Thursday, July 18, 2019 We awoke to a misty and silent morning. The entire world was adorned in dew drops and the only sound was that of the mournful loon calling off the campsite. It was a move day but this mythical landscape begged us to move slowly, and we obliged. Instead of rushing off the campsite, we watched as the sun ever so slowly burned the fog and mist off the lake. These are the moments that make this place beyond special.

After a luxurious morning, sipping coffee and eating oatmeal, we packed up our soggy gear and headed out onto the water, destination unknown. We headed over to the portage to Beartrack Lake and began to feel our bodies finally recalling that old muscle memory. Our steps across that short portage felt more confident and steady. In no time, we were gliding across Beartrack Lake on another calm but misty day.
Feeling good, we moved quickly across Beartrack to the longish portage to Thumb Lake. Nice, flat, and steady as you go, we were on Thumb Lake in no time.
The portage from Thumb to Finger Lake was more of an adventurous pull over really. We took our time and let the dogs take a dip and fetch some sticks out of the lake. We still hadn't seen another soul since the one solo canoeist who had paddled past our site on LLC back on Monday after the storm. With the dogs tired out from their swim, we loaded them back in the canoes and scrapped over a few rocks to get out of the shallow arm of Finger Lake to the main body of water.
We paddled across Finger Lake until we came up a beautiful island campsite we could not pass up. Krystal wanted to continue to troll around the island and to check out the other site on it, so I pulled in with Gichi boy, and decided to go for a swim. Upon Krystal's fishless return, she saw a few odd looking otters frolicking in the water in front of our new home for two nights.

One of the first things we noticed at the site was how atrocious the fire pit was, absolutely filled with garbage. The most unfortunate part of it was, our dog Dobby found the trash first. We would find out in the middle of the night that among the random wrappers in that fire pit was also an empty pack of Ballpark hotdogs. Yes, he ate it, and sometime between dreams, the most reliable alarm clock in the world, the sound of a dog retching, shocked us into the light of dawn as we leapt up and attempted to quickly unzipper the screen to rush him outside the tent. He didn't make it out but luckily the vomit made it mostly in the pine needles on the far edge of the ground cloth. We were just glad it had come back up.