Woodland Caribou Trip/September 15-September 24, 2016. Leano to Talon via Dragon due west then south…return: Boomerang to Dragon north to Confusion, south and east to Upper Kilburn/North Brule, Middle Kilburn/Six Loon, then Kilburn and finally Leano.

…they say why do you write so many songs that are indigenous to the area from which you come; I guess that’s where we’re from…Gord Downie.

…awoke last night to the sound of thunder…how far off I wondered…with autumn closing in…Bob Seeger.

…If the wind is at your back and you never turn around you’ll never know the wind…you may never hear the sound…John Gorka.

Moon light teases clearing, southerly breezes forecast warming, yet we dig out
a layer of polar fleece. Two portages north of Talon Lake, we’ve come just four portages from Dragon, crossed from a mixed forest to jack pine lands, traveled from September fading grassy green to burnt forest black. Already we’ve missed placed two portages, one up a steep hill across a rocky flat then down a rocky trail to this unnamed lake. The other hid from us, used vines, new blueberry plants, and burnt jack pines disguising a trail through the burnt forest. Cautioned by dropping temperatures and lite mist, humbled by trails invisible to our initial searches we set camp on a flat rock surrounded by scorched jack pines from May’s fire. The mist drips into our meal, sizzles the stove, then drops hard rain on drying socks, towels, and sweat drenched shirts…Clouds swallow the moon, dead jack pines knock against each as wind waltzes through a barren forest. Birch shivers, begs for the tent, we scramble to clean camp: dishes, sooty faces and hands, sweated shirts, pants, and boots laden with lake mud, forest char, and vines from regrowth of the forest floor. The moon escapes for a second, flashes light, then drops behind incoming cumulus…lightning flashes from the west, thunder follows, and perhaps the light from north is the aurora. We escape into the tent, share space between Labrador, husband, and wife: each wet with the day, blackened by May’s fire, and tired from the brief, yet intense paddle from Dragon Lake.

We knew the game: travel late summer, explore for the third time a forest remodeled by a recent fire, expect cool drafts, warm fronts, rain, and maybe some frost. Quietly we plot tomorrow: south to Talon Lake, find an island camp, smell waters of a big lake, view a long fetch, catch the fire landscape on camera, and rejoice as paddlers squeezing a late season canoe trip. Thunder reigns from the west, jack pines knock, and a fresh northerly breezes pound lake on the nearby shore…the rhythms induces sleep, dreams of September high blue skies, soft breezes, and drying sunlight. Morning light brings mist, then large drops, a shivering Birch, rain coats and pants. The portage south is open landscape, the portaged canoe twists in strong winds; a new lake appears with white capped chops. Our guess is wrong on the last portage into Talon…we go too far west…so we slow paddle east, check not our maps tucked inside a dry pack but each flat rock until a beaver trail, an old cairn of tipped rock and a path appears curling along the high ground to Talon. We each take a saw, pack, and climb the height of trail…see both Talon and our canoe on this little in between lake…The forest floor brightens with red lily beads, yellowing blueberry plants, and still summer green grasses. Talon rolls with three foot waves…the canoe rocks, packs placed, Carol braces, Birch leaps in, while I step and push the canoe off the shore…the Souris River quarters through Talon, turns with a moment of calm, and rides into an island camp…Carol steps out, Birch leaps, and we pull Kevlar over rock, hiding the canoe from the winds in a grove of black spruce and jack pine…Two hours, 3 lakes, two portages, and we’re home for the day…Celebration: tuna wrapped inside soft taco shells, fresh Talon water, M and M’s all with a view of the long open expanse of the lake…The view fogs…a gray cataract of mist, then rain, then hard rain…the tent set with rock hums in the wind, lifts with each gifts, stretches at the tie downs, but stays in one spot…Birch volunteers as another anchor in the corner, Carol holds the back space, and I “man” the front door. Six hours later a setting sun warms the lee side of the island, black clouds mark east skylines, and a blue sky smiles from the west….It’s Monday night, the end of four days of rain, wind, and dark low skies…
Our route changes from a long loop west to Talon Lake, north to Aegean, and then south to pick up at Leano. We’re skittish about the weather; confused about thunder, lightning, cool mist, and cold winds. We plot back to Leano Lake, use a bent shaped lake called Boomerang, a small creek dammed/damned? by beavers that floats us back to Dragon Lake. Fewer portages if the flowages behind the dam exist, if the dam height floods old beaver meadows…Near frost temperatures question the decision but we ride the winds east on Boomerang, view Sandhill cranes flocking south, watch eagles glide in the winds, name plants emerging from burnt forests, and smile at blue skies following our wake. The creek is high with recent rains, only two beaver dams exist: we exit on top of the dams, pull the canoe over and enjoy the deep flowages behind them. Once, we spin west on a small creek one Souris River Canoe wide, realize the wrong turn, and back up almost nineteen feet of boat through rice, reeds, and rushes…we spot the needed portage in the distance but not the creek to get there. So we slosh through a swamp towards flagging tape and a portage blaze…almost there a narrow, deep creek appears taunting our pulling the canoe rather than a paddle through deep waters hidden in the marsh…Almost 400 meters later we carry into Dragon…the trail ends on a sandy beach marked by moose tracks. Here, the land plays with us. We’re five days out…part of this place, comfortable with our lot, not feeling like visitors…so we sit and watch: dragon flies crossing the beaver meadows, seeds from plants floating airborne: rushing into our faces. Raven calls, chickadees songs, grasses leaning with the wind, the sun slowly rising above the forest canopy…for maybe an hour Carol, Birch, and I become part of this…indigenous briefly, part of the landscape, not awkward tourists gawking…the feel fades as a M & M wrapper floats out of the canoe, joining the floating seeds as we scramble to “give a hoot and not pollute.”

