12/23/2019 11:03AM
Woodland Caribou/2019-2/Johnson to Haggart/August 30-September 10.
Halfway through the portage, the trail disappeared. We dropped our packs, skirted some windfall jacks, dropped to our knees, felt the earth, and found the route: hidden in a maze of blueberries. In time our work gave us a route towards the Haggart River. Blueberries filled two pots from the cook kit, berries shared space in the granola bag… at the edges our smiles turned blueberry. Two hours later we/Carol, Birch, and myself finished the portage: four packs, a canoe, fishing rods, and paddles reached a new lake. Often, we scurry at put ins: eager to explore new waters, beat the wind across fetches, find safe haven on distant shores. That day we hung tight on a flat rock, ignored the spits of rain, gray clouds, and temperature drop while staring up the trail at fall colored blueberry leaves, watching bees search new fruits, wondering when the next bear would fuel up for winter. When a wind gust banged the canoe on the shore, the magic drafted in the wind, and we moved west.
Our trip enjoyed few obvious blueberry nirvanas. Immediately, wind tore at us crossing Johnson. Before entering Douglas, on the creek, we hid in the spruce at the old boat cache…while northwest gusts and ice pellets conditioned us for the trip. Stars, sun, blue skies seldom graced us. Daily distances, calculated on the topos, shrunk as we sheltered from wind, clung to peninsulas or islands for paddling protection, often going beyond the direct route so we could turn and ride the waves to portages. Johnson, Douglas, the Hatchets, Embryo, Telescope, Glen funneled the weather at our bow, welcomed us to fall, conditioned our faces, hands, feet to fall paddling. We grumbled during those moments, then figured it out: dug out the wind breakers, kept the gloves close by, searched the horizons weather for breaks, accepted the wind bound moments, jigged the plugs slower for walleyes, and….laughed. On Glen near where the river tumbles in from Optic black flies graced our camp at night fall and stayed for breakfast…we shared our warmth with them, sang “black fly, black fly” (from the Complete Wilderness Paddler)….Birch heat in the tent became valuable...a black Labrador tucked between our sleeping bags made those early frosty evenings comfortable. On Hammerhead rain, wind, then rain and wind kept us an extra day: Carol sketched, read, dreamed up new food combinations, took photos of rain drops freezing on jack pines. Hammerhead kindness: fishermen from the camp drop a walleye at our camp, tell stories of the lake over the years, gift us with smiles. A loon constantly checks our camp: safe? warm? dry? As the sun appeared the bird left.
Arrogantly, we’ve often viewed this route only as a corridor to “secret places” of the Woodland Caribou. A quick paced path to the Gammon/Bloodvein and Lake Winnipeg, easy distances to musky, lake trout, hidden cliffs, small creeks stuffed with walleye. Below Optic, we paddle in silence…brooding from camp disputes of tent location, dinner choices, reshuffling the load in the canoe. In silence we paddle hard, check back bays for moose, wonder about a route to Domain, wander towards a rock point, check out an eagle’s nest, scrape by the dead float still head up in the water: first marked in 2009. In narrows the lake becomes river: current moves water, weeds, rice grows on the outside corner. We track a moose…hoofs on the sandy bottom until the river deepens and widens. Where the lake widens we stop on a sandy beach….toss retrieves to Birch, nibble on granola, enjoy an encounter with the sun. We head for the falls, where the river/Rostoul? falls down the hill from Mexican Hat and beyond. Walleye abound here…but, not today. Cast after cast produces only rocky strikes, battles on logs living on the bottom. Humbled, we head north towards Hansen….sit on the next portage, feel the sun, feed good about being here…Clouds appear, we finish the portage, catch raindrops in the canoe. Between Glenn and Hansen a wolf beams on the shoreline. Tall, seeming a light gray that grows white as we drift close….eventually the wolf disappears into the forest. Seldom on our trips do we see wolves....mostly we sense them, feel their presence in fresh scat, paw prints in muddled trails, or hear nearby movements. Grace, power, size, silent, mystic: the wolf. We catch our breath as we drift by his last mark.
