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 4
The Bear

The next morning Jon's wife Polly cooks a wonderful breakfast of fried potatoes, mixed with onions, garlic, celery seed and bacon fat. I borrow a plastic trash bag from Jon and say goodbye. As the cabin passes out of sight, the rock wall with the pictographs appears. These are the first I've seen in Woodland Caribou Park, although until now I've not looked carefully. A fish and moose shown on the rock are, perhaps a road sign for the point of land and the stream just behind me. With moose and flowing water the small point of land would be a good place to live.

There's a minor detour as the zipper tab from my map case gets a little too close to my compass, but I'm soon back on course. The wind is dead calm, and the surface of Murdock Lake is as smooth as glass. Eric and Kyle told me that the bear with the cub was seen several times in the narrows before the portage into Larus lake. I don't want to get too close, and I have some work to do yet today, so I find a campsite on an island in the narrows on the north side of Murdock.

The tent goes up and two hours are spent sewing trash bag plastic sheet over the defective panels. If I'm careful not to rip the plastic, I should stay dry now. Next it's laundry time and I boil my filthy clothes and hang them on bushes to dry. I'm out of the burned area now and the landscape is beautiful. My escape from the storm, the good weather, and having my gear in order eases my worries, and I relax and enjoy the scenery.

Early the next morning my canoe passes the narrows that lead to the portage into Larus Lake. I see no sign of the bear and cub, but I do see the clearing where the bears were spotted. The narrows is a slow weedy area with a steep rock face on the southern shore. It's windy, but I'm sheltered if I stay close to the rocks. Pictograph Site

The cliff face is strange - the longer I look at it the more I imagine human features etched in the rock. There are pictographs here, and a familiar odd feeling creeps over me as I stare at them, trying to see the meaning, trying to see the person whose hand touched the rock that I now touch. A large figure holds a small figure, high in the air for all to see. Was a child born here, long ago, or did something else happen, something I can't imagine? Was it a joyful event that sparked the painting or a tragedy? Another painting shows figures in a canoe, a large canoe. Where were they bound? What tales did they tell at the fire, at the end of their journey? Years later I would read about these rock paintings, about strong medicine and the shamans whose images cover the rocks. But now I can only gaze and wonder.

This is another good place, this shallow channel near the pictographs. I slowly paddle away, past weedy shores, past a beaver lodge being reinforced with fresh sticks, away from the ancient rock that remembers.

It's a nice morning on Larus Lake. Two fishermen are parked near the falls leading into Murdock, pulling out walleyes and dropping them back in. Their boat putters as they jockey for position in the current. Out on Larus, the wind is picking up, but in this sheltered bay, all is calm and well.

Were it not for the sound of the falls, they might have heard something moving in the forest, a small snap of a twig, a scrape of nylon pack material on some brush, the slight swish as rough material rubbed together above slowly moving feet. They hear nothing, and are surprised when a strange figure emerges onto the shore. Covered from head to foot, face covered in mosquito netting, hands covered with brown gloves, the figure walks into the open shore, bending under the weight of an oversized pack. Slowly he picks his path to a bit of flat rock, then sinks down on his knees and rolls the pack onto the ground. In a minute he's gone, only to be seen half an hour later. It's a canoe that goes down now, and the paddler is soon near the fishermen.

"How's the fishing been?" The paddler slowly strokes backward into the choppy current.

The man at the throttle moves the boat up toward the falls, then allows the boat to drift back. The drone of the motor, the twitch on the fishing rod, the brief struggle, the satisfaction as the fish is pulled in. This is the world of the motor boat fisherman.

In the canoe, a well practiced arm buries the paddle in the water, a stroke, another, then the paddle flies overhead, drops of water sailing over the stern as the paddler changes sides. The map and compass, the open water to the north, the wind, the shore, the next portage, the next falls, the next unexplored wilderness lake - this is the world of the canoe traveler.

A long peninsula reaches out into Larus Lake, and as I go by, I mark a campsite on my map. The wind is with me now, blowing east southeast. I drift for a while, chewing on a fruit bar as the shoreline recedes. It's been a great morning so far; the portage was easy and the encounter with the fishermen was pleasant. More out of boredom than necessity, I turn the bow west and start paddling again.

