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Iby Jim Carrier Rendezvous

In The Bush

canoe countrychallenges

n 1912 the following newspa-per advertisement was placed,

calling for a few good men: “MenWanted for Hazardous Journey.Small wages, bitter cold, longmonths of complete darkness,constant danger, safe returndoubtful. Honor and recognitionin case of success.” ErnestShackleton.

In February 2003, a similar butless-daunting internet call wasplaced on Quetico-relatedwebsites, calculated to appeal toonline park enthusiasts likemyself. A shadowy but clearlywilderness-savvy cyberspacecharacter named Stumpy pro-posed to convene a “Bushwhack-ers Jamboree.” Attendees wouldearn charter membership in hisunique club called B.U.G.B.I.T.(Better Understand Going Bush-whacking Is Torture). Groundrules for participation in Stumpy’sproposed modern day Rendezvouswere as follows:

Who... Whoever can get a permit& get to the location to be namedlater.

What... An informal meeting oftough & hardy travelers.

When... Mid-June, when bugsare bad & so are the voyageurs.

Where... On a no-name lake nearthe middle of Quetico. No portagetrails lead to it.

Why... I want to meet otherbushwhackers & shake the hand ofanyone that gets there.

On December 7, 2004, Bush-whacker Jamboree’s day of infamy,Stumpy posted map coordinatesfor his proposed Rendezvous. Thedestination was revealed as asmall, nameless lake betweenCairn and Kawnipi Lakes. Internetcharacters with curious andsometimes colorful Ids such asIntrepid Camper, Woods Walker,Magic Paddler, PittsburghPortager, Quetico Passage,Kawishiway, Rangeline,Hexnymph and many others soonapplied for June entry permitswith the purpose of accepting

Stumpy’s challenge. By way ofcontrast, my own web ID Jimbofelt a little lame.

I was gut hooked on this pro-posed adventure. Accompanyingme would be my son Ben, afreshman at the University ofMinnesota. His fervor for thechallenge was a real blessing,returned. I had watched my twoboys “grow up” during trips tocanoe country, hoping they wouldcome to share my love of the park.Both boys were eager, but Ben’sschedule permitted participation.

In a few short months, it wastime to swap out the Palm Pilotand cell phone on my belt for aLeatherman tool and my brandnew GPS unit, purchased withbushwhacking in mind.

We hired Doug Chapman, ofCanadian Quetico Outfitters, totruck us over to Stanton Bay lateon a very overcast Friday morningin mid-June. When Doug discov-ered Ben was a member of the U ofM’s rowing team, he shared“crew” tales from his own rowingexperiences at the Henley Cham-pionships.

An hour later, Doug waved us anenthusiastic good-bye as wehauled our packs down the well-corduroyed portage, passing somebedraggled-looking folks comingout.

Anxiously we asked each, “Howwas your trip?”

In response we heard, “lots ofwind and rain,” “fishing is so-so,”“coming off early,” and “hopeyour luck is better than ours.”

Buoyed by our quest, Ben and Iwere not dismayed by thesecomments.

We shoved off into the drizzleand gray-green dreariness onPickerel Lake, bound southwestfor Pine Portage Bay. Ben notedthe early-growth stage of forestrecovery along Pickerel’s fire-damaged northern shoreline. He

vividly recalled a charred andbarren version of that sameshoreline from a trip during hisearly teens. This trip would takeus down to Sturgeon narrows andwind us around to Heron Bay,Fred Lake and Cutty Creek. Weplanned to camp two days onremote Camel Lake, then work ourway east, enjoying Cutty Creekand several smaller interior lakesen route to our proposed bush-whack staging area on Cairn Lake.

We slipped our raincoats on asthe early afternoon rain becamesteady while crossing Pine PortageBay. Steady rain grew into a real“frog-strangler” by the time wereached Dore Lake. Ben and I beatit for the shelter of a small camp-site on the far side, near theportage to Twin Lakes. There, wegulped down our much-antici-pated crackers, cheese and sau-sage. Fresh air and paddlingsurely invigorates the appetite!

