Tuesday, June 05, 2012. Camel to Conmee. 13 miles. Today’s challenge will be the Conmee Death March. I’m awakened by the first white-throated sparrow singing “pure sweet Canada”. I don’t bother looking at the time, but it must be 4:30. I get going early again. I love the early morning paddles! Another clear, still morning.

I head down into the southern basin of Camel, stopping to check out Roulston Creek, which enters the lake via a scenic crack in the bedrock. Looks like a portage landing, but it’s an illusion. There was a time in my life when I would have liked to bushwhack some of these side routes, but seemingly that time is gone. In the Quetico, there is no shortage of solitude even on the major routes.

I’m somewhat concerned about the 170 rod portage out of Camel; I don’t need a struggle given what is coming at me later in the day, but I needn’t have worried. It is truly a cake walk. The trail goes uphill for a bit at the start, and then is a pleasant stroll through the young forest. There is no evidence that anyone has been through this route this year, though that might be because of the drenching rains a week or so ago washed all the footprints away. Plenty of moose sign though I fail to spot one.

When I get to Cutty Creek, I can see the next portage, which turns out to be another easy 20 rods. After a little pond, my luck continues as the next portage turns out to be a rocky stretch which I am able to line. The last portage is short and lands on Veron. I’m ready to stop and rest up before the Death March.

Both Veron and Delahay are classic Canadian lakes. Lonely, with stained water and dark spruce and jackpine lining the boulder strewn shores. I don’t know anything about the fishing, though they appear shallow—lake trout don’t look likely. With the wind, I don’t feel like trolling anyway. I find a lovely campsite on Delahay, on one of the few red pine clad islands, and am surprised to find a chair made of sticks with an olive jar sitting in it. For a moment, I am confused and think someone left their food! Then I realize I am having a senior moment—it’s a message jar. I read through the latest dozen or so as I eat my lunch. There was a party through here on May 21, so my perception that I was the first person through this route this year was wrong. It’s good to know that the route ahead is passable. I add a short note, and with some effort am able to cram it into the packed jar. It’s now time to face the 600 rods of the Conmee Death March. I am going to single-portage it. Although single-portaging can be painful on the shoulders and will require frequent rests, it’s been my experience that you expend less energy—after all, if you double-portage, you will have to lug yourself over the portage three times! The first leg is something like 180 rods, quite flat but with some boggy stretches. There are many young spruce trees bent over the trail no doubt from the heavy April snowfall. I find that if I can get the bow of the canoe under them, I am able to push them up and sneak through underneath. Some I can step over, and others I can push aside with my hands, but I lose count of the times I have to set the canoe down and feed the canoe over or under a downed tree. Two other factors add to the misery—it’s hot by now—I’m drenched in sweat, and a trifecta of mosquitoes, black flies, and deer flies harass me. Resting is not pleasant.

I reach the first pond, launch and rest a while out on the water away from the bugs. The next portage landing is a nice bit of bedrock, a lovely lunch spot if you are so inclined.

The next leg is 400 rods. My map shows the portage leading to another pond, and then a 20 some rod portage into Conmee. So off I go. Again bent trees (and some real blowdowns) present constant obstacles. The final straw is that I am never sure when it is over. I come to a pond and while a faint trail continues on the right, it appears that people have been launching here. Could this be the last pond? I paddle down, pull over a tall beaver dam, and paddle down the next pond. After the lower dam, the creek gets brushy, so I find the trail again. While lifting the canoe in the brush, the most frightening event of the trip occurs. I feel a “pop” in my upper left thigh. No real pain, just a peculiar burning. Wow, an injury in this country could be trouble. Fortunately, I find I am able to continue on, though I have to hunch forward a bit. At this point, I am beat to the point that I can’t bear carrying both the pack and the canoe, so I start double-portaging. The end must be near. Soon I come to another pond. It really appears that this could be it, as there is more of a landing on the western end, but no, the portage continues on. Finally, after more blowdowns, I reach another pond, and this time, a relatively well-worn portage exits on the left. This is it! I get to the lake and I’m utterly spent; dehydrated, sore, and soaked with sweat. I’ve got some pretty nice deer fly bites as well.

I’m hoping for a short paddle to a campsite on Conmee, but no luck. I have to paddle several miles, searching in vain around a group of islands before I at last spot a pine grove on the southern shore that looks promising. I paddle over, pull up, and collapse. It’s a passable camp in a grove of pines.

After a bath, a nap, and a good snack, I decide to find a better spot to spend the night. Partly, I am motivated by a tail wind; by this time the wind is with me (oddly blowing straight out of the east with a clear blue sky). I make my way towards the portage to Brent. At the mouth of a bay containing a creek to Suzanette, I find a nice camp in a grove of red pines on an island. It catches the breeze nicely, so bugs are not an issue. By the time I have dinner made, camp chores done, and some reading in, I’m ready for the tent. I spend some time battening down the hatches as I see a line of dark clouds in the west.