Within a few minutes, a bog appears. This land would be hard to cross in wet weather if it were not for the logs laid down by the park maintenance crew. Three logs are placed together across the path, forming a stepping stone-like path. Claire Quewezence, the assistant park superintendent, used an old logging term: "rip-rap" to describe this trail stabilization method. It makes walking through the swamp easy.

At the other end of the bog, the land is burned. Fire came in the 1980's and destroyed the forest all the way to Pipestone Bay. The land looks primitive and stark. Dead trees still stand, macabe sentinels with no bark and no branches. A few will come down across the path each year and we step over these fallen ones as we make our way to the southeast.

Now our path climbs. Small, young pine trees with tall, thin trunks fill the land. The trees are so thick that it would be hard to walk through this new forest. The young trees are a brighter shade of green and stands of poplar are beginning to come up here and there among the pines.

This day is full of portages through an area burned in the 1980's. Each has trees down across the path, but almost all can easily be stepped over.

We're tired by the end of the day. The weather is still good - it's sunny but cool, and the wind is picking up this afternoon. We find a campsite on a point of land in a small unnamed lake and call it a day. With the cool wind coming in from the east, we have to put the tent inland a ways. Fishing from the shore, Bob and I catch three good sized jack. Late that evening we listen to the wind gusting through the trees.

The wind is still with us this Friday morning. The clouds in the eastern sky look odd, a formation I haven't seen before. Streaks fan out from a center cloud, like spokes on a wheel. The "spokes" seem to point from the north to the south-southeast. These odd clouds bring strong wind onto the shores of our peninsula. We'll have a hard paddle, but since we're going east, our canoe should be able to ride out the waves. I'm sure glad that we're on small lakes today.

Bob and I pack up and lauch into the wind. It's hard paddling in choppy water. As sometimes happens when you're concentrating on wind and waves, we turn too early and end up in an unfamiliar channel. I get out my maps and start trying to figure out where we went wrong. So intent am I in my study that I don't hear Bob hissing at me. He finally calls out.

"Jim!"

"I think we turned too soon..." I say.

"No - on the shore!"

My head snaps up just in time to see the rear end of a caribou cow and calf. Bob's been quietly watching them for thirty seconds, trying to get my attention. The caribou, even from the rear, are beautiful animals. Their coats are a light brown with gray-white spots on the shoulder and a white patch on the rump. They quickly scamper into the forest.

"The hooves on the calf looked almost translucent" says Bob. "It was probably born this spring."

I finally figure out where we are. The caribou are on a medium sized island, a place caribou seek out when they have their calves.

We leave the caribou and heads back into the wind. Our portages today are often in low, swampy areas, and one has a pond in the middle with muskeg shores. Our feet sink several inches into the cold water as we carry our packs and canoes.

Later in the day, as Bob and I stand on a knot of grass on the shore of a small lake, a plane flies overhead. We think it's the group of fishermen that fed us our second breakfast on Murdock Lake. We wave and the pilot dips his wings. It's the last plane that will be flying for a few days, for the wind is getting stronger still. We suddenly cross a new logging road that cuts across the portage trail. The dirt and gravel road is covered by the marks of big wheels. Bob and I are amused at the "stop" sign posters tacked onto trees on either side of the road. Perhaps the portage trail is used for ski-doo's in the winter and the riders need a sign to warn them that they're crossing a road. The signs seem more an expression of bureaucracy than necessity.

Our final portage from a small pond to Pipestone bay has a long climb over a hill. We finish at about three o'clock on this Friday afternoon. We don't know it yet, but we're looking at our camp for the next few days.

As we stand on the shore of Pipestone Bay, Bob and I realize that we aren't going anywhere this windy day. Our portage ended in a small, shallow bay on the northwestern end of Pipestone. The wind from the east blows across five kilometers of water before it reaches our portage landing. As the deep waves hit the shallow bay, they're driven up, finally crashing against the shore. The shallow bay is muddy and brown now. The turmoil above has the bottom all stirred up. We won't be able to fish anywhere near where we are. Our dried food supply is down to one meal and a few snack bars.

I put up the tent and suggest that we hop in and sleep. After sleeping, we sleep some more. The wind continues into the night. Wind, rain, then more wind and rain.

Saturday brings no relief. After a few hours, Bob suggests that we build a fire. With the strong wind, and now with rain, we have to move well inland. Our canoe goes up as a windbreak and we bend a few small trees into a frame for our rain fly. There's plenty of wood, and soon we have a fire going. All day our fire burns as we cook our last bit of dried stew. In the afternoon, I take a stroll along the shore to the south. I'm wondering if it's possible to walk to the narrows that we can see far off in the distance. The ground is rough and thick with trees, standing and down. To make the walk would take all day, and it would be hazardous, especially with heavy packs. I look instead for a place to fish, but the shores are steep and rocky to the south. Our day ends as it began. The east wind is still strong, the waves still crash against the shore.

Sunday brings no relief. There's less rain, but no change in the wind. With nowhere to go, Bob and I start to think about our next meal. We can't fish here at Pipestone, but perhaps at the small pond on the other side of the portage.