Three friendly fellows in anAlumacraft, thoroughly soaked intheir makeshift plastic-bagrainwear, paddled past us. Wewave and exchange pleasantries.Loose gear and small packs laystrewn about their canoe, so wewere not at all surprised to learnthis was their first trip. As theymoved on, Ben and I finishedlunch and considered the bathtub-like quality our canoe had takenon in the drenching. We untied itspainter and hopped in. It was onlya short way over to the portage.We could flip and empty herthere. We caught up with therookies at the hump of baldCanadian Shield rock, the portageentrance.

What happened next was theunfortunate highlight of Day One.

I allowed our Souris Riverseventeen-footer to drift a little tooclose to the landing area. Thethree rookies, each wearing asmall pack, reached down and

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Beaver activity can be both a blessingand a curse while bushwhacking into

the backcountry. Those tricky pulloversare offset by flooded stretches of easier

paddling. (Between Mudro/Fourtown)

PA

UL

WA

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AR

KA

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THE QUETICO 17THE QUETICO 17

Photo © John Stradiotto

Stable, lightweight & tough...it doesn’t get any better.

Stable, lightweight & tough...it doesn’t get any better.

Phone: 1-888-CANOE-86Web Site: www.sourisriver.comPhone: 1-888-CANOE-86Web Site: www.sourisriver.com

jerked their canoe upward, appar-ently intending to perform atriple-turtleback portaging maneu-ver. Something I had never seenbefore.

Sadly, the rear set of this oddturtle’s legs crumpled and thenstumbled backward under theunexpected weight of the canoeand accumulated rainwater. Asthe Alumacraft lifted, a suddenrush of bilge surged to their rearend, nearest the lake... right wherewe were. Thus, as the vesselflipped, a waterfall of lures, loosebait and what-have-you gushedout the rear, emptying directlyover Ben’s head.

Profuse apologies followed. Thestruggling portage party, still cladin now deteriorating plastic bags,then became fully turtleback.Spacing themselves evenly under-neath their shell, they marchedtoward Twin Lake.

Ben and I beached our canoe,dried off and watched. A livelystringer of several smallmouthbass dangled at their collectiveknees from their overturnedthwart bar. Hand-carried rods andpaddles poked out willy-nilly inall directions. The odd sight

jingled, jangled and stumbled itsway down the path. “Tangle rods”snagged bushes, tree branches andtheir legs.

Ten minutes later, we caught upwith them, gasping for air whilelying on the portage path besidetheir canoe. It lay crossways fullyblocking our progress with ourown canoe and heavy bags. Afterabout a minute, one of themasked, “Do you want to get by us?”We simply nodded our assent andmoved on.

The rain abated somewhat laterthat evening. We enjoyed first-night steaks on a fog-laden,skeeter-infested, island campsitein Sturgeon Narrows. We chuck-led over our encounter with thepark rookies. Ben humbled me,however, reminding me of myown misadventures from “wayback when,” which wasn’t all thatfar back. We soon agreed it wasbetter, indeed, to make mistakes asa park rookie and learn than tonever venture into the bush in thefirst place.

Campfire conversation drifted tospeculation about the would-bebushwhackers. How many othershad launched their quests to

rendezvous with the mysteriousStumpy at his Jamboree? How didStumpy get his name? Was heshort and stocky? Did he oncework for a logging operation?What’s so magic about MagicPaddler? Half the fun of thisadventure would be in meetingthese various internet personali-ties!

Campfire conversation turnedphilosophical. We discussed howexistence in this wilderness worldwas so inverted from day-to-dayreality back home. Out here,especially on days like today, wewere no longer protected behindglass, passively observing a worldthat lay beyond a windshield or atelevision screen. Out here, we didnot push buttons and watch theconsequences from a distance. Outhere, like it or not, we wereactively engaged in stiff winds,blowing rain, gnawing cold,smothering heat, burning sunshineor confounding fogs... such as theone all around us right now. Outhere in the wilderness, the worldis always in our face, demandingcomplete attention and respect asits price for admission.

