Of Inukshuks and a Stroll Through the Park
by Jim Carrier

Gary and Ed staggered up the beach, wild-eyed, as Ben and I headed back to the canoes. Gary froze me with a baleful stare. He declared, “Flash, we’re steering like a bloody weather vane! We need to re-pack her. That’s way too much excitement!”

Big Ed, colorful, as usual, added, “We have to drain her, too. There’s liquid in the bottom. And it ain’t all water, Flash!” Ed waxed on, “As we headed for the deep blue sea, visions of next week’s headlines appeared before my eyes, ‘Body of Jersey Dentist Floats to Surface of Beaverhouse Lake!’ ”

I observed that the rest of our day’s journey was “due East” and the wind should stay at our backs. That didn’t calm them much. We re-loaded and pushed on, hugging the coast. I scanned that shoreline, hoping to spot an Inukshuk somewhere…anywhere!

At the short Quetico Lake portage, we met four fishermen heading in the other direction. They claimed “fishing” was good, but warned of “heavy canoe traffic on Jean Lake”, our destination. Figuring on stiff competition for campsites, we hustled on. I hoped Big Ed’s knees and back would hold up. He looked woefully cramped in the bow and we still had most of a twenty-mile day ahead of us!

Bright sunshine lit up puffy white clouds in an azure sky as we paddled the long southern arm of Quetico Lake. En route, Gary and Ed treated us to a medley of songs, including a dozen or so 1950’s hits by the Mills Brothers. They were in fine voice and marvelous two-part harmony that day, taking our minds off the tedium of paddling and our growing cases of “canoe butt.” I almost struck up the Gordon Lightfoot tune about the Edmund Fitzgerald, reconsidered the subject matter, and opted to stay quiet. Arriving at the short, steep Conk Lake portages by mid-afternoon, Ed groaned, again, about the lack of “1-800 Portage Monkey” paratroopers. Minutes later, Fortune smiled, once more. My favorite campsite, located on Jean’s west side, was wide open!

After setting up camp, Gary and I fired up our steak dinner. Ben tossed spinners from a rocky shelf and saw plenty of action. Ed looked on, stretching his sore lumbar region against an accommodating hump of smooth rock while the cool splash of waves lapped at his bare feet. There would be no more paddling that day. Rather, we cast poppers from shore, well into twilight and the rise of a marvelous Full Moon. Eddie obliged the rest of us by washing dishes. Later, the big guys sipped on Scotch as we sat around the campfire. Shimmering ripples, white-crested in reflected moonbeams, marched towards us across the lake, accompanied by the mournful cry of the resident loons. Bugs were few. When Ben, Gary, and I finally retired to our tents, Big Ed remained by the fire, his thirst for outdoor wonders seemingly unquenched. Ed slept beside our fire that night, beneath my BWJ Ultralight Dry Fly Shelter. He would choose to sleep there every night of our trip.

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Jim Carrier