We find the portage above the falls above Hansen…it rains and the canoe makes a great umbrella during the walk. At the bottom we hide the packs under the canoe, return for the others. Each of our portages take 3 trips….Carol with the tent pack, me with the canoe, then we return for food barrel, utility and dog pack. For now we don’t double pack so we learn the forest floor, feel the landscape, store the route in our minds. Birch? Mostly he hangs between us, checking scents, sampling berries, and marking his route. A storm blows up during the last carry….clay at the end of portage slickens and we slide down to the river. For the moment we sit under a large black spruce learning storm direction, closing our eyes with the lightning, chilling out in wet clothes….Across the river is another portage, this time around a ledge….the trail is simple, the ledge is runnable: most of the time. We opt for the trail fearing stupidity going over the ledge…Rain again, thunder, hail, cold wind….I try to solo the canoe over the ledge…wind overpowers current….and I pry to the shore. The rain ends, wind dies, and I run an empty canoe over the ledge. We load, float the current and Hansen….quiet, long views, a northwest horizon, and storms building around us.
On a point that gradually leans into Hansen we set camp. At first, the grace of the lake to the northwest grabs us, the hills behind demands attention. Carol talks pink granite, an open charred landscape here in 1989: our first trip through. We were too hurried to explore, but maybe tomorrow we’ll check out Domain Creek, seek sun in the northeast shores. The wind quickens, slashes from the northwest. Our canoe skids across the rock and wedges against a tree. Our tent drying in the juniper kites east. We hustle; grab our gear, run to the forest beyond. Here, we choose a tent site face into the wind…better drying, views for the northern lights, the setting sun will warm the tent. Birch sits on the tent as we stake out the tent…rocks on the corners, as we set the frame he moves inside until we add more rock…with the tent fly we’ve built a wind tunnel…but, we have sun, dried the tent, and it’s warm inside.
1 AM and the alarm clock shines….green streaks, long beams, waves of northern lights. Dawn and the sun rises behind us, bathes the hillsides, cast shadows at our tent. We shiver in the morning darkness, tent fly soaked in morning dew. The sun rises, then hides behind the cliffs….casting shadows on us. We wait around for the sun rays, stretch the tent over the canoe and wait for the solar drier.
Where next in this story? Sand beaches, solar panels collecting September sun where we stretch out and warm up, throw retrieves, watch loons; pretend we’re the first on the beach. Or do we tell of two canoes beyond us, a short hello, a smile and gone. Today, we realize maybe from Italy, and friends from Welkin Lake/2018? We should have talked longer.
Or do we detail the feel of long paddles across Rostoul Lake…the sound of paddle on water, water drifting off paddles, the canoe rocking as Birch curls tighter. Like the slow, easy run through Wisconsin woods the paddle brings a rhythm: the mind opens, eyes catch movement on the water, flashes along the shore, trivial of home disappears. We search fish boils, loon swirls, note beaver sticks drifting, the horizon’s curve, shorelines of mature jack pines, run off marked by alder brush, gurgles of ravens. We should fish…but then the canoe would stop and the loss would be the paddle…eventually we portage towards Hammerhead, note the fire boundaries, see the Rostoul plunge into Hansen and merge with the Gammon.
Here, cold winds and rain put us down for two days. Day dreams, books read, sketches colored, loons hoots, and red squirrel chatters fill the moments. Somewhere, the world must miss us? Perhaps, we’ve missed this world. The sun appears; we catch an early breeze, pack, and paddle north.
