Saturday, September 29, 2012
Day Three: (And on the third day I rose again) Lakes: Long Island, Muskeg, Ogema, Henson, Gaskin. approx: 9 miles 5 portages:
11 miles paddled
365 rods portaged
I don’t want a pickle. I just wanna ride my motorcycle.
I’m not sure why, but that Arlo Guthrie song was in my head as I awoke. I slept in a bit longer today – not in any real hurry. The morning was cool and bright and I was on the water at about half 9. Breakfast was oatmeal and granola with some dried blueberries and honey and honey in my tea.


I paddled east into the sun down the rest of Long Island. The east end still shows signs of the blowdown but is a fun paddle all the same. Muskeg. What a useless excuse for a portage. I think a bushwhack would be better. 20 rods of boulders and then a beaver dam followed by a short, mucky paddle and another beaver dam pull over. If I could have got going fast enough I think I could have jumped the thing. The paddle through Muskeg was quick and fine. Not so the 185 rod portage into Kiskadinna. It's not the worst portage I’ve done, but I’ll wager they’re cousins. Rocky, a shower of choked roots, and steeper than an Amsterdam staircase, its only forgiving quality is that it is in the woods. These woods. In the Dub. You’ll do well to be part billy goat. Even if you’re just the little goat gruff. It does level out after you reach the top and then has a longish slight descent with just a bit of grade down at the end. I cursed nearly everyone I dislike while picking my way through this one.
Kiskadinna. It was my first time on it despite being close many other times. I like it. Long, narrow, with enough hills and trees to frame it and keep it well. I paused in the bay just after the put in to treat a liter or so of water and drink it down. I don’t like to carry water and so just “camel up” occasionally and then steal the odd sweep of a cup or two from the lake while paddling.
The portage from Kiskadinna to Ogema was perhaps even steeper than the climbs previous, but it was short. Ogema is a nice wee bit of water and I paddled its outline thinking of a girl named Olicia I knew as a kid back home. She was Irish and Spanish – and we all called her Orlaith (Orla) because it was the closest Irish name we could think of. I was that in love her when I was twelve and she ten I think. She of the dancing dark eyes and hair – even though Orla means golden princess –the name seemed to fit her. She was born in Belfast, her ma was Irish and from the Falls Road but her da from Spain and I remember thinking that Spain must be a real shithole for him to come to Belfast hoping for something better. But who knows the way of the world anyway? I barely remember a time in Belfast before the troubles – the blessing of my generation. Her family was burned out in one or more of the riots and stompings we often took in those days. I remember seeing her on the brick and broken glass strewn street the morning after, wearing her blue and gray checked school dress and a jumper, a settee still smoldering behind her, her dark hair standing every which way and she holding her youngest sister in her arms, only one sock on her foot and staring wild-eyed out across the way. She was still beautiful even in that hurt way. Maybe more because of it. I fell in love with her again but love is hard to hold when you’re young, hungry and fairly hopeless. I’m sure I saw her after that because I know they stayed on the Falls and I didn’t leave for another year or so when I made 18, but I've no memory of her after that. Thinking of her now makes me think of Van Morrison and The Chieftains singing Raglan Road. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dobte0rRKUA&feature=related You'll need to copy and paste that to hear what I'm thinking.

I tried for 20 minutes to find the portage from Ogema to Phalanx lake – I’d heard there were beautiful, moss covered rock outcroppings there and I wanted to see them. Sort of like the Raphaels and Bellinis in Rome. But I couldn’t find the damned thing. Too much windfall at the shoreline and even when I got out of the canoe in two different places and searched a bit I couldn’t find the portage trail. Not meant for my eyes I suppose. I suppose I hadn't earned it. I paddled back down Ogema’s throat and then hiked over to Henson with the canoe on my head. Henson was grand so, much like Kiskadinna – and I stopped for my lunch of nuts and berries, cheese and salami and some peanut m&m's at the second campsite in. A group of seven in 3 canoes passed by and I watched them. They didn't wave. Nor did I. I sat in the sun with the lightest breeze to keep me company. I treated the water I’d pulled from the lake with my steripen, had a drink, added some Gatorade powder just for something not quite sweet and looked around for a raven or two. There weren’t any.

What else of note had I seen this day? Saw bear scat and a bear print. Saw wolf scat, and the print of a bob cat I think, Saw a loon, Saw an airplane.
I rose, stretched, got back into the canoe and paddled the rest of the way down Henson and over the wee hill to Gaskin. Well, I didn’t paddle the hill – I portaged that and was the better for it. Gaskin is quite a beautiful lake. It has a couple of nice bays and is dotted with lovely small islands. It was empty. Well, there was water in it to be sure, but no people that I could see. I took the peninsula campsite with the three islands in front of it and a very sweet site it was. Very large, open -it would suit a large group very well. Even though it was only afternoon, I left the light on in case a group of Canadiennes might need last minute shelter, knowing how they can be.


I did what I always do in the afternoons, change out of my wet shoes and any clothes, pull out my gear, allow anything damp or wet an attempt to dry in the sun and the breeze, gather a bit of firewood, set up my hammock, have a bit of drink, sit and read, review my maps, think about the day, and tomorrow and anything else that crosses my mind.

The last of the day passed quickly. I had my dinner (repeat of day one), washed my fork and cup, watched the stars come out to play and when it chilled I made a fire, and sat there, staring into past, eating chocolate and drinking wine, thinking of a story to tell myself. I went to my bed that night, lying in the dark, the slight sway of the hammock – my tarp pitched high for the fine weather and watched the moon arc its way from the vee of my feet up across the sky. An owl called out a great many times and I stayed awake for all of it, a long time, looking and listening and thinking of where I’ve been.