Sometimes morning comes easy in canoe country. A hint of sunshine brings a smile to canoe travelers and they lie still, eyes open, listening to the small sounds of the forest. Sometimes birds scratch and pull at the bark on pine trees, looking for insects. Sometimes pine cones thump as squirrels send them to the ground where they can be picked up and eaten. The song of loons is always welcome, and even the call of the crow. The roar of fast water fades to a soft whisper when it's far away. Is it really the next falls, or is the wind tricking our ears? These gentle nudges of sound slowly wake us and we sit up in the tent, saying and doing nothing for a while.

But traveling in canoe country is also work, and our work begins immediately. We pack our sleeping bags, put our pads back inside the canoe seat cushions. Clean sleeping clothes are shed and we don our cold, soiled traveling clothes. Finally, if it isn't raining, we throw all of this stuff out of the tent before climbing out for the first time. This rigid routine, starting to break camp before we leave the tent, reminds us that we're travelers, not here to stay.

After a quick breakfast of coffee and pancakes, we load up the canoe. I usually walk through our campsite before we leave, looking for gear we forgot to pack, or small pieces of trash we forgot to collect. Behind this campsite is a small ridge. It's covered with moss. In the moss I see the faint trace of a moose track. As I step onto the ridge I see another. The rocky surface flattens a bit where an old log decomposes under the moss. The moss is pressed down here, and as I stare at the pressed down moss, I start to see the outline of a moose. I find where the head was, the body... Downhill a bit, against the rotting log, I see where the moose kicked his legs and scraped the moss. It's hard to say when he was there. Perhaps we chased him away as we approached the campsite, or perhaps he was here days ago.

It's sunny and clear as we land at the next falls. The landing is slanted and our feet slip as we make our way to higher ground. At the other end, the landing is right next to the falls, a bit too dangerous for me. In my many trips to the ranger station in cache bay, back in Quetico park, I learned from Jan Matichuk that most canoe accidents happen when going upstream. Getting into the canoe is hard enough on many landings, and if you don't get a good start and you're close to the top of a falls, you're looking for trouble.

Mike and I find a place twenty meters farther along the shore. We loop our rope around a tree and tie both ends to the bow of the canoe so it can't slip backwards. After we're loaded and in the boat, we paddle upstream and pull in our rope. As we paddle out, a flock of geese stirs up the water ahead, looking like a distant rapids. We hear their warning chorus as we paddle through. Faintly the voice of the wind echos with the sound of geese - a true wilderness sound.

The route is serene with small falls and quiet lakes and smooth rocky shores. There's not a cloud in the sky. The wind starts to pick up in the afternoon, but it's no trouble at all on these small lakes. We get hungry about three P.M, and realizing that we might pull into town on Friday, we splurge on noodles and rice. Our hearty meal gives us a burst of energy and we finish all the portages except the one into Crystal Lake. When we reach the end of the forty meter portage, I see current from a small stream flowing into the lake. Thinking that the fishing might be good, I throw in my line and immediately land a good sized jack. Another throw, another jack. Mike and I "trade up" until we have two good sized fish. This time I bread the fish and we fry them. I make a good sized pot of coffee and we settle in and watch the sun go down. The stars shine alone at the end of this perfect day. We're in our sleeping bags soon after sunset, lying still, eyes open, listening to the small sounds of the forest.