This wilderness transaction was

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our only certainty. If we werelucky, the wilderness might yieldglimpses of its grace and beauty inreturn. On the other hand, therewas no guarantee we would get solucky while tripping and bush-whacking.

The most we could ever hope todo was to be prepared for theworst and to accept anythingbetter with a thankful spirit.

Overcast sky and plenty ofmosquitoes greeted us as we brokecamp in the morning mists. Ataround 7:30 a.m. we pushed ourcanoe into the mild, swirlingcurrent and headed south towardCamel Lake. Bug nets adorned ourheads as we waved at a canoeparty heading north, gliding pastus in the Narrows, the last peoplewe would see for a few days.

The bug nets came off as wecruised down Heron Bay and FredLake in a light, following breeze.My new GPS revealed we weremoving along nearly at a 5 mphclip, helping me fully appreciateBen’s strength and stamina in thebow! Soon we found ourselves atthe fern-covered entrance to CuttyCreek.

Not surprisingly, Ben prefers

bug-free breezy lakes where he canpaddle aggressively in his custom-ary competitive rowing manner.Personally, despite the mosquitoesand flies, the older I get the more Iprefer languid, lazy creeks andstreams where nature envelopesus and offers countless possibili-ties around each twist and turn.Would we surprise a deer, bear ormoose? Would we finally get aglimpse of a wolf? In my excite-ment, I started to tell Ben aboutseveral such wildlife encounterson a similar stream years ago nearCache Lake. Ben silently hushedme, finger to lips, as if to say, “Ifwe must endure all these bugs,let’s at least be quiet and maybewe will have a chance to see somewildlife!”

En route to Camel Lake, weencountered one extra portage,unmarked on the Fisher Map, aswell as a major false portage. Itwas fairly tough going. The bushwas clearly reclaiming theselightly-traveled portages. Wecelebrated reaching Camel Lake,very close to the geographic centerof Quetico Park, by snacking onpeanut butter and jelly tortillas.

Heading west, we paddled

through the narrow channelseparating the cliffs at the en-trance of Camel’s western-mostbay. Beaver activity appeared bentupon closing this channel but hadnot yet succeeded. Arriving atCamel’s west bay, we searched fora campsite recommended by oneof our internet friends. Through-out this trip, we would make useof valuable information shared bytrusted cyberspace personagessuch as Mad Mat, Quetico Passageand Tripper. As we glided closerto the eastern shore, however, webegan to second-guess this par-ticular recommendation.

“Yikes!” I exclaimed. Fire hadevidently swept through a fewyears back. Vegetation was sparse.The thin, remaining soil of thecampsite sat on huge squareblocks of Canadian bedrock, aboutthe size of freight cars. These wereseparated by foot-wide fissureswith crevasses up to eight feetdeep. Clearly, we would need towatch our step on any midnightruns into the woods! After carefuldeliberation, we finally decidedthat this site was suitable, barely,for our purposes.

We set up camp and soon found

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the place was infested by no-see-ums and ticks. As bug juiceoffered minimal relief, we spentmost of our stay on the water! Onthe upside, abundant walleyesnear camp offered ample compen-sation for our discomfort. Soon wedined in true canoe country styleon walleye chowder, using table-sized stone blocks as our kitchen.

After dinner, sunset breezesscattered thick clouds and most ofthe pesky no-see-ums. A golden-orange glow in the western skyhinted fine promise for the follow-ing day. A loon serenaded us,echoing a faint call from some-where beyond the narrow channelto our north. We watched an eagleswoop down to grab our discardedfish carcasses, placed on thedistant shoreline. The sense ofremoteness and solitude on thisdeep interior lake was absolutelyoverwhelming. It brought to mindsome memorable advice from JohnMuir, who once said: “Break clearaway, once in awhile, and climb amountain or spend a week in thewoods. Wash your spirit clean.”

The following morning, Ben andI washed our spirits clean around

wonderfully remote Camel Lake.We discussed making an im-promptu bushwhack over tonearby Hoare Lake. Hoare’sreputed olive jar message cacheand rumor of its lake trout weretantalizing. However, in light ofproductive bass and walleyefishing on Camel, we opted toconserve our energies for Bush-whackers Jamboree, now onlythree days away.