Out on the open water, the wind is picking up. Soon I'm racing for the western shore, but so are the waves that get higher and higher with each passing minute. There's an island to the west that guards a large bay beyond it. I wanted to go south of the island, but the waves and wind are making other plans for me. Soon I'm concentrating completely on keeping the boat under control, avoiding the largest of waves that overtake me. It's with some relief that I pass the northern shore of the island and enter sheltered waters.

I stop behind the island for a macaroni and cheese lunch. Clouds are moving in now, and the feeling of rain is in the air. Heading west, I mark two campsites on the way to the next portage, and pass a giant ant nest, about three meters by six meters across. The weather continues to deteriorate, and soon I'm paddling in the rain.

An hour later, at the end of the portage, I find an unexpected camp site. Evidently the portage landing is frequented by fishermen, and someone stacked wood here and cleared the ground. Nearby is a small falls, and the rush of the water drowns out all other sounds. It's still raining, and it's getting late, and I'm tired, so I dump my gear and start setting up my camp.

Remembering the fishermen at the other falls, I first throw in a diver off the portage landing. Bang! something big grabs my line on the first cast! I play the fish for a minute, then net a good sized northern pike. Should I try for a couple of walleye instead? Then again, filleting one fish rather than two sounds more appealing. I cut up the northern down near the waterline, then wash down the shore with a couple of buckets of water. The rain slows as I fry my northern and eat my feast.

The weather is getting better, and soon the sun is shining and it's actually hot. I get the tent up, start a small fire to keep the bugs away, hang my food, and relax on the rocky shore. The rush of the waterfall is peaceful, I should sleep well tonight. The tent is waterproof now, my belly is full, things are looking good.

It's nine o'clock, and the sun is just near the horizon. As I walk through my camp to gather in my rain gear, a loud guttural growl comes out of the woods and I freeze in my tracks! The skin on the back of my neck starts to crawl as I stare into the brush not more than three meters from where I stand. I see nothing! Was it real? Darn right it was! Where's the bear?

I grab my aluminum bucket and the nearest hammer I can find - my small fishing net, and start banging like crazy on the bottom. I add a few yells - I still see nothing.

Bang! Bang! Bang! The bottom of the pot is getting all warped out of shape. Calm down Jimbo, maybe you chased it away. I still don't see anything, but I hear the crack of a branch over the sound of the waterfall. There's something in there, but I can't see it. For some reason I turn around and spot a small bear cub off to my right, near the shore. He's not impressed with my noise, he just stands there, at the edge of the clearing, watching me make a fool out of myself. If he's down by the shore, what was it that growled at me from the woods?

"Oh ----" I mutter to myself. First things first; I haul the canoe down to the shore and get it pointed for a quick launch. Next, the paddle and life vest go into the boat. With my escape route secured, I quickly take down the tent, pull down my food pack, and generally sweep everything into the canoe. The cub is gone now, but I can't hear a thing over the rush of the water, and I still don't know what's out there. Three quick buckets of water kill the hot coals of my fire, and I'm on the water again.

Now the sun is below the horizon, and it won't be long before the light is gone. I have no idea where I might find a place to camp. About five hundred meters from the bear, a small, rocky peninsula appears and I quickly pull to shore and land the canoe. Yes, there's a small flat spot, not quite level but it'll do. I quickly put up the tent, hang the food pack from a nearby tree and turn the canoe over on my pack. Now I'm really tired, and the light is fading fast. I open the tent, pull on my sleeping clothes and crawl into my sleeping bag. What a way to end the day! It's not over yet, for just as I put my head down, the wind starts to rise, and I worry about my unsecured canoe. Out again to tie it down, I find nothing nearby, and have to weigh it down with rocks. Finally, my day is over and I crawl back into my bag. I've done it again, made a dumb mistake because I was tired and wet and wanted an easy camp. Thinking back to the camp behind me, I remember that I heard a branch crack earlier in the afternoon, but I wasn't sure because of the noise of the waterfall. A place where fishermen visit often, too noisy to hear anything - it all adds up to a lousy place to camp.