My "bed" tonight is very comfortable. There's a natural slight depression for my hip to fall into when I turn on my side. It's one of those camping tricks right out of the Boy Scouts' Handbook, as I remember. In those days, years ago, digging a spot for your hips was a good practice. Our goal now is to leave no trace of our passing. We don't dig anymore, but from now on I'll search for these natural places when we put up our tent.

It's six-thirty now and we're up again and packing. It's cold, finger numbing cold. There's still the wind to contend with. Our plan is to stay close to the shore and keep the boat turned into the waves when we can.

Our plan works well as we make our way to the south. A point of land appears, marking the beginning of a big bay on the southeastern part of Larus. The wind blows hard now, sending a tangle of cold, gray waves out of the bay. These waves will grow with each kilometer they pass. The western shores of Larus is probably being pounded. I imagine the waves crashing in, throwing spray into the air.

Bob and I stop. Our tiny canoe hides behind this last bit of land, a last refuge before the chaotic water in the bay. If the lake were calm and the water warm, we would simply push off and paddle the one and one-half kilometers to a long peninsula on the southern shore. But the lake isn't calm, and the water is cold, cold. If we somehow managed to overturn our canoe out in the middle of Larus, we would be faced with padding a canoe full of water through high waves and against the wind. We would be in big trouble.

We gather our wits and paddle around the point. Immediately the waves lift and take control of our canoe. The eastern shore of this bay actually runs to the northeast for a kilometer or so. With the wind from the southeast, our canoe would be parallel to the waves if we followed the shore. That would be very bad and almost certainly lead to an upset. Bob points our bow to the east-southeast so that the waves approach us at an angle. I don't feel real happy to watch the northeast shore get farther and farther away. Our boat rides well however, and unless we're extremely unlucky, each minute brings us closer to safety.

We reach the eastern-most part of the southern bay and stop on a rock for coffee and a bagel. There's a sand beach near here. A stream broke through and formed a small sand delta. Maybe a beaver dam broke somewhere inland...

Our portage from Larus to Murdock starts a little sooner than expected. There's too much current through the rapids to safely land near the first falls. Bob and I try to fish from the shore but the fish aren't biting this morning.

The Larus portage is in a terrible mess. A strong wind from the north must have been funneled by the bay into a little tree-snapping hurricane. At our first obstacle, we leave the portage path to walk around blown down trees. We end up going on for about a hundred meters before we can make it back to the path.

On our trip back we found that it's best to tackle each obstacle, one at a time, and always return to the portage path. Leaving the path only leads to different obstacles, but with no path to keep you going in the right direction. Coming back with the canoe, I have to put it down about eight times, push it through the trees, then climb through and pull it out. Normally the portage south of Larus only takes about a half an hour. We don't see the other side until well after noon.

As we launch into the narrow lake that connects Larus to Murdock, Bob spots a large animal on the far southern shore. It immediately disappears into the bush. As we quietly paddle the southern shore, we can hear it crashing through the trees. A Moose?

Bob steers our canoe through the passage leading to Murdock Lake, past a high rock face covered with pictographs. I made a visit to this place once before on a solo trip that took me to Artery Lake. This pictograph site is only slightly less impressive than the Artery site. Since then I've read Grace Rainovichs' book Reading Rock Art - Interpreting the Indian Rock Paintings of the Canadian Shield. My understanding is still inadequate, like someone who reads the rules of a game, but never gets to play.

After the portage, there's a place where the current comes through. Bob trolls with a shallow diver and nets a pickerel (walleye pike) as we go through. We go back and catch three more plus a jack. We're hungry and we've had a hard morning, so we stop right there and have a good lunch.

Murdock is a big lake with a few cabins on it. Fishermen are out in the long bay on the northwest part of the lake. After a few hours, we make it to the main part of the lake and land on an island to stretch. At one time, there must have been a cabin on this island. The cabin is completely gone, but a few items from civilization remain to corrode away. Amid the junk, we find two folding chairs and re-aquaint ourselves with this marvelous invention. This island, despite the remaining junk, would make a great campsite. There's level ground and a great view.

We keep going, paddling into the wind now, making our way to the east. Hours go by as we pass the wild shores of Murdock. There's another pictograph site on the east side of the lake, and here we make our camp. Later, just before nine o'clock, we sit on the rocky shore as our fire burns out and watch the sun go down.

The temperature is a bit more moderate this Wednesday morning as we eat pancakes. As we stand by the shore enjoying our coffee, we notice a dark cloud moving in from the west. Streaks of rain under the cloud warn us of a drenching, so we quickly pack up our tent and put up our rain fly. It rains hard for forty minutes, then stops.

There's another cabin on the eastern part of Murdock and I hail the occupants as we wait by the shore. I spent a night here on my solo trip as a grateful guest of Jon and Polly Merrill. Now really, my intentions this morning are to say hello and again thank Jon for feeding and lodging me. Bob and I are invited in and meet the full crew of fishermen. Joe is our host today and whaddaya know, we arrived just at breakfast time! We're invited to stay, and the prospect of eggs and bacon and orange juice and coffee is too much to resist.

With some reluctance Bob and I leave our generous hosts and travel east on the river that leads to Knox lake. The skies are overcast now and the air is calm. It's quiet, almost eerie as we slowly paddle the river. The only sounds come from frogs and the birds that we disturb as we pass.

There's a patch of water plants here. Each has three leaves shaped like a cup. Either I haven't seen this one before or don't recognize it this early in the year. As we leave the river, we face another long paddle across knox lake. Our windy trip across Larus is still on my mind, so despite the calm, we follow the west shore, then cut across the lake to the portage. We're a little too worn out to do the one and a half kilometer portage south of Knox, so we make our camp right on the portage landing. This isn't something we would do in the boundary waters, but here in Woodland Caribou Park, where there are few visitors it doesn't cause a problem.

Our portage landing campsite has a small beach but no place for a fire. We need a fire. With no wind the mosquitoes are killing us. I take our cook pot and bring three buckets of sand ashore. There's an old fire ring here and I put down a bed of sand on the bottom. After that, a base of small logs gives us a safe platform for our small fire.

We have no ambition to go fishing and we're not that hungry. It's eight o'clock now and a large dark cloud is moving overhead.