Algonquin Park Ramblings

By Paul Bray

Paul Bray has spent over twenty summers paddling the rivers, lakes and streams of Ontario's premier Provincial Park. In this collection of his recollections, he gives us a few pointers regarding the dos and don'ts of backcountry canoe tripping. Many of them learned the hard way. Also a few personal insights and some interesting facts pertaining to the flora and fauna of Algonquin Park.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257728428

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Thoreau

Preface

Two hundred kilometres north of Toronto, Ontario lays the town of Huntsville and the western terminus of Ontario Highway 60. This two lane, undulating blacktop runs east through one of the most beautiful areas of the country for 400 kilometres to the nation’s capital in Ottawa. For 80 kilometres of it’s length, the road travels through the southwestern corner of Algonquin Provincial Park - 7,725 square kilometres of wilderness.

The name Algonquin dates from the seventeenth century when French voyageurs first encountered the indigenous people along the Ottawa River valley. The term Algonquin, however, is actually a Micmac word meaning people who spear fish from the front of a canoe. Native North Americans have always been known as men of few words. Now we know why.

Many people have made, and continue to make, the erroneous assumption that Algonquin Park is wilderness, but it is not now, nor was it ever so. Well, okay maybe back in the 17th and 18th century’s when the coureur de bois were running amuck. And of course for about 5000 years before that when Algonquin speaking nomadic peoples ranged throughout the territory. But not since the 1830’s, when the first pioneering loggers entered the region to harvest the great red and white pines, has the Algonquin Park area been wilderness. I use the term harvest lightly. I would think that harvesting implies that you intend to re-plant. The wholesale destruction of the old-growth forest can hardly be called harvesting. However, it is not my intention to make political statements or beat the environmental drum, I simply want to stress that a person would have to go a lot further north than Algonquin in order to find wilderness. In fact, it may well be that in the 21st century there is no real wilderness left in Canada - or anywhere for that matter.

It was in 1893 that James Dickson and Alexander Kirkwood convinced the government of the day to set aside these thousands of acres of woodland for a Provincial Park and the name Algonquin was chosen. By 1940 there were logging restrictions in place that prohibited the cutting of trees on islands, along shorelines and near portage routes. Yes they were still logging the park in 1940 - and they still do so today. In fact, Algonquin supports, along with logging, several drive- in campgrounds, summer camps, resorts and even private cottages.

As disagreeable as this may seem to a wilderness canoeist, it is possible to enter the park at one of the many access points, paddle for a day into the backcountry, and achieve the feel of the wild - to sit by a campfire in the evening and listen to the haunting cry of the loons, the whisper of the wind in the pines, and if your really lucky, the howling of a pack of wolves somewhere off in the distance. There are still places where you can set up camp and never see another person for days at a time or paddle all day down a winding river and meet no one other than the odd moose. You can still answer natures call wide open to the world on one of the famous park thunder boxes and you can still strip down after lunch and skinny dip in a cool, pristine lake. You can even drink the water.

There are those who would argue this last statement and I have often met with canoe trippers who had overburdened themselves by carrying their own bottles of drinking water into the interior, but in all my years of paddling through the Park, I have never felt the need to do so. It’s true that I have always carried those little red iodine pills, and dropped one into my canteen whenever I have been forced to obtain my drinking water from a river or small stream, but in most cases I would simply wait until I was out in the middle of a lake, lower my canteen over the side, and let it fill with pure, cool northern nectar. In over 20 summers I have never felt any adverse effects - maybe I’ve just been lucky.

I don’t know how many lakes the boundaries of the Park enclose - there are literally hundreds. From Acanthus to Xantippe, from big, beautiful Opeongo to water lily covered Spatterdock Pond, crystal clear Whiskey Jack to the aptly named Ink Lake, Launer in the north to Kingscote at the tip of the southern panhandle, and from Big Bob in the west to McManus on the eastern border.

At one time I kept an inventory of all the lakes I have paddled upon, but I stopped counting after a hundred. That was several years ago. I can only say this with any certainty, each lake is different and each lake, in it’s own way, is beautiful. The entire Park is beautiful. That’s why I return time after time.

