Oh, I forgot to mention the guy we thereafter referred to as "The Soothsayer" or "The Prophet."

Driving on the way north on that trip (it's a 950-mile trip), we stopped to get gas. We were running late, so when this ancient-looking guy saw our canoes and tried to make conversation, we gave some short answers, thinking he was just being polite and not realizing he was genuinely interested. We weren't exactly rude, just less friendly than we typically are. In a hurry, you know.

He asked if we were going to Quetico, said he had been there in the spring, couldn't wait to get back, and then asked: "You doing that mile-long portage with the waist-deep mud?"

We had no idea what he was talking about, but just answered "um, sure ... yes" so we could get going. We felt kind of like someone finding out you're from Chicago or New York or somewhere like that and being asked, "Really, well do you know so-and-so?"

Quetico's a big place, you know. Lots of portages.

Lack of engaged responses sealed our fate, I guess.

Because a couple of days later, there we were in waist-deep mud on a mile-long portage.

He must of "sent" us there.

Because what were the odds that we'd be headed to Quetico, entering the park at the same point and taking the same route and ending up on the same portage and finding conditions the same in late fall as in early spring?

-- kypaddler