One highlight from our two dayson Camel Lake was our closeinspection of a nearby beaverlodge, curiously laced with well-placed, head-sized rocks. How didthe rocks get there? Also, thisbeaver family proved to be par-ticularly garrulous. We heard aracket of grunts, chuffs andthroaty noises emanating fromwithin every time we passedwithin fifty yards!

On Day Four we broke camp at 8a.m. and paddled east with a briskbreeze at our backs. Once again,the price to be paid for paddlingbeautiful Cutty Creek was thedonning of bug nets. We made ourway over to peaceful, jewel-likeEag and Cub Lakes rather unevent-

fully. Like Camel these pictur-esque lakes seldom see muchcanoe traffic.

Tempted though we were to setup an early camp and try our handat fishing their pristine waters, weelected to move on. My internetpal Tripper had riveted myattention upon Baird Lake, whichhe characterized as spooky andmaybe haunted. We were anxiousto discover what qualities couldpossibly make a lake feel that way.We intended to camp on Baird,spooks or no spooks!

The portage into Baird fromCutty Creek was short but tough. Itwas slick with mud and almostvertical. We gritted our teeth,hoisted and heaved, and gainedthe top. There, the presence of abeaver dam complicated our putin. Clouds thickened behind us, sowe pushed on to a recommendedisland campsite at the center ofBaird Lake. It sat atop a ledge, andits approach was from the rear ofthe island.

Once set up, we paused toadmire the great view and thebowl-like features of this high-rimmed lake. Sounds of the

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wilderness seemed to echo fromall directions. Perhaps this wasthe eerie aspect of the neat littlelake? Or could the haunting comein the form of a monster of thedeep such as the 40+ inch north-ern that chased, but never seized,Ben’s white-skirted buzzbait thatevening?

Torrential rains broke soonafterward, and we beat it back tocamp, empty handed. Boomingthunder reverberated endlessly offof the high cliffs that night,suggesting yet another way thislake might freak you out.

Cold, heavy rain persisted andgreeted us in the morning. Emerg-ing from our tent was a slowprocess. Fortunately, our BWJUltralight Dry Fly Shelter (seeVTP page 89) made it possible toprepare much needed coffee andbreakfast in relative comfort.While we didn’t fancy the idea ofbreaking camp in this mess, wethought it better to travel than lieabout idly hoping conditionsmight clear. We steeled ourselvesto the day’s challenge and donnedthe heavy rain gear.

The portage out of Baird into NoName Lake was just as muddy andsteep as the portage in! We exer-cised care, crossed No Name andhoofed it along a real ankle-breaker portage into MetacrystLake. Pushing east on Metacrystwas quite a challenge. A stiffeasterly wind blew sheets of raindirectly into our faces.

The morning seemed to growcolder as it wore on. Stumpy’sgreat rendezvous in the bush wassupposed to be the following day.My plan had been to get a goodhead start on bushwhacking today.Prospects seemed dim, however,as we crossed Heronshaw Lakeand approached Cairn Lake, wherewe intended to launch our trek tothe target interior pond.

Those dim prospects turnedbleak when, around midday, weeyeballed the tall vertical clifffaces of the eastern shore of CairnLake for the first time. Their topswere lost in the blowing mists andrain. Their high shoulders shedrivulets of rainwater whichgathered and gushed as cascadesdown into the lake, splashing rightbeside us.

We were cold, wet and weary.Bushwhacking a couple miles into

the interior from this spot wasunthinkable. Accordingly, Benand I silently opted to paddlesouth where we hoped to findshelter and, perhaps, a betterapproach to the big X on our mapmarking Stumpy’s BushwhackersJamboree.

What an incredibly raw andmiserable late spring day! We laterlearned a veteran solo hiker in theBWCAW had disappeared thatvery week. Reports said he hadlikely perished from hypothermia.Authorities never found hisbody... just his scattered clothes.

