There was a nice mist on the river as I packed up my gear and got ready to head back to Isabella. The empty campsites on Boga and near the portage back into Isabella were both full as I retraced Friday's paddle-steps. As I entered Isabella, there was an eerie silence. The whitecaps from Friday morning had completely vanished and as I paddled west across the lake, the silence became creepy. When there are no leaves on the trees, you don't hear the breeze. There were no waves whatsoever, no birds singing in the trees, no sound at all. The drops off my paddle sounded like thunderclaps as I sat in the middle of the lake and listened to ... nothing. In my 42 years, I don't think I've experienced anything quieter than those hours on Isabella Lake.

A group on the southwest island site was just leaving and I made my camp nestled among the cedars on this beautiful site. It's amazing that a fire will devastate one island and miss another.

Later that afternoon, I paddled to the portage into the Isabella River, explored a bit, caught a nice pike. I was back in time for my nightly routine of a pre-dinner swim, a leisurely meal, and some reading around the fire before climbing into the hammock for a good night's sleep.

Boga Lake, Isabella Lake