This portage is 1,200 meters long, with a high hill to climb. Bob and I pack up our rods and make the trip. Not being experienced in small pond fishing, I hook on a small floating diver that worked well for the last two weeks. I get several hits on the lure, but nothing seems to get hooked. It's not until I've spooked all the fish near the shore that I realize that my lure is too big for the small fish in this pond.

But now my mind is on fish, and I really would like to have a meal today. So back I go over the portage to pick up the canoe and carry it all the way back to the pond. Bob and I circle the entire pond, but a very small jack (northern pike) is all that we can hook. I joke about Lieutenant Bligh dividing up a sea bird to his crew on the launch of the Bounty.

"Who shall have the eyes? Bob shall have the eyes"

"Who shall have the liver? Jim shall have the liver"

We eat our mouthful of fish, and all of our spare fish breading. When we finish the portage back to Pipestone Bay, we're greeted by the wind and crashing waves. We haven't heard any planes flying since Friday. Apparently nobody is getting either into our out of the park.

As I wake up Monday morning, I immediately hear the wind. Not another day! For a long time I stand on the shore. Could we make it to the northern shore? Could we stay close and inch our way to the eastern shore and sheltered waters?

We load up our canoe and give it a try. It doesn't work well. We do get out of the bay, but the only way we can hope to ride the waves it to point the canoe to the southwest or the northeast. The zags aren't too bad, but the zigs takes us hundreds of meters from the shore. The bow of our small canoe rides high, then crashes down, sending a spray of water into the air. We land again and crawl up on the norther shore of Pipestone. I again try to see if I can walk along the shore, make my way east. For a while I can, then thick brush blocks my way.

A few hours later I make a proposal:

"I think we can inch to the east if we stay very close to this northern shore."

Bob agrees to try and we again launch into the wild, cold water. We don't do too bad. The waves reflect off the shore and although the water is chaotic, there are no huge waves that could turn us over. But now the shoreline changes to a steep rock wall. Following this shore is no safer than being out in the middle; there's no place to land a canoe.

As we round a point into a partly protected bay, we spot a big Lund motorboat. Bob suggests that we ask for help. It's an excellent idea, asking for help when you need it. I don't know this yet, but I take Bob's advice and we hail the motorboat.

The fisherman from Bow Narrows Lodge is unconcerned about the weather that takes our canoe so close to disaster. He has two young sons aboard but agrees to help two very rough looking characters. Bob and I hop into the motorboat and we tether the canoe behind the boat. I find out something else about a canoe - it doesn't tow well. Although our tow line is connected right at the bow, it's too high on the canoe. As we go faster, the canoe skews off to the side, like a water skier. We have to shorten the line to about two meters to keep the canoe under control. I've since modified my canoe by adding a rope hole just above the waterline at the bow and stern - a trick I learned from Cliff Jacobson at the Canoecopia show in Madison, Wisconsin. The low rope holes allow the canoe to be lined upstream, and I'm sure they will make towing easier in the future.

It takes the better part of an hour for our gracious rescuer to reach Bow Narrows Lodge at the southern end of Pipestone Bay. We're greeted by more hospitality. The owners of the lodge, Dan and Brenda Braughman, are just getting ready to serve supper and we're invited to stay.

For the last hour or so, since hopping on the motorboat, I've been somewhat concerned about my appearance. There was no mirror on the boat, of course, but the eyes of the young fishermen told me that I probably didn't look like the kindly old grandfather that I really am. I glance at the hands I'm about to eat with and decide that perhaps I should use the washroom. The mirror in the washroom reveals a dirty, scraggly-bearded scarecrow.

"I'll bet he doesn't smell too good, either" I mutter to myself as I try in vain to dislodge the filth under my fingernails.

Bob and I are as giddy as kids. The Lodge cook asks us some question about how we would like our food prepared. We can't help but laugh. If she draped it over the exhaust pipe of a pickup truck to warm it up we would gobble it down and swear it was the best meal we ever had!

Later, Dan loads our canoe across the gunwales of a motorboat and takes us across the western bay of Red Lake to Black Bear Lodge. Dan and Brenda do offer transport services for canoeists, and our extended stay at the Pipestone portage could have been avoided had I known this and made contingency arrangements before our trip.

At Black Bear Lodge we meet Kim Markhausen. I met Kim and his wife Susan several years ago, at the end of my first solo trip into Woodland Caribou Park. Bob and I are treated to coffee and a ride to Bob's Jeep.

It's dark when we pull into Red Lake, to a nice looking Hotel on the main street. Now I really feel like a scarecrow, but I'm guessing the town people are used to the appearance of bush travelers. We find out they are. The Hotel lobby is nice and clean, and the rooms above are probably filled with clean, decent folks. We get a room key and find ourselves walking across the street to the isolated "wing" of the hotel - no doubt reserved for rough characters like Bob and me. I call our outfitter, Al Rogeslesky and let him know we made it out. He was worried about us - he took Bob's Jeep to Black Bear Lodge several days ago, and was surprized to see it still there on Monday.

The next day, as we drive out of Red Lake, we learn that two miners were killed in an accident in Balmertown. I once again realize how lucky I've been in my life. Even though our trip didn't end as we expected, Bob and I had a great time and will probably do it again.