My first thoughts as I rose this morning were of smoke.

Little Sag is a big lake, big enough for the far shore to be nearly obscured by a haze. The difference between smoke and fog is one of minute but indefinable details. One hints at mystery and promise; the other warns of invisible looming danger.

Oatmeal and coffee greet the sunrise. My goals were simple - enjoy the Little Sag- Mora portage, catch some fish for dinner, and stay cool. I found myself guilty of the great canoe country sin. I was rushing through lakes, myopically focused on the next point, the next portage, the next choice. This trip was supposed to be about losing that mindfulness, about finding a natural pace and rhythm that wasn’t defined by artificial constraints. Today I was determined to slow down.

I was offered my first opportunity early. Just as I paddled into the final bay, a flurry of splashes drew my attention. Deep in the bay, a swarm of loons scurried across the surface. I have never witnessed so many in one place. Nor have I ever observed such odd behavior. Chasing each other, random dives and quick returns, the posse was full of energy and verve. They paid me no attention, coming close enough to reveal those gorgeous details. Red eyes, the green ring neck. Close, we remember that this is a bird of prey, finely tuned by a deadly purpose. I spent an hour watching, drifting in the light breeze, finally released from the curse of the time table.

At the Little Sag-Mora portage, I quickly lugged the gear, but spent an hour walking the falls. The low water invited close inspection, the rock smoothed by an eternity of life rushing to its next home. There is something surreal here that can’t be captured in a photo or with a pen. It is the kind of place that makes you think about your own death without the common edge of horror. Here is a place I could stay forever and meet the end of the world. If I live right, my kids will spread my ashes here some day, and it is only the intense peace of this place that makes such thoughts comforting.

I trolled my way across Mora, catching several good eaters, but I wasn’t ready to slow down the perfect glide of every stroke with a stringer over the side. I decided the fishing warranted more casts, so as I drifted east I also cast a second rig towards shore. The idea of a double is enticing until it actually happens in a solo boat designed for speed. However, I didn’t learn from my first close call. I hooked something more substantial just as I hit the first island east. As I tried to determine if it is a snag or a fish I will remember, I turned a little too far back. The dump happened in slow motion. I knew I was going a long time before I reached the point of no return, but it felt inevitable. The canoe swamped, most of the gear remaining in the boat. I slowly pulled it all to shore, a little submerged point and an exposed shelf offering the perfect place to regain my pride and dry off. Of course, the first boat in the day paddled by offering to help. I thanked them for the offer, but besides the lost gear (a fishing rod and my glasses) I was no worse for wear. However, the spill convinced me to find the closest camp and check the packs.

The island site on Mora is wonderful, not just for the respite it offered a water-soaked fool. A nice landing, a kitchen cupped by cedars but offering a unrestricted view across the lake, and a plethora of hammock trees crown its pleasantries. After dropping off gear and spreading it to dry, I paddled up the north bay. Casting a spinnerbait, I caught numberless eater pike. Paddling up wind, I would only cast at the most attractive spots, and every log and submerged boulder rewarded my efforts. Drifting downwind, every fourth cast sparked a response, and I knew the special kind of disbelief rarely offered in the wild.

A dinner of pike and potatoes helped me forget the dump; the wrecked weather radio was a constant reminder, like a sore tooth I couldn’t help nudging. Ziplocs are not a waterproof solution. From now on, all electronics are going in the drybox. Evening swims and a complete repacking took up the daylight. With the heavy cedars, I knew I needed to retreat early and have a well-prepared defense. The swarm’s intense buzz was terrifying, but I remained safely ensconced in my cocoon, hot but happy to be free of Mother Nature’s fiercest terrorists.