Читать книгу A Brief Time in Heaven - Darryl Blazino - Страница 8

I kept a detailed journal of my first trip to the park, but the majority of the trip is etched vividly in my dendrites. Like most monumental events of our lives, the outing occurred largely by chance. In previous years I had ventured with my brother and brother-in-law on a fly-in fishing trip. It was invariably the highlight of the year.

For various reasons neither was able to join me, so I recruited Rod Mackenzie to help salvage the trip. I’d met Rod when I coached his son’s hockey team, and we quickly became friends. Rod is an incredible individual. He is a very soft-spoken and courteous person who rarely says a negative word, especially about another person. Raised in a small northern town, Rod began working with the railroad at an early age before spending the majority of his career running the control room of Terrace Bay’s pulp and paper mill.

Despite his never attending university, I have always considered him an intellectual, the type of person comfortable in any company. His memory for people and places is uncanny, and he often speaks with the wisdom and demeanour of a village elder, yet at times he can be as giddy as a six-year-old.

For three successive days he enraptured me with stories of his adventures to a motorless wilderness area of which I had never heard, despite its being just two hours from my home. He stressed that it was a different type of trip, as it wasn’t just about the fishing — but the stories of the large and numerous fish had my complete and undivided attention. By the time the plane left the outpost I was committed to joining him next spring, and I could tell he was equally eager to share the experience with a first-timer.

Rod MacKenzie studies a mature white pine along the Jean Creek Portage.

With a copy of Bob Beymer’s A Paddler’s Guide to Quetico in hand and some scribbled notes of Roddy’s past fishing successes, I had the entire winter to plan our route. He left when, where, and for how long entirely up to me, with the exception of mentioning that he would love to visit a small, out-of-the-way lake named Draper if it was okay with me.

After an exceptionally long Northern Ontario winter, our departure date in June eventually did come. A half-day’s work at the office behind me, we hit Stanton Bay off Pickerel Lake by late afternoon and were blessed with a perfectly calm and mild day. With a terrific campsite established in Pickerel Narrows, we had enough daylight left to catch dinner. It was a slow start, however, and just minutes before we planned to pack it in for the evening Rod felt a solid tug on his line. Almost immediately I felt my fishing rod double over. Unable to draw the fish nearer for several minutes, I assumed that I must have latched on to a northern pike. As the fish finally broached the surface I was shocked to see the sharp spines of a large dorsal fin — it was a walleye! In fact it was the largest that I had ever caught, and an excited holler broke the silence of a picture-perfect evening. This incredible fish was too large to keep, but fortunately we added another to the stringer before the sun dipped below the tree tops.

It was an unbelievable beginning. A night of cooking over an open campfire and watching the stars and glowing embers was surreal. Evenings in canoe country are simply magical. So much so that it is a rare occurrence now for me to spend a night cleaning and frying fish. I rapidly distanced myself from this fly-in fishing habit and much prefer catch and release, as the evening time around camp is just too precious.

Every bit as incredible was the dawn of our first full day. There is no better feeling in the world than to be serenaded by dozens of chirping birds while zipping open the tent fly to discover a calm, clear morning. So many people are reluctant to sleep in a tent, but I would choose having just a thin nylon wall between me and the shoreline over a five-star hotel in Paris any day.

After another fantastic campsite and great fishing on Maria Lake, we faced an inadvertently self-imposed challenge. The portage to Jesse Lake looked straightforward enough on the map, since it began at the end of a skinny bay. Trying to distance ourselves from an approaching group, the first we had seen that trip, we hastily disembarked on a moose trail and completely missed the very obvious path just thirty feet across the bay. I had a GPS with me at the time and had been marking the coordinates of each portage until then, but on this occasion it was left with the second load of packs.

Rod had only been this way once before and had been travelling in the opposite direction at the time. When we encountered a downed tree blocking the trail, we assumed that the portage crew had yet to arrive that year. Soon, however, when the trail narrowed and then evaporated we realized what should have been obvious from the start — we were slightly misplaced (a distant relative to the word “lost”). Not even certain that we could retrace our way back, we pulled out the map and compass. Thankfully the north shore of Jesse Lake extended quite a bit east of where we were, or at least thought we were. Should we head due south, there was very little chance of us completely missing the lake. I volunteered as pathfinder, and we communicated by means of the safety whistles that we each carried. The plan worked as expected, but it was still a very difficult trudge through swamp and alder to the lake. From there we easily found the true portage but were now faced with the necessity of carrying the canoe back so that we could cross the bay and retrieve our gear.

