We started off fairly early -- for us -- maybe around 8am. Lifted over our first beaver dam within 100 yards of leaving Afton. Knowing we had many to go made it easy to have a relaxed attitude about them. We set out determined to count them all, which was funny because after a while we had to make up silly ways to remember what number we were on. In the end, we counted (about) 18 beaver dams that had to be lifted over, and 3 that we could push through without leaving the canoe. So our singing, barefooted friend was about right.

The trip itself was remarkably beautiful, and we were so happy that we had chosen to take it despite some doomful warnings. It was remote and quiet and secluded -- we saw not a person the whole way. Yes, we waded a decent amount but that was a pleasant change in itself.

We were hoping for a moose, but that would have to wait for another time … (I learned foreshadowing in grade school).

Once past Chase Lake, the river widened, and beaver dams became much less frequent. None of the portages were difficult in terrain, or hard to find.

We did feel just a bit triumphant when we arrived at Frost Lake around 3:30, early for us to arrive at our destination. We briefly checked out the first campsite, just north of the portage entrance into Frost. It was just OK. We were both ready for a swim so decided to head for the “beach” site to the north. It was truly beachy, with smooth sand and a very shallow entry into the lake. It was so shallow, for so far out, that it was hard to take a real swim.

Rejuvenated by the water, we packed up and decided to troll for dinner on the way to check out the site nearest the portage (881), as the site to the west of that one was occupied. I threw on a scatterrap tail dancer and off we went across the lake, hoping for a lake trout after reading the Sawbill Outfitters description of Frost Lake as a good place to find them. Around the middle of the lake, in deep water -- 50-70’ -- the line went tight and we had a fish. Libby pulled us to the nearest point on the lake, and on the way the fish surfaced and I saw it was a nice lake trout. Once to shore I landed it on the bank. Hooray!

Once we settled in at site 881, Lib offered to paddle out so I could fish some more. I put on a deep tail dancer as we headed toward the northern site. It wasn’t long before we had another hit, and we landed this much larger trout on another bank.

Knowing we had too much for dinner, but that it was too late to release the smaller fish, we paddled over to the folks at the site next to ours. Mark and (we think) Beth were a friendly young couple, who were mountain bike guides in Moab, UT. They graciously -- with just a touch of hesitation -- accepted the fish. It seemed that they didn’t have a lot of experience cleaning fish -- Beth said she had watched her brother clean a bunch -- so I tried to give them a quick “lesson”, knowing full well I was no expert, especially at lake trout. We said bye and trundled off to our site. On the way I realized -- and Lib agreed -- that Mark and I had been very cavalier about approaching each other. It seems that for both of us Covid 19 was not on the top of our minds.

This site was sweet! HUGE trees:pine and cypress. There was a well beaten trail to a large rock -- just about halfway between our site and Mark/Beth’s -- where we decided to cook and eat dinner. The trail evidently continued on toward their site. We found this a little unusual, as extensive trails had not been the rule at other sites on our trip.

I cleaned the trout on a rock a little to the east of our dinner rock, which was very hard to access due to a downed pine tree with many many branches. The flesh was a gorgeous pink -- almost like salmon. I tried to filet it like a bass, and got plenty of meat. But seeing all that was left on the ribs, I cut those into 2 chunks and kept those too.

We had a lovely dinner, bathed by the sunset on our rock. The first round of fish was delicious, with almost no bones. We then cooked the bony chunks, and the flesh separated from the bones easily for another meal’s worth of fish. By the end of dinner we were both quite full.

In the middle of the night -- I checked my watch and it was 3am -- I was awakened by loud sounds very nearby. I can only say it sounded like some large person was pounding a baseball bat on the ground. I woke up Libby “there’s something in our campsite.” One of my first thoughts was that it was a bear, ripping away at our bear bags. But no, it was pounding, not ripping. We both sat up in the tent, and my mouth went instantly dry. Do you think we should look at it? NO, said Lib. Oh lord, this is scary! More pounding, branches breaking, this thing is BIG!!! Then we heard a moaning sound, hard to describe. What the heck? More clumsy clomping. Eventually the noises moved up the trail toward where we had eaten dinner.

We eventually decided it must have been a moose. Or two. We both agreed we’d NEVER get back to sleep. But something magical happens in a tent in the wilderness and we both slipped back into slumber.

In the morning we found huge moose prints in the dirt near the fire ring. We felt very fortunate not to have pitched our tent in the pad next to it, but rather up the hill about 50 feet away.

For the day: 14 portages, 364 rods, 6.5 miles paddling, 18 beaver dams, 2 moose