Cache River Passage
by Jim Carrier (continued from page 4)

We got an early start on Day Eight in order to avoid any afternoon wind and waves on Sturgeon Lake. The water was high and it was a pretty safe bet we could shoot down the rapids of Sturgeon Narrows where it spills into the big lake. Unfortunately, for the three aluminum canoes headed against the current and towards us early that morning, conditions proved unsafe. After exchanging pleasantries as we passed these folks at a careful distance, Gary and I rounded the bend and entered Sturgeon Lake. That's when we heard the unmistakable crunch of aluminum on rock. Gary - always in the bow - turned and asked, "Flash, what do you think?" We turned back to see if we could help.

Two of the canoeists had spilled and were being carried swiftly downstream towards us. Both of the other canoes tried to reverse direction in the tricky water to assist the swimmers. The first to do so was able to grab an older, gray-haired fellow who was bobbing nearby in his personal floatation device. Gary and I sped after a much younger man who seemed to be in trouble, flailing about in his PFD, and barely keeping his nose above water. As I threw him our stern line, he spit out water and words that sounded like "Boots! Boots!" Gary and I, not sure just what he was saying, pulled for shore as hard as we could. We beached, scrambled out, and hoisted him ashore. His knee-high rubber boots had filled completely with water and his beat-up, poorly fitting old PFD had been hard-pressed to keep him afloat. The rest of his party, with the old man in tow, soon joined us. We retrieved some of their lost gear as they dried off. We then parted company, but not before they shared sincere, heartfelt handshakes.

Gary and I paddled north in silence for quite awhile on Sturgeon Lake. We shared the same thought. All trip long we had been sitting on our own PFD's. Without saying a word, Gary reached under his rump for his and put it on. I did the same. I have worn mine on every trip into the park ever since. I insist that everyone in my party does likewise.

Gary and concluded Day Eight at an island campsite on crystal clear Dore Lake. It was our last evening in the park. We saw some more Smallmouth action but, more importantly, we recounted our many "learnings" from this trip. Finishing flask #2 at the fireside that evening (it simply wouldn't do to return with a half-finished flask) we reflected on our travels. We had been much humbled and much blessed by our experience. Certainly we better appreciated the importance of "caution" for early season canoeists in remote areas of the park. Cold, Wet, and Danger are nearly always close at hand while Help, excepting from the hand of Providence, seldom is. We also considered sharing the gift of our Quetico wilderness... a timeless, spiritual place far removed from our respective "rat races." We could think of no better context for a regular reunion and assessment of our lives, past and present.

Gary and I got another early start on Day Nine to avoid any afternoon nastiness on big Pickerel Lake en route to our exit at Staunton Bay. Fortunately, we reached the north shore just before a midday blow, including the first raindrops of our trip. Before gaining the protection of Staunton Bay, however, we witnessed four grossly overloaded Alumacraft canoes headed south, cross-wise to the rising wind and two-to-three foot chop. Perhaps those folks would be fortunate, like us, and learn important lessons before they suffered significant harm. We could only hope so.

A sheet of rain hit us just as we hoisted the Pig Family packs for the last time. "Fat Pig", the food pack, was a mere shadow of its former self. It carried easily up the well-groomed, boarded trail leading up to the exit road and our truck shuttle out. The truck pulled up just as we dumped the last Pigs off of our backs. Despite the rain, Gary and I stood staring at our newly-grown gray facial hair in the truck side mirrors. Thankfully, our outfitter broke our trance, handing us each a can of cold Canadian beer. Gary and I flipped back the tabs and toasted our reunion experience as the four-wheeler bounced us homeward through the squall. Then, unfolding a familiar map across our laps on the front seat of the truck, we began to plot alternative routings for our next trip.