Late in the night I wake up and slip out of the tent. It's colder now and there is no moon. My tiny flashlight blinks out a path as I walk carefully to the shore. There's a hint of light here, but no wind, no sound... Fog covers the lake. Nothing is clear or distinct. There is no sharpness, no focus to my senses. Somewhere to my left are deserted shores, the water touching rocks and driftwood and fallen trees, but not moving, not alive or warm or rippled by the passing of some nocturnal creature. Ahead there is distance, but I can't see it. I stare into the fog and my imagination sees the far shore, and beyond, the forest, now dark and strange, rough with fallen trees and damp moss and small patches of high rocky ground... Behind me I hear nothing, but sounds from years past echo in my mind. The moose that crashed through the forest late in the night near our campsite on the Nemo River in Wabakimi - is he here too, quiet now, standing as I'm standing? And the bear that jumped as I paddled through Hatchet lake, is he here behind me, pausing in his search for food, smelling the foggy air, listening as I listen? Are all of these things happening now, or did the wild fog just mix all sights and sounds and times together, leaving me drifting and wondering and now shivering on this lonely lakeshore? Back in the tent it feels good to sink into my sleeping bag, to draw the hood up over my head. As I drift off to sleep, again I listen ... silence...

Later in the morning, we paddle under clear, sunny skies. It's warm now, and the traveling is easy. Ahead, Mike spots five vultures circling an island. I'm thinking that there's some drama going on in the land below, perhaps some creature is near death. We're disappointed when we reach the island. Breakfast scraps are drawing the birds. There's a cabin or lodge nearby and the chef evidently used a flat rock next to the island to dispose of left over potatoes. Within a half hour, a plane lands nearby and soon again takes off.

Carroll Lake is one of the few lakes in the park that has lodges and cabins. The route from Carroll on the west to Telescope on the east - the Gammon River route - is the most populated part of the park. I traveled this route once, but I will probably not do it again. It's not a bad area, but there are places in Woodland Caribou Park more worthy of a canoe adventure.

But now the Haggart River spills into the lake before us. The sun reflects from small waves and ripples, flashing like hundreds of stars from a fireworks display as the river flows into Carroll Lake.

We pass through five waterfalls as we make our way down the Haggart. There's a small falls at the first portage. The Haggart is about fifty meters wide here and about two meters deep with a sand bottom. We're apart from cabins and planes but not from the land around us, the water beneath us and the wide empty sky above.

Now we're in a beautiful place, rough and unspoiled and untouched by fire or man. As each new falls comes into view, the sound of fast water ebbs and flows with the wind, now soft and faint, now loud and sharp and clear. Cool water sparkles as we approach rough and broken landings. We climb to steep rocky ledges and look down at blue lakes circled by wind brushed pines. Sometimes our path leads us closer and closer to fast water that shouts, then roars as it runs wild over the land, throwing spray into the air, seeming to shake the treetops with its power. Sunlight pours down from above, tumbling through the high branches and splashing on the forest floor.

Small sheltered lakes lead us past smooth, rounded shores as the hours go by. Late in the afternoon we fish again and I hook a good sized jack. Mike and I are done for the day and we find a campsite with a view of the northern sky. Our jackfish goes into some potato soup, along with half a bag of rice pilaf and some left over fish breading to make it thick. As usual, the food tastes great and there's only one pot to clean when we're done.

As the sun goes down, I change into clean sleeping clothes and we spread sleeping bags over the flat solid rock shore. Mike brings a few sticks together and soon we have a fire going. There's a small piece of moon floating above the horizon and it reflects off the water. September stars fill the skies as evening soon turns to night. Late in the evening, after nodding off a few times, I call it a night and crawl into the tent.