As we paddled south, we knewother folks were also on the movetowards Bushwhackers Jamboree.Anyone not prepared for thesechallenging conditions was atserious risk. We pushed ahead inhopes of finding a place to set upour shelter. We ached to get off thewater and get warm!

We spied an island midwaydown the lake and hustled downthere to check it out. We rejoicedat finding numerous suitable tent

pads. Our first thought was to setup the BWJ shelter for the purposeof staging gear in a relatively dryspot and especially for fixingsomething warm to eat anddrink—away from the downpour.We set it up and started to relax alittle with hot chocolate in hand.Ben reminded me that othersmight be desperately hunting forshelter in these terrible condi-tions. We started to feel a littleguilty about our good fortune. Itwas about then we had our greatidea.

It is not everyday a canoecamper carries a large GraniteGear pack crammed full of a dozenstandard-sized, garden-variety,pink flamingos into Quetico Park.In a story too long and bizarre torelate here, Ben and I had donejust that. A dozen of these classiclawn ornaments, hauled throughthe mud and the bush, dumpedout of the bag onto this lonelyisland in the middle of Cairn Lake.

I had taken considerable ribbingon the internet about being a

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major collector of lawn ornaments.How this silly fiction really gotstarted doesn’t matter. My inten-tion had been to give them awayas mementos from BushwhackersJamboree.

We now thought of a muchbetter use for our pink flamingos.Thus, I directed Ben to, “Deploythe birds! Stick them both highand low at the front and back endsof the island.”

So it was that little pink light-houses encircled our island,hopefully welcoming cold, wetand maybe even desperate strang-ers to our campsite. The tacticworked like a charm! Within halfan hour, Woods Walker andQuetico Passage arrived from thesouth, cutting clear across the lakeupon sighting the strange pinkphenomena. We introducedourselves and welcomed them toFlamingo Island.

Woods Walker said, “We knewthat had to be you, Jimbo!”

I winced. My lawn ornamentfancier status was apparently morelegendary than I had feared. While

they set up their tarp, Ben tried tocoax a measly smoky fire to life.

Forty-five minutes later, a pairof kayakers emerged from themists, Intrepid Camper andKawishiway. We waved them in.Again, we all introduced our-selves, shook hands and huddledtogether under the protection ofthe tarps.

“Anything that pink and prepos-terous out in the woods simplyhad to get checked out!” saidKawishiway. “It’s not exactly aneveryday sort of wildlifeencounter.”

Kawishiway’s fire paste nour-ished our erratic blaze into fullerlife. Quetico Passage, who pre-ferred to be called QP, heated upmore warm beverages for all.Shortly after warming up, IntrepidCamper jumped back into herkayak and scoured the island’sshoreline, retrieving plenty ofburnable wood and resin-richcedar bush, highly combustibleeven in these conditions.

Upon her return, we all crowdedtogether under our shelter and

started swapping tripping tales.“Where have you been, so far?”“How was it?” “How did youcome to be at this particular spot?”We also discussed options andapproaches for bushwhacking thenext morning. This discussion hadnot gone on very long when apleading thin voice was barelyheard above the howling wind,rain and flapping tents. It camefrom the water, well below us.

“Hello up there! Hey! Can youmake room for a couple of cold,wet paddlers?” We jumped upinstantly and hustled over to seewho the pink flamingos hadfetched. Through chattering teeth,Magic Paddler introduced himself.He was about my age, in his fifties.He traveled with his older brother,age 73! We gladly welcomed thiswaterlogged, weary, nearly hypo-thermic but clearly indomitablepair. They had begun their trek afew days earlier in the ruggedMack Lake region, heading thisway—intent upon bushwhackingand meeting Stumpy. Warm drinkwas issued, their tent erectedquickly and their bags rolled out.They were dangerously cold andwet.

The tales and our camaraderieresumed. QP and Woods Walkertold us about climbing a firetower. They displayed well-marked maps of Quetico contain-ing references to message caches,pictographs, fishing holes, camp-sites, little-known portages andmore.

