DAY THREE - JULY 1st - DARKY & BRENT LAKES
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We broke camp late but so did HBJ, KYP, XYZ, & BOB.  We waved mutual goodbyes to each other across the bay.  All the while, QPassage was screaming away, "A picto!!  A new one!!  Me!!!  I found it!!"  I'm not sure the alphabet soup party actuallly heard QP or understood what he said but they smiled pleasantly & waved, paddling off into the West.

It was absolutely a great Quetico day, much cooler than usual for July, but brisk, bright & blue… the way I like them.  We slowly fished & paddled our way east, setting up camp about mid-evening & enjoying yet another specialty dining experience, courtesy of Chef Old Salt.  It was something he called “Veal of Vole”.  He complemented it with “Turtle Soup” (a little heavy on the Tobasco Sauce, if you ask me).

We built a blazing fire that evening.  QPassage christened the fire with a heavy pinch of something he called “Shaman Powder”, which smelled rich in tobacco and a certain unidentifiable something.  The Shaman Powder ignited into a billion & one sparkles of many colors which seemed to carry no heat, as some descended harmlessly upon our head & hair while others carried off in the gentle breeze, seemingly wafting up unto the stars themselves.  The most marvelous serenade of loons blessed our lively campfire that evening, calling & calling to each other across lake country, their songs echoing off distant points of land again & again & again.

It was truly an enchanted evening.  I don’t even remember unzipping my hammock, pushing the food pack over, and sliding in beside it.  My sleep was deep, untroubled, and restful.  Shaman powder… great stuff!

Sometime in the night I became aware of a cavalcade of lights, dancing just beyond my slumber and the veil of my eyelids.  I felt a cool breeze.  I heard a strange music.  My muddled brain knew it was familiar music but seemed incapable of putting a label upon it or identifying the instrument generating it.  A supreme effort was called for just to open my eyes.

I heard a general rustling about me in the campsite and opened my eyes.  Beyond the mesh of my hammock netting, the night sky had erupted in a display of Aurora Borealis more akin to the fireworks at Disney World on the 4th of July.  The others were already awake, standing on the shoreline, watching.  Our horizon illuminated as if colorful lightning was bolting all about, stars disappearing then reappearing as the flashes faded.

So, I emerged from my green bear piñata and joined the assembly at water.

“There it is, again!”, exclaimed Intrepid Camper.  “See… right over there!  I swear to you I missed it entirely when we paddled here.”

“I do believe she’s right”, agreed Matunik.  “That’s definitely an island over there… unless, of course, that Veal of Vole we had at supper is playing havoc with my innards and this is all some kind of nightmare.”

Following their pointing index fingers, I could see the outline of an island that I too had overlooked earlier.  In fact, I saw what appeared to be a campfire – or maybe even a bonfire - of sorts, somewhere in its interior.

It was a short distance.  The water was calm & well-lit, intermittently.  We hopped into our canoes & kayak and paddled off to investigate.

The nebulous haunting, hypnotic music grew louder & more distinct as we closed the gap.  At some point, perhaps a mere a hundred yards offshore, our senses snapped out of their collective mental fog which, seemingly, had engulfed us all.  Suddenly, the music became intelligible to us.  It was “Amazing Grace”!  On bagpipes, no less!!  We beached our canoes and marched inland, brightness from a bonfire only a short distance away illuminating our path.

And there he stood, before us, larger than life… a jolly, stout fellow who reminded me much of the Ghost of Christmas Past from the old Charles Dickens tale… except that THIS character was clad in a kilt!  He was laughing aloud, arms opened wide as he greeted us.  There were many others, behind him, having a good time, drinking & laughing & carrying on.

“Welcome!  Welcome, to my isle of joy & merriment!!”, said the large elfish figure.

“What IS this place??”, cried QPassage.  “It doesn’t show on ANY of my maps!”

“Why, this is Brig-a-loon, of course!!!”, declared our host.

“Bring-A-Loon!”, challenged The Fireman.  “Don’t you have enough loonies around here already???”

“He said Brig-a-loon, NOT Bring-A-Loon, you dolt!”, yelled Matunik.

“And who the devil are YOU???”, I asked the kilted one.

“Why, I am the Prince of Joy, of course!” our host said matter-of-factly.  “Aye, laddies... and lady, they call me ‘PJ’ for short… and don’t you know there is NOTHING short about ME… if you know what I mean!!!”, said the elf, making a rather ribald gesture towards his kilt. “In any case, the Devil has NO business HERE, on the isle of joy, of course!  Ahahahahahahaha!!!  HE belongs over THERE!!”, he says, pointing north.

“Where is there?”, asked QPassage.  “I am putting together a hybrid map that will be the envy of all those folks at Fisher & McKenzie.  I must know these things.”

“There”, said PJ, “is where the Devil lives.  I hardly dare utter his foul name in this fair place.  Yet I shall say it to you this ONE time.  The Devil is the one they call ‘The Mighty Schmegma’.  He lives there, on the Isle of Spam.”

We all simply stared, with dread, into the eerie Darkness unto which his finger pointed.

“Now let us join the Feast to which you have been summoned… already in progress!!!”, announced our host.

At the table, beyond the bonfire, sat a number of familiar faces: Mad Mat, fishinbuddy, Spartan 1 AND Spartan 2, TwistTieCollector, Ranger, Tripper, Flpaddler (clad in beach bum swim wear & dark sunglasses), Satchmoa, Snow_Dog (“hey there, bro!”), Solotripper, The Beaver, Magic Paddler, and many, many others.  They were ALL in high spirits & clearly having a fine old time, clinking glasses, making toasts and enjoying the evening.

Tripper said, “We’ve been wondering how long it would take you guys to get over here!  QPassage, that Shaman Dust I sent you must be losing some of its efficacy.”

Our host, PJ, stepped to the fore and roared, “Let’s drain the Jug of Happiness and join in the feast… which I am so pleased to put in front of you today!” We saw, on the grill a Northern of gigantic proportions, maybe 75 inches in length.  Even my Schlitz-spoiled standards took a rocking at the sight of this Big Mama.

I eyeballed PJ.  He winked & pointed to his OWN bait... a Guinness Stout, in his back pocket!  

PJ went on, “My friends, we celebrate the appearance of Brig-a-loon!  It only happens for kindred spirits and voyageurs every 100 years, you know.”

We were well into conversation & enjoying our meal when we heard a loud blast of a trumpet and then what sounded like “Hail to the Chief!”

PJ stood up & commanded, “All stand!  Your liege-lord & the King of Brig-a-loon has arrived!  Eyes forward to the head table!!”

Yes, there he was... db, himself!!!  He ambled in, smiling.  He lifted arms in welcome, and proclaimed, “Sit, dudes.”

PJ remained standing.  He yelled, “An oath of allegiance to our Leige-Lord!!"  

“An oath!!”, everyone shouted.

“Repeat after me!”, demanded PJ with a terrible fierce look on his face.  “DEATH TO SPAMMERS!!!”

“DEATH TO SPAMMERS!!”,  we all shouted… then gladly passed the jug.  And the merriment resumed.
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TO BE CONTINUED

Off topic, but true. I remember the vile voles.