in my underwear and not feeling a bit out of place. We stay up late into the evening, playing cards and talking about schools, fishing and the land around us. There are pictographs, old rock paintings nearby, and Kyle points out the site for me on my map. There's also a bear and cub on my route, something to remember when I look for a campsite tomorrow. Jon mentions that this cabin will be destroyed in the year 2010, part of the plan to return Woodland Caribou to it's original undeveloped state.

Late in the night, comfortable in one of the top bunk beds, I begin to think about how lucky I am. The point of land I'm staying on could have held only thick brush, perhaps with no good place for my tent. I would have crawled under the canoe for a few hours, then moved out in the rain, hoping to find a good campsite for my leaky tent before darkness closed me in.

Here in the Merrill's cabin, it's quiet. The rain stopped falling; the storm is over. My hand reaches out and touches the rough timbers of the cabin, carefully chinked with oakum. Fifty years ago, this wall was only an idea - a dream turned real by one of Jon's relatives. Fifty years from now, when the cabin is long gone, Jon's sons will remember these days, the violence of the storm, the excitement of this wild land, the sound of the wind that now blows gently over the waters, gently through the trees, and gently into their dreams...