Dragon’s going in two directions: several kilometers east of here a creek runs out toward Kilburn Lake and the Sturgeon River, here the lake follows a wet beaver meadow into Boomerang and Talon Lake and its river…eventually the waters of Dragon will meet somewhere on the English River System…For us, these waters invite us to stay the night on a high, flat rock facing west…We accept the invite, paddle west, then ride waves to the rock, brace the bouncing canoe, hop out, unload packs, scramble uphill and feel the sun dry us. Every tree, shrub, and open rock is covered with wet clothes, packs, and tarps. We paddled only two kilometers the first day of the trip, got soaked in storm and we’ve never really dried. By dusk clothes, tents, shoes, packs, and tarp are dry…the moon rises on the tent, a fog shrouds the lake, and the aurora floats over the Big Dipper.

In the morning we head north toward Confusion Lake. Stuck by geographers on parts of two topo maps and misread by us several times this island filled lake confused us several times before figured out routes through the lake…sitting near the headwaters of the Sturgeon River it marks a halfway point between Paull and Upper Kilburn Lake…a good relief between small beaver ponds, six short, but awkward portages and those lakes paddlers want to reach…fish and gazes down the longer fetches…We’ve spent time here, listened for wolves, watched northern lights reflect in its back bays, and explored tributaries with blazes marking trap lines. Now, on a quiet September morning we head north, find the 700 meter portage to Confusion, and visit a landscape marked intensely by recent fire. The portage is well marked…it starts in a marshy setting with alders lining the trail…a few mud holes interrupt the walk as I go knee deep in mud. Halfway through the portage greets the fire. Up a hill, the trail fills with vines, blueberries, small jack pines, fire weed and whatever else is fueled by the fire’s nutrients…We no longer follow an old trail, rather step cautiously over downed logs, spot numerous trees marked with flagging tape, and wander around a steep descent following a gradually slope. Carol guesses the trail is longer but smiles: no bugs, a wonderful view of Confusion’s islands, an open landscape capped by blue sky, and an easy put in.

We drift with a slight wind towards the easterly portages, stare at burnt shores, listen to streams dash across cliffs, crashing and bubbling into the lake, tell stories of lost meanders on our first trip through, use sunscreen for the first time, look for loons and listen to pileated thump jack pines. At the portage out, we linger, eat tuna on taco shells, swallow water, and stare…silently hoping for the moment to stay. An hour later we set camp on Upper Kilburn…the spell of quiet broken as a gray looking front floats towards us…Seldom do we build fires: too dangerous, too buggy gathering wood too tired from long days of paddling. Here, we gather wood, mix in birch bark shavings, a few spruce twigs and enjoy the light, heat, and joy of a fire. An hour past dark, we let the gift slip into the night hissing at falling raindrops. In the morning, we stir; mix in water, and utter thanks for simple pleasure.