Mountain ash mark the portage into Donald. We gawk at the low water in the river. Quiver as we see our Labrador in 2001 wander out to the rocks below the falls in high water…we sigh with images of Carol guiding him to safely to shore. Today, Donald greets us with milky skies and gusts of wind: a colder front. We battle towards Adventure Creek, hide behind islands, quarter into breezes, power through whitecaps…fearfully admit that this might be a bit much. Up Adventure, the wind turns into us…we cuddle close to shore’s protection, watch waving weeds announce the creek. On Black Otter we paddle the winds to a standstill…note our progress by marks on the shore: a rock, a windfall, a birch in the distance. Slowly we gain, reach the portage…excited by the paddle, anxious about the trail.
Weird: big popple…in Wisconsin it is almost sinful to let popple grow so large…they need to be cut at an 8 inch diameter/makes better toilet paper?
Here, above Black Otter, we dance in big popple. Wind chimes in their leaves.
Smells of earth, dry leaves, wood rotting frequent the trail: Petrichor? The stuff flowing in the Greek gods veins now scientifically names the smells…we travel to the top, mixing pine, blueberry, and warm rock smells…volatile compounds/VOC…someone would say…We just relish the walk, slowly return towards the last of the packs…and yes, we hug a few popple, smiling to the gods.
It is here we pick the blueberries, the best of the trip. It is here where we reluctantly leave a portage…paddle across a lake and climb up the next trail…Tough stuff near the top…a long rock with an intense slope…we seem to touch the clouds misting on us. The journey goes down quickly to Sea Otter…we suck water, devour energy bars, and come to the end of the today’s paddle.
We circle the lake, find the obvious camps burnt, eroded, sloping too much. On the northwest shore an opening, a smooth site on top…tent up, we dry our clothes, shoes, and sleep easily…it will rain tonight. The clouds tell us: mackerel skies near the sun, thickening clouds darkening to the north…the wind swirls east and we sleep to droplets on the tent.
We’re almost done: 3 portages to Haggart, five days to explore. Wolf and bear scat show up on the trail to the Haggart River. With the fire, the woods on the gray day looks sinister. Low water chatters through the falls at the end of Bulging, and we stop, measure the years in high water marks along the shore. Bulging isn’t friendly: rain threatens, gusts tell of big waves on the open part of the lake, the temperatures drop. We find a camp: tucked in the islands, back to the wind, facing the large expanse of Bulging. We set camp early, pledge to leave early the next day to fish trout in the deep waters. Two days later, we leave to fish trout in the deeps…but the camp captured us: tent beneath solid jack pines, a fire place looking down the lake, room to place a shelter to eat under, close to a shoreline full of northerns, inland with dry firewood, and blueberries to eat in case…we get lost? Hungry? Or just hang out? The first night: dark, windy, and spits of snow. The second night rain travels through the trees. It clears on night three…Orion, the Seven Sisters, the Big Dipper come to visit. We shiver at a small fire, inhale some combination of dried food and granola…we should leave, but we want to stay….feeling the land, blending with the horizon, becoming part of the new season.
Sunday and we’re drenched in sunlight. A breeze pushes south towards Haggart. We fight it, paddle out into big Bulging, mark the fire lines, note yellowing birch leaves, and watch ravens glide the horizon.
The falls out of Haggart is gone! Low water creates a quick, narrow current. Perhaps runnable? Still we push up the portage trail, cut an overhanging tree, bang the canoe on the shoreline clumsily announcing our arrival into Haggart.
Paddling south we work the wind. Tuck by shorelines, find calm in small bays, turn a bit west to catch a gust, grunt into breezes that blast down the channel.
Past the cross-- bays east to west, north to south—we stop on a sand beach. Moose tracks across the sand, beaver sticks floating off shore, an eroded bear print leading into the woods. Birch bounds in the water, shows off retrieving, rubs down on the sand, sprints up and down the open space. Birch trees are growing quickly in the burnt forest, moose maple compete with them. The burnt jack pines moan in the wind. The sand heats up quickly and we rest, leaning against the packs. We’ve been here before, solstice sun rays pounding on us. Now, the almost equinox sun sheds new light on the landscape…the water is darker, the shadows lengthen from the forest to the water. We pretend to fish, troll a Rapala, and head south then turn west: the channel to Green’s cabin. At a small rock ledge we stop, take note of the marker. Smile at their adventures, leave a bit of tobacco, say thanks to parents and to people who have uniquely noted this place.