Intrepid Camper impressed uswith her wilderness savvy and herextraordinary lean-camping skills.We learned she lives on an islandjust outside the BWCAW andmakes several solo trips into thepark each year. Magic Paddlerwandered over after ensuring hisbrother was safe and warm in hisbag. Their day had been particu-larly gruesome and soggy. Theyhad been especially glad to see thepink beacons of our camp. To myfurther embarrassment, he ceremo-niously presented me with aninflatable pink flamingo!

I winced again. My notoriety asa collector of useless lawn orna-ments had clearly approachedmythic status!

Everyone began to relax. Thegroup got chummy. Much to myred-faced son’s embarrassment, I

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was coaxed into rendering im-promptu verse from an art form Iliberally call BushwhackerBalladeering. My ballads are notlikely to rate Top Forty radio timein the foreseeable future. That Iwas actually encouraged to recitemore than one ballad was a firstfor me and showed me how kindthese folks truly were! We went onto exchange canoeing stories,camping tips, addresses and otherpersonal information. It was anawful lot of fun just putting faceson well-known but previouslyunseen internet friends! All thewhile, Mother Nature spewed herblasts just an arm’s length away.

We wondered how others “outthere” were faring. Were theyapproaching the interior from theKawnipi side? Is that wherebushwhackers like Stumpy orHexnymph or Pittsburgh Portagerwere right now? Would they, orothers, yet miraculously appearout of the gloom—drawn toflamingo island—before theevening light was gone?

Later as we lay in our bags thatlong, wet night, Ben and I likenedthe impromptu Cairn Lake hap-pening to the fabled voyageurs’Rendezvous of old. We had shareda cheery, lively campfire with acolorful company of like-mindedsouls. All these folks shared acommon thirst for adventure and apassion for the Quetico wilder-ness. We drifted off to sleep.Sometime in the night the pound-ing rain stopped.

The radiant sunshine of dawntransformed Cairn Lake into aplace of beauty. We were finallyexperiencing a payoff from ourpatient transaction with thewilderness. After enduring a fewdays of harsh conditions, MotherNature was finally showing us hergrace. She also gave us a lot tothink about.

It was still awfully wet up inthose hills and possibly evendangerous. I got to thinking aboutall the things that could go wrongand about what I truly valued inthe overall experience. As Islipped out of my bag, I askedBen, “So, would you think yourDad too much of a wimp if hesuggested backing off this bush-whacking thing?”

I never doubted his support.Intrepid Camper and I were the

early risers, enjoying sunshine andcoffee, piping hot from my Frenchpress. I disclosed our “vision forthe day” no longer includedStumpy’s Bushwhackers Jambo-ree. Rather, Ben and I wouldengage the wilderness in a muchless risky transaction over onMcDougall Lake.

I carried a copy of Tim Mead’sstory “Return to McDougall Lake”(see BWJ, Spring 1998) in my backpocket and was itching to check itout. Today I would scratch thatitch! Moreover, we had alreadyfound much of what we sought inmeeting so many of our internetfriends. In spite of the horribleconditions, and perhaps becauseof them, our rendezvous the daybefore had been a wonderfullysweet experience. Today wethought it prudent to paddle off,while the wilderness equation stillworked in our favor.

Yes, our newfound friends weresomewhat disappointed to learn ofour decision. All but MagicPaddler’s older brother made anattempt at bushwhacking that day.As it turned out, all parties start-ing from Cairn Lake were unsuc-

cessful. We later learned evenStumpy himself was unsuccessful.When a party member was injureden route, Stumpy wisely turnedback. Another group, includingHexnymph, Pittsburgh Portager,and Penn Paddler assailed thetargeted interior lake from north-ern Kawnipi. Theirs was the onlyparty to succeed in the Bush-whackers Jamboree challenge.They alone earned a measure ofthe “honor and recognition in thecase of success” Ernest Shackletonhad once described. The tale ofBushwhackers Jamboree is theirsto tell.

The tale of our rendezvous onCairn Lake concluded with a smileon my face. All canoes and kayaksdeparting Flamingo Island thatfine sunny June day sportedunusual pink hood ornaments,prominently and proudly dis-played on their bows.

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