Many times, as I have humped my canoe over some torturous portage, paddled against some brutal headwind or sat dejected in the pouring rain wondering why I’m doing this and why I’m here at all and I swear that, This is my last trip, I’ve seen enough of this place and I’m never coming back. But at the end of every trip, even while I’m still driving home, I begin planning the next one.

I truly believe there’s no place quite like Algonquin Park. Over the years this extraordinary region has taught me much, and if the reader will bear with me, I will endeavour to share, through these pages, a few of my Algonquin Park Ramblings.

In The Beginning

I first went to Algonquin Park in 1975. Gail and I, with our then 5-year-old son Jason, spent a week camping with my sister’s family on Rock Lake. We borrowed a canoe and a tent, and in fact just about everything else we needed for the trip, crammed it all into our little Chevy hatchback, and headed out for a week of bugs and sunburn.

One thing that I did buy was a compass. It was one of those small hand held things that people use for Orienteering. I remember my mother-in-law making fun of me for buying a compass for a trip to a park, but I was sure that, not only would it come in handy, but also it may well prove to be absolutely necessary. After all, we might get lost in the great boreal forest and this small compass would save our lives.

I have, over the years, made many trips into the backcountry of Algonquin Park and I have never failed to bring along that little compass. At first I wore it around my neck on a string, but later, when I purchased a life jacket with pockets, it’s home was there next to my heart. I have to say however, that in all those years, during all those trips across so many lakes and down so many rivers, I have never made use of that little compass. Not even once.

But let’s get back to 1975. In those days you really didn’t need a reservation, even for most of the drive-in campgrounds, so we just showed up at Rock Lake. We found a nice spot near the water, set up our tents and spent the week swimming, hiking the various trails in the area, and basically doing the eco-tourist thing. Although I don’t think that the term eco-tourism had yet been coined.

Since the nearest adult beverage outlet was over 95 kilometres away in Huntsville (and that’s 190 kilometres return), and since we were at that time in our lives which seems to require that all good times be supplemented by a stimulant, my brother-in-law had the foresight to bring along some special herbs. Hey, it was the 70’s. We were however, aware of the necessity of setting good examples to our young sons, so we elected to sample the wicked weed away from the campsite. That is how it came to pass that one rather foggy night found Ben and I out in the middle of the Lake paddling aimlessly about. And if it had not been for the Coleman lamp that our wives were wise enough to light and set out on the beach, we might well have been out there all night. Also, I’m ashamed to have to admit that, young and foolish as we were, we did not even have the good sense to wear our life jackets. But I guess the Lord really does look out for fools and little children, and since we could hardly pass for little children, well, enough said.

After what seemed like a couple of hours, but was I suppose in reality only twenty minutes or so, we returned to the beach. We jumped out of our canoe ankle deep in our bare feet and hauled the boat up for the night. Ben, having partaken of a little more herb than myself, found it necessary to retire for the night while I joined the ladies at the campfire. I sat with my feet propped up on a nice warm rock in order to let the fire dry them and after a minute or two, Gail turned to me and asked, what was that all over my toes.

It looks like I’ve stepped in some jam, says I.

That would be a difficult thing to do, says she. Especially since we don’t have any jam.

Closer inspection revealed the mess to be three or four leeches that had burst from the heat of the fire, and the jam was just my own blood. With a scream, my sister is up searching for a flashlight and diving into her tent to inspect Benny’s feet, which are now nicely tucked away in their twin sleeping bag and I’m trying to figure out how to wash my feet without stepping back into the Lake.

First lesson in Algonquin lore: Stay out of the water after dark.

In all my subsequent years of canoe tripping in Algonquin Park, I have had only two other leech encounters. Once, along the portage on the Amable du Fond River, between Lakes Manitou and Kioshkokwi, I stopped at a set of rapids to cool off. As was my habit in those days, I stripped down and wadded in. Since I was sufficiently off the beaten path for privacy, and anyway, I hadn’t seen anyone all day.

There was a nice cascade flowing over a large rock, up against which I chose to sit. The water was cool, clear and very refreshing, however, when I got out and started to dress, I noticed dozens of small leech-like life forms attached to my body. Because they were so small and numerous, vigorous rubbing with a towel seemed to be my only option for removing them, and I’m sure that even after I was dressed, there may have been a few still on my back.