Camp is west of Greens, in a channel. It is well used and clean. The rock patio has grown in low water and we have freedom to hang out by ourselves: draw, day dream, throw sticks and pine cones, watch clouds travel north, predict weather, sneak an extra snack from the food barrel, converse with the red squirrels. Last year they bombed pine cones on our tent. We talk, ask for peace, get only a chatting answer. Birch responds with a quick bound towards them. They leave for a while, then return louder, bolder.
Here, we finish Desert Solitaire. Utah’s desert country waxes poetic here. Edward Abbey’s story is aimed at us…travelers, tourists who rush to see too many things and see very little. Abbey mocks people who leave before the season is gone and within forty eight hours we will be gone. Abbey’s story grabs our hearts as he talks about desert plants and today we note prairie columbine still growing, photograph lichens that capture our sights, wish for another week to catch the birches’ fall yellow.
Birch dog growls, stares up the channel: splash, then quiet, then splash, then nothing. A caribou, bull, stands knee deep in water…staring back at dog and humans. We offer little for him and he swims across the channel, vanishing in the woods. Fortunately, the camera was tucked away…so we were forced to watch him, note his twitches, his color, his silence while moving. His photograph prints on our minds…and today we tell of his crossing, his camp stop in, Birch on hold/Labrador perfect stance.
Last day out, and the fish bite. We paddle by Green’s and note the burnt rubble, imagine my father sitting on the dock, checking for the float plane. In front of the marker we catch a northern as the wind bobs our canoe. We toss tobacco to the wind, the marker and head east. It is loud this wind, knocking dead trees together, rustling the grasses, swaying the reeds, stirring the lake. Yet, we paddle in silence…part of the movement. We reach the pickup site. Here, we’ll wave the float down, load, and get back to ??? Anxious…we know a storm is building, weather too big for the float plane…Anxious…the camp site is full of dead pine, the tent goes where…the logical spot is where an animal bumped into our tent last year, then hung around until dawn while “cooing” its displeasure. So logic hits and we put the tent away from a leaning jack/if it falls it will be away from the tent and we’re at least twenty feet from last year’s encounter…so we’re comfortable?
Rain wets the tent fly, sand cakes inside the tent, cold shivers Birch. At dawn we pack our gear under a tent fly…swim for a last time in the lake, send a message to the pilot/outfitter…but:
Ah, caribou. It is the Woodland Caribou. In fifty trips here, we’ve seen 25. They appear in all the wrong places…like last night in our camp west of here, like at this site, when one walked into camp, passed our sleeping dog, like by our fire on the west side of Aegean Lake. So, we’re pretty excited to have seen one this year. This winter, we can deepen our voices and tell about the bull caribou…But, as I swallow the last of chocolate energy: splashing…frequent splashing along the beach, then movement…then a caribou, a cow thirty feet from me…no, I lied: ten feet away…going full speed down the beach. Neither Birch, nor Carol sees the animal…only the tracks prove my story….
Minutes later, the plane shows up…through the wind and mist. We paddle out to mark our spot, Birch swims out to greet the Beaver. The ride back to Red Lake is wild: wind pushes the plane, like an inverted roller coaster we fear of falling out of the sky…our pilot skillfully negotiates with Sky Woman. Haggart, Bulging, Adventure, Glenn, Hansen, Wrist, Domain, Telescope, Embryo, the Hatches, and Douglas appear. Desperately, we wave at others in the distance…like friends saying good bye after Christmas break. Red Lake shows up and we drop into Howey Bay…
…and Abbey’s words appear: “it’ll all still be here next spring…yes, that’s a good thought and it better be so…or by God there might be trouble…”
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