Sunday September 9

7:00 a.m. Sunday. The day began with a clear, sunny sky with no wind but with our coolest temperature yet of 40 degrees F. Walt and I remarked about how beautiful Amber Lake was when looking to the west.

A quick breakfast and a better organized striking of camp saw us on the water at 9:00 a.m.. After a quick look at our maps to locate the next portage, we were on our way. I told Walt that we should go toward the bay on the right, but he said that we should go into the bay on the left. I had my way and five minutes later, we were lost. With a quick check of the maps we headed to Walt’s bay and soon found the portage.

Our landing was at a large, upturned tree which Jim Hegyi had mentioned in his journal. We were on the trail in short order and were

grateful that we didn’t have any floating corduroy to negotiate. At the other end of the 600 meter portage, we met four young men from Minnesota and New York. They had just negotiated the area of muck that showed on our maps as Nutria Lake. They told us that we would most definitely need our bowline. After a few minutes of exchanging items of interest to both parties, Walt and I were off to perhaps the biggest challenge of our trip.

Passing a large beaver lodge on our left, we paddled through some whips and were soon at the first of three pull throughs in close succession.

We were able to get back in the canoe and pull our way along for perhaps 50 meters before the situation called for more drastic action. The information

about the bowline was correct, but Walt and I quickly learned that a stern line was also a necessity if we were to get to the end of this muck. Forget about trying to stay dry. Forget about trying to not step in muck above your kneecap. In order to get the canoe to Mexican Hat Lake, sacrifices had to be made.

We were very grateful that there were no biting insects, and the temperature was only about 60 degrees F. The passage at times was only as wide as the canoe. Trying to propel the canoe forward by grabbing it and pushing soon became undoable while being knee-deep in muck. The bow and stern lines became valuable allies in this most miserable mile of our journey.

About an hour of manuvering brought us within sight of Mexican Hat Lake. We were able to reenter the canoe and regain our dignity. After a short distance of pushing our way through the marshy swamp, we were out onto Mexican Hat Lake. While Walt and I took a smoke, I couldn’t help but think about Humphrey Bogart pulling his craft through marshes in the movie, African Queen.

Paddling to the falls on the other end of Mexican Hat seemed to take very little effort compared to what we had just accomplished. As we neared the campsite at the falls, we were hoping that no one had already occupied the site. But if we had to look for another site, there were several sandy beaches that we could look at. The falls site was unoccupied. We soon had our tents pitched and our gear placed strategically about the firering.

Later, I was about to step into the lake for a well deserved bath when two men from Minnesota appeared at the bottom of the falls. A quick hello and a query about ladies being in their party being answered in the negative, I was soon splashing about in ankle deep water.

Walt and I decided to try for a few walleye or lake trout for the evening meal. An hour of trying produced one pike of somewhat small proportions. We decided to return to camp.

The freeze-dried spaghetti was delicious. As we finished our meal at 8:00 p.m., it began to rain. As we sat on tree stumps trying to decide where we would fish tomorrow, the rain became a downpour, chasing us to the shelter of our tents.

Monday September 10

We awoke at 5:40 a.m. to solid overcast and a 52 degree, drizzling rain. We got a fire going for coffee and oatmeal. The rain stopped by 6:30 and the clouds were breaking up. The promise of a nice day was evident.

At 8:00, Mel and I paddled across the lake to the north shore and fished the shoreline to the west for two hours. We didn’t get a strike. Mexican Hat must be a very deep lake. In most places we had 20 to 30 feet of water under the canoe when only 10 feet from shore.

We got out of the canoe to stretch our legs and look at a beaver lodge. I showed Mel how we could put two 330 conibear sets in the runway and be pretty sure of a double by the next morning. This was a very active lodge. Woodland Caribou Providence Park is evidence of low fur prices for the last several years. There is in my opinion an over population of beaver.

We paddled south across the lake and slowly fished the shoreline to the east toward camp. Finally Mel caught a 30-inch northern which he released. The ice now broke; I caught a 23-inch walleye followed by a 17-inch walleye. We put them on the stringer. Fish chowder would no longer be delayed

Back at camp, I filleted the fish. Mel separated the backbones, skins, and heads. He wrapped the heads and skeletons in cheesecloth and dropped the bundle into a two-liter pot to boil to make a fish stock. We added two chicken bullion cubes to help the stock..

After this concoction of fish parts had boiled forever, or so it seemed (probably one hour), we removed the cheesecloth bag of fish parts and proclaimed the stock done. We added celery flakes, onion flakes, basil, powdered milk, one pack of dried potato soup, and enough crushed pepper flakes to add a little bite. Then in went a freeze-dried pack of mixed vegetables. After pondering this mix, we added a second pack of mixed vegetables. We allowed this mix to simmer for a minute or two. Our chowder became a thick stew after the second bag of vegetables cooked for awhile. Then we stoked up the fire to bring the mix to a boil.

Nearly Chowder Time

After it started to boil we added the fish which had been cut into one-inch cubes. The fish cooked in 5 or 6 minutes, and we dug in. Believe it or not, that was delicious. We each ate a full liter of stew.

After washing dishes we sat around the fire for a couple hours and watched satellites coast overhead in a star-filled sky, simply enjoying a relaxing evening.

Tuesday September 11

I awoke at 7:00 a.m. to the sounds of Walt building a fire. This 42-degree morning was colder than any of the previous mornings, so I rolled over and snuggled deeper into my mummy bag expecting at any moment to hear Walt yell out, "The water is boiling.". It was not until 8:00 a.m. that I awoke again. Walt had let me sleep an extra hour. What a nice gentleman he was.

Making an easy breakfast of oats and coffee we were on the water at 9:30. Our first stop was just across from camp at the falls on Mexican Hat Lake. We climbed to the top and took a few pictures looking back down toward camp.

Paddling from the falls to the northernmost part of Mexican Hat, we

fished and explored some of the many sandy beaches along the way. We passed three beaver lodges and saw a beaver swimming along the shore. Much beaver wood had floated ashore. At the upper most part of Mexican Hat, the lake flows out of a small bay on its way to Glenn Lake. A portage was located next to the outlet, but the volume of water was noticeably less than the inflow at the falls next to our camp. We ate a few snacks and admired the beauty of our surroundings before heading back. We had not caught any fish this morning, so we decided to fish around the little island near camp where we had caught the walleyes yesterday.

At 3:30 p.m., we had not caught any fish, so we paddled back to camp and dug into our food packs for yet another of those delicious freeze-dried entrees.

After dinner we chatted about our lack of fishing success on Mexican Hat. It was now Tuesday evening, and we were scheduled to be picked up at the Leano Lake exit point at noon Friday. We decided to pack up and move closer to Leano Lake in the morning. About 6:30 p.m., the sky to the north and the west became quite black and thunder began rumbling toward us.