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 7
Days of Sunshine

There's still a light rain falling on Monday morning, but now it's colder. Maybe a northern high pressure system is moving in, maybe the clouds will be pushed south. Remembering the walleye dinner last night, I try a few casts off of the shore. It looks like I got up too late, the fish are probably in deeper water, and I'm too worn out to go after them. It's a miserable morning; most of my "day" clothes are damp and dirty. I cook pancakes behind the canoe, then wait for the rain to let up.

By ten it stops drizzling, so I slowly pack up and get going. As soon as I'm on the water, sunshine breaks through. It's the first time I've seen the sun in about three days.

Now an amusing thing happens. I'm so accustomed to landing on muskeg, that I immediately assume a small gap in the boggy shoreline is my path to Carroll Lake. It looks like a creek through low ground, so I land on a small flat rock and get into my "wet" shoes. Out comes the head net and gloves - I'm ready for the expected buggy trail. Heading in, it only takes a few minutes to realize that this little creek is not going anywhere. I finally look CAREFULLY at my map and find out that I AM in a creek, not in the passage to Carroll. Two hundred meters away is the real passage, a beautiful, scenic stream between the lakes. The channel widens into a carpet of lily pads, some just blooming now. I'm beginning to realize that things are getting better. The forest is giving me a break, warming me with sunshine, letting me pass through without effort. Now tall weeds cover the channel, swishing and squeaking as my canoe glides through.

Carroll Lake opens in front of me, wide and sunny. As often happens during this trip, I feel the contrast that a day, or even a few hours can bring. The last two days were spent in a narrow world of difficult portage trails, and even the water between them seemed closed in by the gray weather. Now the land is open and bright, traveling is easy and my mind is at rest.

The land here still shows the affects of a nineteen forties fire. The trees are a little greener, a little smaller and grow a little closer. I find an interesting rock formation on the shore of an island. I will later learn that the fractured rock along the shore is called diorite, surrounded by "boxes" of quartz that apparently filled the cracks. I've seen this formation in miniature in Quetico Park, but I've never seen it in "landmark" size. I also find a small cave near the water, a split in the rock right at the water line that extends further than my flashlight can penetrate.

A campsite appears on an island and I land the canoe late in the afternoon. A medium sized walleye and northern are prowling in the shallows as I unload my gear. There also seems to be a perfect fishing hole right off a nearby point of land. Just past the point the depth drops from two and a half meters to six meters. I cast a deep diver, then try a leech on a slip bobber, but I don't even get a nibble. I can only guess that the change in weather took the fish to other places.

There's driftwood all over this campsite, so I build a small fire on the bare rock near the shore. It takes three buckets of hot water to wash the last three days of toil out of my clothes. Casting the point again brings in no fish, so it's spaghetti for dinner. The drone of distant motorboats fades as the dinner hour approaches, replaced for an hour or two with the drone of a generator from a nearby lodge. Soon all is quiet. I'm up late and a beautiful sunset falls across Carroll Lake. Again a beaver is active, splashing his tail into the water as he passes back and forth in front of my campsite.

Six o'clock sees me awake the next morning. What a great day it is! I still miss the fish dinner I wanted last night, so I again cast the drop-off just off the point. Nothing. Finally, I drop my six foot diver into three feet of water where I saw the fish yesterday. Holding the rod well above my head, I slowly draw the bait across the shallows. Strike! I pull in the walleye. Another strike! I pull in the northern. It's fried fish for breakfast.

By eight-thirty I'm on calm water. It's hot and sunny, a great day after the clouds and rain of last week. The paddling is easy and there are no tough portages ahead. I feel strong again, stronger than I was at the start of the trip. I'll later find that I've lost four and a half kilos (ten pounds), hard to do back in the city, but inevitable when traveling with pack and paddle.

As Donald Lake draws near, the sound of airplane engines fills the air. Somewhere ahead of me, three take off or land as I grope my way among the islands and points before the portage. Traveling the northern shore of Donald, I come upon a pretty big lodge. A broad lawn covers a large compound of buildings. There are flagpoles, white paths, and other accessories of civilization. In front of this shore is a small island with a plane parked at a pier. As I approach the island, I see that this plane is old, with some of the paint worn off and the look of many hours of use. There are log buildings on the island, also old but well crafted. There's a lady on the pier next to the plane.

"Would you like to come in for a drink?" This sounds like the best offer I've had in a week!.

"Sure, that sounds pretty good" I steer for the pier and within a few minutes I'm sitting in a comfortable chair, sipping on beer (again) and deciding whether I'll be staying for lunch! I've had the good fortune to land at the wilderness retreat of Jed and Lynda Heino.

The Heino's own Honeymoon Island, a small patch of private land that resides within the boundaries of the park. As Lynda cooks up a great lunch, Jed and I talk about Canada, and the places that he and Lynda have been to in the old plane. Jed gets a far away look as he talks about the Thelon River in the Northwest Territories. I've seen few places as beautiful as Woodland Caribou Park, so the Thelon river area must be an eyeful. Jed and Lynda have taken many trips, flying for long hours by magnetic compass, landing on some far away lake or river, camping at places with names that bring thoughts of wild rivers, high mountains and endless wilderness. They talk of these great adventures as most people would talk about driving to some national forest campground! Later, as I talk about my trip, I mention the snowmobile shroud on the portage into Craven Lake. The Heino's know the trapper that lost the shroud last winter. Apparently he was hauling it on a sled and it slipped off unnoticed. They will tell him where it is so he can pick it up when winter comes.

Rested, and with a full stomach, I paddle away from the island. I really needed this stop, to talk to people again, to drive the loneliness away for a while. Carroll lake and Donald lake seem to have many fly-in visitors. I will later learn that this northern loop I'm traveling passes through the lakes with the most motor fishermen. Although I've spent many hours and occasionally a few days without seeing anyone else, I haven't found the isolation that I thought I would. Traveling alone, however, I'm finding that I enjoy these occasional encounters with people. Something is missing, though. I'm missing the talk that canoe travelers share on the portages.

When canoeists meet, there's talk of fishing, but also of the land, of places to see, of hard crossings, of storms endured and sunsets that inspired. On the portage path, people are judged not by the quality of their fishing gear, or the size of their catch, but rather by their lack of extraneous gadgets, their ability to adapt to the land, to live the life of travel by canoe. I've had many conversations with people while both of us stood in water with a heavy pack, or with a canoe on our shoulders. The load, the dirty feet, the drone of mosquitoes - all are part of the canoe traveler's world, and all parts of that world are embraced by the canoe traveler. When traveling by canoe, you live where you are; and the people you meet are no more and no less than what they appear to be.

Hours later, I approach the portage into Rostoul Lake. There was quite a wind here, not too long ago. Many trees near the portage are tipped up, blown clean over because their roots couldn't penetrate the flat rock surface of the land. This area was burned in the seventies, and it's a little harder to spot a campsite. I finally find a small patch between two small trees, just big enough for the tent. There was a motor boat cached at the portage and later in the evening two men motor by. An hour later, they motor back, to be replaced by another fisherman who tries his luck at the next falls. I don't have to cook any supper this evening, I'm still stuffed from the great lunch I had just a few hours ago. From my home for the night, I sit back and watch the traffic go by.