On one other occasion, while camped at the east end of Cauchon Lake at a very nice spot with a fine stand of White Birch trees and pebbly beach, I wadded knee deep into the Lake to wash my pots and dishes after a nice supper of macaroni and cheese. It was just dusk, not yet dark, so I assumed I would be all right. Suddenly I felt a tickle against my right shin and looking down, I saw what must have been the granddaddy of all leeches. I thought it must have been misplaced from Bogart’s African Queen film. You never saw anyone move so quick, the thing never really had a chance at me because I was up and out of the Lake so fast that my feet never touched the surface of the water until I was once again on shore.

I have since learned that most types of leeches specialize in particular kinds of blood, and only three or four species attach themselves to humans. I didn’t know this at the time, and I didn’t plan on giving him the benefit of the doubt. But I digress.

Back to Rock Lake. The next morning Ben rose early so that he could to drive to a local outfitter in order to rent a canoe. Now, with two canoes, the six of us could go on a nice day trip up to Lake of Two Rivers. This is a very nice day trip via Whitefish and Pog Lakes with one short, easy portage near the Pog Lake Campgrounds.

The first leg of the trip, up to Lake of Two Rivers, was pleasant and uneventful. However, when we got to the eastern shore of Two Rivers, there was a strong wind blowing across the Lake and we could go no further. I think this is a common condition for this Lake, as evidenced by my experience a several years latter, but rather than digress once again, I will tell that tale at some further point in this narrative.

Ben knew there was a lodge across the Lake, on the north shore along the highway; Killarney Lodge. We could see it. He was determined to paddle there in order to purchase a cold beer. The wind was quite strong, the on-shore waves were relentless and we were novices - Benny was extremely upset. The mission was impossible. We paddled back to Rock Lake dejected. The irony of it is that the restaurant at Killarney Lodge is for the use of guests of the Lodge only and, it has no liquor license.

It was on this excursion to Lake of Two Rivers that I first encountered canoe trippers. Six people, in three canoes piled high with gear, passed us going the other way. It was obvious that they were on some sort of extended trip and I was duly impressed with the whole idea. On that day, at that moment, the seeds of my future relationship with Algonquin Park had been sown.

Our camp site at Rock Lake found us back in plenty of time to cook supper and spend the evening at the campfire so that Ben could retire early, rise early, and return his rented canoe within twenty-four hours. But when he got to the outfitters, they insisted upon charging him double. It seems that, according to them, a day’s rental is twelve hours. Benny was furious. He had given them a security deposit in cash, so he had no recourse. They already had his money

One last item to relate regarding my first trip to Algonquin Park. Back in those days I rarely wore shorts, but a camping trip was a special case. The Lake of Two Rivers trip was a six- hour journey on a beautiful sunny summer day, and by the time we returned, my knees were the colour of fresh strawberries. Sleeping that night was agony, and you would think that on future occasions I would have made sunscreen a must pack item - but I never did.

Home Waters

In the spring of 1976 I bought my first canoe. There was a guy in Burlington, Ontario who moulded them out of fibreglass in his backyard. He had a place right on the beach under the skyway where he rented them out by the day. He also had about 30 of them for sale. They were all 16 footers with aluminum gunnels and an aluminum bar amidships instead of a carrying yoke, but this didn’t deter us from picking out a nice looking light green beauty, strapping her to the roof of our little hatchback, and driving happily home. The pale green colour of our new canoe seemed so reminiscent of a grasshopper that she was soon christened the Grasshopper. She should have been named Lefty.

Caveat emptor - let the buyer beware. I failed to notice it until after the first time I put her in the water, but the boat had a definite hook at one end. If there were two paddlers, the hook would be at the bow and to the right, and the canoe would pull that way. If one were paddling solo, and facing the other way, she would pull to the left - and very much so. In time I learned that if I paddled on the left side, I could use less feather in my J-stroke and as a result she became easy to paddle for long distances. However, paddling on the starboard side was a bitch. And many a time I called her just that.

She