Of Inukshuks and a Stroll Through the Park
by Jim Carrier

Quetico Dave dropped us off, promising us cold beer at the other end of our trip. Dave then spun his truck around and headed back up the bumpy road. We eyed the portage path ahead. My thoughts drifted back to the Inukshuks beside the highway. I hoped they were potent. As group leader, “safe passage” was foremost on my mind. Our route - an arc including Beaverhouse, Quetico, Jean, Sturgeon, the Maligne River, and Twin Falls - was “stroll through the Park”, or at least so I had proclaimed months earlier, recruiting Gary and Big Ed to this year’s adventure. For my Texan brother, that was good news. Gary was willing to let bygones be bygones concerning our last trip together, when I got us lost (see “Cache River Passage”, BWJ Spring ’03 issue). For first-timer Big Ed, a New Jersey dentist, Quetico promised adventure, but hardly a “stroll.”

Big-time college sports had taken their toll on Ed’s knees and back. Also, he’d put on significant weight since the mid 70’s. Park rigors represented serious challenges for him. Nevertheless, deferring to “Doctor” Ed’s judgment, we decided the trip would be successful if we took proper precautions. So, with tremendous slaps on our backs and his trademark booming laugh, Big Ed launched us down the portage to Beaverhouse Lake, thundering “C’mon guys! Let’s get our butts down this trail!!”

Not taking chances on Big Ed’s knees, Gary and I quickly grabbed the heavy stuff and headed down the trail, keeping the big guy in sight all the way. In his prime, Big Ed was capable of picking up both of us – packs, too – and marching the length of that portage. Fortunately, Ed’s good sense prevailed over his ego. “Teammate” Ed would make up for his limitations in a hundred different ways throughout our trip. Group success depended upon all of us reaching Twin Falls safely eight days later. Upon reaching Beaverhouse, we laughed when Ed asked if a “1-800 Portage Monkey” service might not have a future up here!

Big Ed’s lack of canoeing experience earned him a spot in the bow. Due to ligament damage to his knees, he required some assistance taking his seat. Gary’s canoeing experience was strictly in the bow. Today he would “graduate” to the stern. At 6 feet 4 inches, Gary was shorter than Ed and also much lighter. Heavier packs were shifted towards the stern. When the big guys shoved off their green Old Town Penobscot, their trim wasn’t perfect but it was the best we could do. Five minutes later, Ben and I followed in our heavier-laden, identical, red Penobscot. Even loaded above the gunnels, our canoe was plenty seaworthy. We wanted Gary and Ed’s canoe light and maneuverable until they gained confidence in their paddling.

Rising sun and gentle breezes caused the barest swirl in morning mists clinging to the lake’s surface. Save the occasional strum of a ruffed grouse or the more frequent high-pitched song of white-throats from high atop unseen shoreline cover, the morning was hauntingly quiet. Cool air produced small shivers where portage trail sweat trickled down our backs. Our weedy entry-point widened into a foggy bay. Ben spun around in his bow seat and we exchanged looks of contentment, thrilled to be back in the Park. Practiced, silent strokes moved us swiftly across glassy water, towards the big guys.

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Jim Carrier