Upper Kilburn quandaries…stay or leave? Long portage and short paddle to Kilburn or short portages and long paddle to the next camp? We debate while fishing the north shore…visualize high popples, smell fall on the trail, imagine light loads in the packs…The wind drops, Carol chooses the long paddle…we find a good portage into Middle Kilburn/Six Loon…skirt the east and south shores, find an old trail that goes into Tree Frog Lake…the old route to Kilburn, finally reach the southwest corner of the lake, wave good bye to the lake/an old friend, and walk to Kilburn. A deep brief, a humble prayer, a brag to Carol, with a story: a month ago Birch and I crossed here, “solo” in August and somehow we’ve returned, viewing our cut log on the trail, marking rose hips used for spaghetti flavoring, and leaping frogs into Kilburn.

Kilburn’s big…but Carol’s just paddled the border waters of the Quetico/BWCA: Basswood, Lac La Croix, Knife, Saganaga, Sturgeon, and Cypress. So, we turn the corner east, dig paddles in easterly flowing waves, check cirrus clouds, soaring ravens…eventually a moose intercepts us…a bull swims hard toward us, torpedo like… we hesitates, he does the same, then backs to the south shore. Time goes quickly, stories about camps, paddling with two huge labs/Rugge and Zip, big water, Sydney Lake. We turn north towards Leano…we turn north into the wind coming down this arm…we’re getting familiar with the landscape: check out beaver trails to popple, measure rice stalks by our paddle lengths, find more flat rocks to set camp, spot an eagle, and hear a single loon cry, and note two teal scattering in the narrows. The wind moves hard across our faces, waves slap gunwales; my paddle cracks as I dig into the wind. But, the scattered clouds, flecks of sun, cool breezes popping up goose bumps bring life to the paddle. Along a long smooth rock, two kilometers south of the lake’s arms we stop for granola, water, and leg stretches…Carol sees September colors, I view black clouds, cloud to ground lightning, and last month’s humid air from my August trip.…tell of a tent site in the bush, note the calm bay, and warm afternoon sun. My campaign wins the place for tonight…It’s a noisy place: moose call, call back, crash through the woods across the lake…Birch paces his shoreline, pleads to investigate, shakes with excitement, and finally curls deep into the tent in an angered scull of frustrated hunter…at dawn, the pattern of moose calls continue, Birch sits quietly on our shore…hoping, we suppose, for an “ok, go explore.”

Now, it’s the last full day of the paddle and we try not to leave Kilburn. Old camps are visited, sites explored for stories from ten years out: turtles storming across a camp, beavers tailing, challenging dogs, thunder shaking all in the canoe, walleyes off long points, and hidden camps in spruce laden islands with loons stalking solitary paddles north. But, finally we turn, wave to the fetch, and work Leano Creek. Carol hears the reminder that this place reminds me of Harry Watral, a Hayward trapper, guide, and baseball player…I throw tobacco for Harry, wish I had told him more stories of the Woodland, and push the canoe off the rock above the falls. Leano Creek is high, portage easy to get to, mud cakes the boots and we slip then sink in puddle bottoms. Moose leave tracks for us, the 400 meter trail shortens with our conditioning. The sun shines, the earth smells dry, terpenes reach our memories casting fall landscape images…and then we’re done.

We started wet: packs, tent, dog, rain gear, camp sites. We finish in a mist: yet dry; use to whatever…and sometimes part of this place. Thanks.

Thanks, very enjoyable.

Thanks Old Zip.......you have an excellent talent for creating word pictures. Well done.

Interesting combination of prose and free-verse poetry. Well done. Refreshing approach.

dd

quote oldzip" By dusk clothes, tents, shoes, packs, and tarp are dry…the moon rises on the tent, a fog shrouds the lake, and the aurora floats over the Big Dipper.
"

Lots of good visual images. I like this one.

I liked your visual of going into dragon. We came the other way through there in September 2013 and it was no picnic. The island site on talon is a good one. I'll have to go back and read more of your stuff. Pretty neat.

Thanks for a thoroughly enjoyable report.