It had taken over two hours to transport our outfit less than a mile. It was a tough way to learn a valuable lesson, but at least we were on our way. The next portage was a difficult one, yet it seemed as though we were on a highway when compared to the bushwhack we had just completed.

Later that day I was about to get an introduction to the bane of all paddlers. While crossing Walter Lake we were faced with a stiff headwind. It was a wind that would increase in velocity and stay with us for most of the next three days. Rod had been very successful fishing Walter in the past, but we were unable to comfortably and safely work the fertile waters of this pretty lake.

We even considered opting out of our planned day trip to Draper Lake. Fortunately we persevered and fought our way to this sheltered lake off the beaten path, where we enjoyed a memorable afternoon catching small bass from shore. Returning to Walter, the winds remained uncooperative. The local walleye would be safe from us, as there was little else to do but pack what we could to facilitate an early-morning departure.

The frustration of missed fishing opportunities was abated by the wonderful landscape of the Lonely Creek. At its entrance we met two men from Wisconsin. They had just ventured north through the creek and vividly described the huge bull moose that they had watched feeding along the banks. They shared other stories of their trip as well as some tasty venison jerky. Their report of large walleye on Cairn Lake laid the cornerstone for one of our future trips.

We eventually settled on a quaint little campsite in the Sturgeon Narrows. Two days without walleye left me itching to wet a line. Rod, always obliging, paddled with me throughout the narrows and repeatedly under the base of the powerful Russell Rapids, but with little luck. Returning to our site demoralized, we began supper. Suddenly we turned around and saw a canoe anchored a mere fifteen feet off of our campsite. Within minutes they pulled in a fish. Before we finished eating they had pulled in three more. We were flabbergasted. After paddling up and down the lake we were watching these two catching walleye right under our noses. As badly as we were itching to join them, we felt it inappropriate to park right beside the only people within ten miles of us.

“They’re leaving,” Rod quietly exclaimed. “Let’s get out there.”

It was early evening, and the temperature was beginning to drop. By the time we finished the dishes and put away the cook set they had returned from their tiny island in the middle of the narrows wearing hats and winter jackets.

As we walked towards the canoe Rod looked up in disbelief. “What! Now there’s two more guys there!” By the time he finished the sentence he realized that it was obviously the same two people, and we both laughed hysterically.

The pair were a retired father and his son from Wisconsin who had spent a week every year at the very campsite that we now occupied. They invited us to join them, and we chatted casually for over an hour with only the occasional walleye interrupting the conversation. They informed us that even though they had experienced better fishing in other areas of the park, this was their favourite and it had never failed to provide them with a meal.

The Transformation

Our original itinerary involved heading across Chatterton Lake to camp near Split Rock Falls. While we weren’t going far by our current standards, it felt back then as though all we were doing was paddling. I much preferred to spend this time fishing, so we amended our plan.

While travelling with Rod, I made several interesting observations. At the time we covered only three to four hours a day, and to me it seemed like a long time. I couldn’t wait to get there, wherever there was. But Rod was never in a hurry, often guiding our canoe from our straight-line path just to check out a campsite we wouldn’t be using or to say hello to another group. Where I accepted the paddling as a means to an end, he actually enjoyed it — just as he did portaging, chopping wood, setting up the tent, and cooking.

To him everything was great. His motto in regards to fishing was that any success was merely a bonus. The same attitude was prevalent among the other canoeists we chatted with along the trails. They were all thrilled just to be in the park. To my shock, many didn’t even bring fishing rods; others confessed they spent an entire week at the exact same campsite year after year, without exploring new territory. What insanity! Were they missing something? Or was I? I felt like an outsider, whereas Rod and these complete strangers connected immediately as if long-lost friends. These seasoned canoeists seemed to share the ability to submerge themselves in nature and enjoy each day for whatever it might bring.

Then, on about the sixth day, something magical happened. I was sitting lakeside on a rock looking across towards Chatterton Falls as the clouds started to dissipate and the sun broke through little by little. As I sat by myself in awe watching the beauty of the north woods reveal itself one ray of sunshine at a time, I became completely enveloped in an overpowering sense of peace and fulfilment. I felt humbled and insignificant yet empowered and profoundly alive all at the same instant.

