Algonquin Park May 2006 Photo Essay

[passthepitonspete]

This is Page 1 of a five-part post, and is the beginning of the May 2006 Algonquin Park photo essay.

 

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Our trip began like it usually does, with our “double-decker sandwich” of car-topper plus canoe.

 

 

You can see from the license that my dad is a veteran – he served as a radioman in the U.S. Navy in the South Pacific during WWII aboard the USS Rotanin, a Liberty Ship familiar to aficionados as that of “Mr. Roberts”.

Just behind us and out of the photo is the picnic table we used to complete our packing job. After getting everything ready to go, we remembered we had to go buy our park permit. “Let’s leave the stuff on the table, it’s too heavy for anyone to pinch,” I suggested. “But I’d better put the rods back in the van – they’d be pretty easy to grab.”

 

 

Last year [like most years] we began at Opeongo Lake – Algonquin Park’s largest – and a starting point for trips to many of the bigger lakes in the park. It’s twelve miles to reach the portages leaving from the north and east ends of the lake, which is a half-day’s paddle at best, but on so huge a lake even a moderate wind can turn a long hard paddle into a full-day – or even a multi-day – epic. But any fool can be uncomfortable, so each year we bring our own “water taxi” and tow the canoe to the end of the lake with our ancient 15 HP outboard, taking us less than an hour and about three gallons of gas for the round trip. It is, after all, a holiday. Ya just gotta love it – white pines and granite outcrops, plus the smell of the evergreens, the water and the outboard – all under crystalline cobalt skies.

 

 

A couple hours later we reached the far end of the lake, heaved the car-topper out onto the shore, and dragged it up against a tree where we chained and locked it along with the outboard motor. In case you’re wondering, that round white thing next to the rock in front of the water is a hunk of bracket fungus someone left there. We hid the oars and some other stuff deep in the woods, then it was time to hit the portage.

 

“Uh, dude – I think we’re missing something …..”

 

What the…? No way! We forgot the dang’ rods in the van! Of course we didn’t notice thirty minutes sooner before we had everything out of the water. Arg, so we had to unlock the chain and drag everything back to the water, laughing and cursing ourselves in the same breath. Sheesh.

 

The best use of our resources was to sic me on the portage, and send my dad back in the boat for the rods since he was likely to have more success scrounging a refill for the gas tank. I did remember to give him the key to the van at least. With no small amount of trepidation, I handed my dad the maps and pointed through the labyrinth of islands. “It’s that way – this is here and that’s this hill on the map….” He looked confused. On canoe trips, I’m always the designated map reader. This is because I am better at it, you see – we have only ever portaged into the wrong lake twice. My dad set the map down on the boat seat in front of him, and after I turned it upside-down to orient it correctly, he set off down the lake in what appeared to be the right direction.

 

With any luck I’d be able to shuttle all of the gear most of the way along the portage before my dad returned with the rods. And hopefully gas. Figuring I’d ease into things a bit, I hoisted the canoe for the first load, adjusted the tumpline to get part of the weight off of my shoulders and onto my head, then set off down the trail. When you get the tumpline perfectly set up, you can portage the canoe without even having to balance it with your hand, which really saves your shoulders on long portages like this one. But it feels perversely good, the first portage of the year, as your muscles ache and you try to enjoy the sights and sounds and smells of the fresh forest from beneath your gigantic bobbing helmet. Ignore the pain – shut up and portage.

 

 

After two or three kilometres, the refreshing sight of our first lake materialized through the tree branches – always a welcome sight and particularly beautiful this day. I set down the canoe, took a bit of a rest, then ran back down the portage. No sign of pops yet, so nothing to do but grab the first BFP* and repeat the process. My pack was too heavy to pick up on my own, so I balanced it on a rock as I tried to climb into the thing. After falling over at least once, I rolled onto my hands and knees and somehow reached a standing position. Then it was back down the portage. Again.

 

 

These guys and hundreds of their buddies were making quite a racket, and each time I trudged by them they leaped into the creek, only to be waiting for my return to jump in again. I had to guess when I expected my dad to return, and didn’t figure I could make it all the way to the end of the portage this time, so I left the pack balanced on a fallen log at about the three-quarters point and ran back. Fortunately he wasn’t there, so I chilled in the sun for a while.

 

Eventually he returned with the rods and enough gas to get us back, so we dragged all the crap back out of the water and chained it up once again.

 

“This is starting to become a drag.”

 

“Not as bad as five times down the same damn trail.”

 

 

The “three-quarters point” turned out to be more like two-thirds [ain’t that always the way?] and there I helped my dad into the first BFP I had left. Some time later his relief is evident as you see him finally reach the end of the portage. What a lovely spot, with mature white pines carpeting the ground in their soft brown needles. Nice fishing rods, eh?

 

We’d made it! Our first crux was behind us, and we had perfect sailing weather to cross the lake to our first campsite. I’ve been at this same beach in years past when there were three-foot breakers rolling in, but this day there was barely a ripple. We slid out from the gentle sand beach, paddled into deeper water, and chucked out our lures for our first Algonquin troll of the year.

 

“A nickel for the first fish, a nickel for the biggest, and a nickel for the most!”

 

Please click here to move to Page 2 of the Algonquin Park photo essay. If you have somehow arrived at this point without quite knowing how, please click here to return to the beginning.

 

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* BFP - Big dang' Pack!

Edited April 22, 2007 by passthepitonspete

[verno]

I read this page 3rd. I will go sit in the timeout chair.