e’re up early this Tuesday morning and out on the water by seven o’clock. Little Vermilion is glassy calm and the paddling is easy. The only motor sound comes from ruffed grouse in the gentle channel that leads to Rathouse Lake. There’s a beautiful island campsite on the eastern bay of Rathouse and we stop for a macaroni and cheese lunch.

At ten o’clock the wind starts from the west, just as expected. At eleven o’clock we take a last look at the weather – still good – and enter the channel on the western end of Rathouse. I’m somewhat concerned about this part of the trip because I don’t know what the land is like along the channel. If it’s all lowland swamp, there may not be a place to stop and camp if the weather turns bad. An interesting afternoon could turn miserable. I look closely at the shores we pass and find possible campsites every two kilometers or so. The wind and the moderate current and the twisting, turning channel keep us busy at the paddle.

Here the Chukuni ranges from about seven to fifteen meters wide. The eastern part of the river snakes through swampy lowlands. Bob and I keep our eyes focused on the next bend, the next turn of the river, half hoping that we’ll see a moose or bear, and half hoping that we won’t. The land closes in, and we can travel only in the small channel that leads us forward. An annoyed moose would definitely have the advantage here.

After a few hours, the banks of the Chukuni slowly change. There’s some high ground here and there where trees can grow close to the water. Near the end of our day we cross a beaver dam and a few portages. It’s five-thirty by the time we reach the fourth lake east of Valhalla. An old, abandoned trap-line cabin shows up on the northern shore. The ground is low and the area is swampy. It’s probably a good place for a cabin in the winter, but now it’s buggy. Too tired to go any further, we set up our tent on the thick feather moss about a hundred meters from the old cabin.

We’re in bed by nine o’clock, but up again soon after. There’s something walking around, breaking sticks by the shore. We make noise for a while to let whatever it is know that we’re here. I’m beginning to understand that bears seem to like the low, swampy areas. The few times I actually spotted a bear, it was walking the shore in a place like this one. There must be more food along the soft, mushy shores. We finally get to sleep. It’s been a long day.

It’s cold this morning! Finger numbing cold. We’re up by seven and quickly pack up our camp. The land is different now, our portages lead us into high, open ground, soft and spongy with feather moss. Dry birch and poplar leaves crackle under our feet. It's shady here; tall, mature pines keep the brush from growing in too thick.

Bob and I find that we can leave the portage path and walk easily in any direction. We take a side trip to look at the river, at the falls hidden a few hundred meters to our left. I’m surprised to find that the current is now moving with us! I'm thinking that perhaps we passed some local watershed. Later, when I carefully look at my maps, I'll find out that the Chukuni turns north between Rathouse and Valhalla. The Chukuni is a considerable river south of Red Lake, but up here near the source, it's hard to tell which meandering channel is the named part of the river. We're now on some unnamed "river" or perhaps just a chain of lakes. The 350 meter portage ends with a great landing on the Valhalla Lake end.

On Valhalla we have a small bay to cross with the wind on our beam. I’m feeling a bit apprehensive about the cold water. I’m wondering how long it would take us to get to shore if we were so terribly unlucky that we dumped our canoe. I’m wearing my rain suit over my clothes with my life jacket on the outside. The rain suit should hold in some heat, even if I’m wet. Bob and I paddle carefully.

We’ve decided to have a small day today, so we unpack our rods and troll for a while. I manage to hook a nice size jack (northern pike) and our late lunch of fish and fried scalloped potatoes sure tastes good. We pass one campsite and park our canoe on the next. Both of the sites are large and clear – plenty of open space with firewood nearby.

Now it’s four in the afternoon and the sun is out. I decide to take a "bucket" bath. One does this by standing near the shore with the cook pot and little else. The first bucket of cold water is definitely a shocker. After I’m thoroughly wet, I soap up and walk ashore with a bucket of water. When the "rinse" bucket is empty, I return to the lake and finish up with a few more buckets over my head. Seagulls gather around to watch this ritual of discomfort and comedy. Maybe they recognize the cook pot I’m using for a bucket. Perhaps they think I’m a great fisherman and will have some fish offal to offer.

At six o’clock, Bob and I take the canoe out for some fishing. We pick up three more jack. Bob keeps his civilized manners but I adopt a more ancient approach – eat ‘till it’s gone. Now most fishermen I’ve met swear that pickerel (walleye pike) tastes a lot better than jack. I suspect that there’s an implied boast in the preference. Pickerel do take more skill to find and catch. Bob and I both agree that the jack has a better flavor, even if we do have to sort through the bones, or make the extra cuts to remove them.

Early in the evening a float plane flies over our heads and lands at Howey Bay camp, off to our west. Howey bay is a fly-in cabin outpost on the eastern shore of a bay. I suspect that the west wind is funneled into the bay and that the fishing is good on the windward shore. With the sun still well up in the sky, Bob and I hit the sack. The wind is down now, but I still hear it rustling through the pine trees to the west. I’m thinking it might rain tomorrow…

We're up early Thursday and out of camp by seven-fifteen. The wind is blowing under slightly overcast skies. Paddling west, we pass the Howey Bay outpost. It's a very neat and clean property. Bob looks closely - he thinks it might be a good place to spend some time with his sons in the future.

Our canoe snakes through a shallow channel that ends on the 150 meter portage to Trough Lake. Hundreds of fingerlings scatter as we approach the landing. There's a mystery here, a fire ring not recently used, but with no moss on the charcoal. A few feet away the shore is covered with fish scales - large fish scales. Did someone catch a fish, scale it on the shore and cook it right here? But, wait a minute, who scales fish? Most people fillet their fish.

The portage path follows a small stream that hides in the shady wood. It's a beautiful place. Clear water gurgles around moss-covered rocks. As I take some pictures, Bob solves the mystery and calls me over to the shore of the stream.

"This is an eagle killing ground" he says. We walk past a fallen tree and Bob points to the ground. The ground is covered in small, fluffy feathers. There's a white tail feather and another white and gray-brown feather nearby.

"The eagles catch fish and bring them here to kill them" explains Bob. "Sometimes they lose a few feathers during the struggle." I get down on my knees and look at the feathers. Sure enough, there are a few fish scales here too.

"An eagle probably killed a big northern on the portage landing" says Bob. "There's probably a nest nearby."

The area around the portage is heavily wooded. I search the tree tops, looking for a nest. I see nothing. Bob and I complete the portage and load up the canoe. We've only paddled a few strokes when a pair of eagles flies out of the forest, not far from the landing. It's a satisfying experience to find clues, wonder and think for a few minutes, hear a plausible explanation from an expert, then see the proof fly above your head!

We're headed toward Olive Lake. The land is scenic and wild. We balance on logs in the mucky places and get some exercise climbing the hill on the second portage. There’s a nice view from the high ground. Few canoeists pass this way and the trails are not worn. We watch for blaze marks on the trees in places where the path is on rocky ground.

By two-thirty we find a campsite on Olive. We’re entering a place that was burned not long ago. Most of the trees are still standing. Each year a few will go down but some will remain to mark the fire for twenty years or more. The bare, rocky land is pink now, the natural color of the granite. It will darken as new soil forms and moss begins to grow. We take two more jack for supper, then turn in. Later in the evening, light rain falls on our camp.