Looking back now, I realize that the moment had actually been building gradually over the course of the trip, but its culmination is something that I will never forget. While the fire inside is not always as bright as it was on that day, it is a warmth and light that reveals itself to me on every trip.

It is that feeling of being completely alive and contented that best explains why I go to Quetico. Every trip is different and there is always something new to discover. Sometimes the feeling comes out of nowhere as you stop to see the beauty in less than ideal situations. And often, if you are preoccupied or worried about a schedule, it can pass you by.

That evening my eyes and ears opened to all the beauty in which I was immersed. Much the same as a professional athlete or musician feels when they are in “the zone,” I was completely alive and aware. It was as though time was progressing in slow motion. The rocks, the water, the pines, the setting sun, and the vivid colours were so etched in my brain that to this day I can close my eyes and I am there. The magic of Quetico had cast its spell on me.

For the remainder of the trip, the race against time had ceased. Every moment, every activity was to be savoured. We walked along the trail beside the entire length of Chatterton Falls and marvelled at the enormous pines and picturesque rapids. To this day I feel it is among the most beautiful places on this earth.

Sunset paddle, Badwater Lake.

Exploring along the Chatterton Falls Trail.

Along the portage to the lake we happened across a group that had spent the last three days on Chatterton. They openly shared the exact locations where they had enjoyed tremendous walleye action. Motorboat anglers would withstand torture before divulging a hotspot, so this caught me a bit off guard.

Sure enough, within minutes of anchoring off the island we were pulling in walleye on every second cast. I had many outings at fly-in fishing resorts where the action was fast and furious but the fish would all be relatively small. What was incredible to me was that several of the walleye we caught that day were quite large, with two of them measuring twenty-five inches, which would make them roughly five pounds!

I am certain that we could have stayed there all day with the same result, but after catching and releasing about thirty fish in less than an hour we were off to view Split Rock Falls and tour this beautiful lake.

We spent the evening on shore watching a powerful thunderstorm, and the passing clouds resulted in another dazzling sunset. We were not alone, however, as a giant snapping turtle was laying her eggs in the centre of our campsite. This prehistoric looking reptile had to have weighed almost twenty pounds. I had no idea these creatures existed on this side of the Galapagos Islands. Its tail alone was larger than the numerous painted turtles we had seen throughout the trip. We did our best to leave her undisturbed as we prepared to leave the next day.

Paddling in the early morning light through the mist on a calm lake is a religious experience for me — a moment that you hope will last forever. It simultaneously warms my heart and sends chills down my spine just thinking about it.

Rod and I could never run out of things to talk about, but on this morning we were nearly silent the entire way across Russell and up the giant north arm of Sturgeon Lake. Other than the occasional “Isn’t this gorgeous?” we rhythmically glided along in awe and reverence for the splendour surrounding us.

The quiet stillness continued into the Deux Rivières, a winding creek on which Rod had previously seen a moose. We hadn’t even rounded the first of its several bends when lo and behold a large adult cow stood thigh deep just sixty feet away. We managed to close about a third of the gap undetected before the cow looked up without betraying a hint of surprise. After a few seconds she slowly lumbered up the bank and disappeared into the forest.

It was incredible. I couldn’t believe our good fortune. It had already been a perfect day and the sun had barely cleared the trees. We had decided to remain quiet throughout the creek but were simply unable to control our excitement. Within seconds, it seemed, we rounded the next bend and to our amazement there were two more cows!

There was no element of surprise for these two moose as they calmly sized us up. I don’t claim to read the minds of animals, but I’m pretty sure they were thinking, “Who the heck are these two yahoos?” The staring match continued for a few moments until they too thought it best to seek the safety of the forest. It was beyond our wildest dreams.

The north half of Deux Rivières is exceptionally scenic with mature pine lining both shores as the marshy reeds give way to bedrock upon entering picturesque Twin Lake. The historic portage out of Twin is fairly long and almost entirely uphill. It takes the traveller through the heart of an old growth pine forest on its way to the crystal clear waters of Dore Lake. One especially large and majestic white pine is angled precipitously over the trail seeming to defy gravity.

The day’s journey ended with a refreshing dip at one of the many beautiful sand beaches of Pickerel Lake. It was an unbelievable way to finish a marvellous trip.