Algonquin Park May 2006 Photo Essay

[passthepitonspete]

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I don’t recall catching any fish along the way, but we didn’t really care too much. Except for the loons, we were the only souls on the lake and had our pick of the place. We selected this superb campsite on a point close to the portage into the next day’s lake, where you see my dad setting up camp. He usually looks after the kitchen stuff, and is especially skilled at the crucial task of levelling the grill which he checks by putting water-filled pots on top of it. Meanwhile I collect firewood and set up the tent. On a perfect evening like this one, you know we didn’t bother with the tarp.

 

I love Algonquin Park for its classic campsites equipped with hand-cut wooden benches and pre-existing firepits. While purists might poo-poo these home improvements, I just love ‘em. Only Quetico rivals Algonquin in beauty and whining’ness of campsites, but in Quetico you don’t even get the “wooden box” at the end of the trail out back, let alone the furniture. Both parks are so much more scenic than the far north of Ontario, where you’ll never see a red or white pine, just ugly aspens and scruffy black spruce and if you’re lucky, the odd jackpine.

 

 

While my dad wasn’t looking, I snuck down to the point at the end of the campsite to cast a gold and orange spoon out over the shallow boulder shoal I knew was there. It only took a few tries before I nailed the first laker.

 

“Grab the camera! I got one!”

 

“Hey, I never even saw you go down to the water.”

 

“That was the idea….”

“Well, I guess you get the first nickel. Maybe the whole fifteen cents.”

 

“Forget that, mate. I want a double shot of Julius Kessler in my Algonquin Coffee tonight!”

 

This little laker had luck on his side since I had carried a fat juicy steak along the portage, so we cooked that up for supper instead. Some instant mashed potatoes from Denninger’s [Mike’s tip!] and we enjoyed a repast fit for kings. Medium rare, please, with some Montreal smoked meat seasoning.

 

The next morning was chilly but dry with a bit of a cold front rolling in, so we cranked up the fire good and hot.

 

 

Breakfast if not fish is usually bacon freshly sliced “off the slab”, toast made from crusty caraway rye bread, and maybe some goatmeal.

 

Our next portage was fairly short by comparison, so I humped both packs and the canoe in three quick trips. We trolled around the second lake, and knocked off a few small lake trout here and there. We were sure to hit the hotspot next to our favourite island – one time years ago with my friend Ian we fought 40 mph winds to troll across this shoal, and on each pass we got a triple-header before being blasted back into the lee of the island as we tried not to get tangled or smashed on the rocks!

 

The crux of our second day, or so we thought, was to be the mile-long portage into the next lake. As I helped my dad into the heavier BFP, I was pretty sure I’d put in too much weight for the old fart. Oops. Handing him the rods, I asked him if he was OK with the load.

 

“I’ve carried worse, I’ll just take my time and rest where I can,” and without a further word he wobbled down the path. I dashed ahead with the canoe and the “lighter” pack, and got to the far end as quickly as possible, which was not very. I’m not sure if the word “dash” properly describes a slog that crushes body, mind and spirit for each interminable step, and I was pretty darn glad to find a soft muddy landing where I could unceremoniously shuck the canoe. As my vertebrae decompressed, I thought, Ah – that wasn’t so bad.

 

I jogged back up the trail to “rescue” my dad, which turned out to be a pretty steep uphill pitch which hadn’t quite registered with me on the downhill leg. I found him resting at about the halfway point where he described in great detail falling over and “turning turtle” before righting himself and carrying on.

 

I was amazed when he helped me into his pig. “Dude!” I exclaimed, “you’ve ‘Carried Your Age’ for at least half a mile! For sure this pack is more than 81 pounds! Damn, nice work.”

 

We entered the next lake by way of a long marshy estuary, and the frogs were so loud we literally had to shout to be heard. You can click here to

 

You can see in the video that the wind was really beginning to whip up, and we were soon paddling our asses off as hard as possible into 45 mph headwinds, hugging what little “shoreline” we could find in a whats his name with two-foot-high banks. The main part of the lake was insane, so we pulled into the lee of a point to take a breather. We were feeling pretty knackered after the carry, but unfortunately there wasn’t really anywhere to camp, so we were forced back out into the tempest. “Paddle hard! Once we clear the point it’ll be a bit easier!” "Yeah, right!" "Shut up and paddle!"

 

With our stale winter triceps burning, we crawled up the lake barely netting a half-mile per hour, aiming for the first campsite on an island we hoped wouldn’t be too small to block the wind. It turned out to be a split-level affair, and we gratefully chucked out our stuff and scarfed the upper more sheltered campsite. It was way too windy to try to fish, and besides we were toast.

 

 

Fortunately for us, the wind abated during the night, and the next morning we knew we’d be fine and wouldn’t be windbound. With clear skies, we hadn’t needed the tarp.

 

 

Despite still feeling the effects of the day before, we tried not to wank about too much in the morning and managed to get underway before the wind decided to get nasty again. We set out across the main part of the lake in a slight chop, trolling as per usual. We appeared to be the only people on this lake, too. Suddenly I noticed the sky. “Uh-oh, check out the clouds. See those lens-shaped ones? Lenticular clouds like that usually mean bad weather is moving in, but with any luck the falling barometer will turn on the fish.”

 

 

Evidently the lake trout had read the forecast, because when we trolled past a shoal marked by a big dead log out in the middle of the lake, Bang! Fish on! In quick successive trolls as the grey clouds rolled in, we nailed half a dozen spunky lakers up to about five or six pounds – suh-weet!

 

 

You can see the Killer Lure this day, the orange-gold J-11. I like this photo because of the reflection of the lure and the colour of the laker’s eye. A couple lakes later I lost a nice eight-pound-or-so trout when it wrapped itself in the line at the side of the canoe and swam away my nice chartreuse J-11. Uh, excuse me – the Wank Factor* was running a bit high just then.

 

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* Wank Factor [Co-efficient of Wank] - that unitless number, which when multiplied by the total amount of time spent on a fishing trip equals that amount of time lost to unproductive activity [i.e. wanking about]

Edited April 22, 2007 by passthepitonspete

[Greencoachdog]

Is this Spam, or just litter?

[pigeonfisher]

1. Here are the rules for posting here.

 

Don't tell us what to do!

 

Cool photos!

 

Do you sell Clik as well? are they equally easy to carry while "solo assenting" a big dang hill? do publishers really take responses to web "essays" seriously when trying to sell them a book or an idea for a publication?

 

How are you GCD?

[Greencoachdog]

1. Here are the rules for posting here.

 

Don't tell us what to do!

 

Cool photos!

 

Do you sell Clik as well? are they equally easy to carry while "solo assenting" a big dang hill? do publishers really take responses to web "essays" seriously when trying to sell them a book or an idea for a publication?

 

How are you GCD?

 

 

I'm doin' good!... and you PF?

[pigeonfisher]

Not bad, getting ready for number 2 to arrive soon and gettin the yard ready for summer. You know the drill. How is your new Ford Truck running?