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 5
Tales of Long Ago

A light rain is falling when I wake up at six-thirty the next morning. I need to put some distance behind me today, so I pack up wet and get moving. As I launch my canoe into the next bay I'm taken aback by the land before me. The islands rise high here, like small kingdoms in some far-away sea, each powerful, each majestic. There's just a hint of mist on the water, making the rocky shores seem to float above clouds.

This part of the Bloodvein River flows through a series of bays and narrows, with a few large islands to pass around. The rain tapers off, but gray clouds bring the sky close to the earth, and I pass lonely shores as I make my way from point to point. A large Canadian flag decorates the southern shore of a headland. More beautiful are a stand of tall, mature birch trees, guarding the entrance to a wide, weedy channel. The wind from the southeast catches the trees and they wave in unison, grand white pillars that slowly bend, calling with the distant rustle of ten thousand leaves high above the water, high above my tiny canoe.

By eleven-thirty I'm just south of Barclay lake and I stop for lunch at a nice large campsite. There's room on this point for several tents, something I haven't seen too often on this trip. I meet some fishermen here, trolling the shore at the channel entrance. I ask the young guide from Sabourin Lodge about the pictograph site at Artery Lake. As often happens, the people I run into know little about the lakes beyond the next portage or two. If it can't be reached by motorboat, they just don't go there. The young guide tells me about pictographs in a bay before Artery, but he's not sure about the exact location. In the bow of the boat, an older gentleman waits patiently to be guided to the next hot spot.

Now the river makes a long sweeping curve. Here the water is shallow and wide, and from the marshy shores I hear the chirping, screeching calls of hundreds of birds.

I take a detour to the south to explore a bay that might have pictographs. There are none here, only lonely wooded shores and bare rocks. The portage into Artery Lake has a few downed trees to climb over and I'm starting to get tired as I launch my canoe back into the river. There are more fishermen here, dipping jigs into the slow current. I ask if they know anything about the pictograph site on Artery Lake.

"There're some rock paintings just around this bend." His fishing companion in the bow of the motorboat shows not the least interest in our conversation. Rocks, rock paintings - whatever. He slowly works his rod up and down, feeling the bottom of the river, looking only for the next fish, hoping it will be a big one.

A few minutes paddling brings me to a large rock face on the southern shore of the river. There's another motor boat in this area, a man and woman are trolling the northern shore. The pictures slowly come into view and my eyes are filled with sights from a different world. The motor sounds fade away, the modern world fades away and a world from long ago appears before me. Here on the rock are stories of journeys by canoe, here are images of powerful animals, here is the powerful shaman that kept his people safe from the spirit world. There are many different pictures here, and I've read about the historical significance of this site. There's a rock ledge next to the rock face, and I will later learn that small gifts are sometimes left here, for the people that once lived here, or for the spirits that still do.

Rain is coming again, and the wind picks up as I paddle into Artery Lake. None of the shores look promising, so I wander from point to point, island to island. There's some flat land on the western side of the lake, and I quickly get my tent up. The rain comes, and the wind too, but now it doesn't matter, I'm in my shelter. It's too much trouble to cook anything, so I unpack my sleeping bag and climb into my warm clothes. Outside, the wind sweeps into the shore, rustling the walls of my tent. The rain falls, a soothing, gentle pattering that soon lulls me to sleep.