The Algonquin Journals
Day 1

As we dismantle our campsite, we transfer all of our belongings into ten canoes as we transform ourselfs into nomadic campers. The two cars and two jeeps are parked and secured by the edge of the woods. Every piece of equipment is tethered, from backpacks to sierra cups. We were drilled over and over from the lesson learned from the 1972 expedition. No Mistakes!

Before departure Rick, Chuck and myself decide to visit the Brent General Store. Between the train station and lake stretched a dirt road which supported the town's omnibus sui generis shop. A dusty pathway lead to a screen door centered upon a porch. Pushed open the door and found a large room surrounded by wooden shelves, well mustered with packaged dry goods. In one corner an electric freezer keeps an array of ice cream bars, cones along with a cache of frozen "milkyway" candy bars. Another corner procures a refrigerated soda cauldron. As we enter the Brent General Store, we notice Greg, Mark, Tom and Ron all enjoying an ice cream while chatting with the store's proprietor. A diligent pragmatic sage named Jake. "What's the population of this town?" asked Tom. "Well, if their all alive and kickin' t'is morning, we're up to eighteen!" expressed Jake who begins the task of unpacking yesterday's newspaper that just arrived via the train. "Are the newspapers in English here?" questioned Greg. "Of course there in English!, What the hell country do you think your in?" lamented Jake. They continued to converse with Jake, asking him how old he was and what they do for excitement around these parts. I bought a frozen "milkyway" bar, tendered a Canadian quarter and walked back to the shore. Jake tended to have a vast wealth of knowledge for this land. The only plausible explanation is that he was always here in Brent, and he will always be here, managing the Brent General Store for all eternity.

I am given the task of orientating the day's journey as I sit upon a lake side picnic table eating a frozen "milkyway" bar. The map is unfolded across the picnic table, a clear acrylic compass placed on top. The earth's mighty sequestered magnetic field, tugs against the compass needle, pointing it somewhere in Canada's Northwest Territory. While holding the compass fixed, the map is rotated beneath, until the needle is aligned with the North icon in the corner of the map. Next your surroundings, orientated with the map features. I can see and identify the passageway on Cedar Lake, to the northwest. With us being on the northshore of Cedar Lake, and Cedar Lake at the top of the map: to read it correctly, you needed to hold the map upside down. With the course, now committed to memory, I fold and pack my map and compass away. Strangely, I notice no one in the group checking the map before the start.

Our large group of twenty, needed to be split in two small groups. Park regulations recommended groups no larger then eight. To simplify things, we broke the group in two. Bob would lead one group which we would ingeniously call; "Bob's Group". Thought it would be creative to describe our group as "Our Group".

Bob's Group was to push off first. As their five canoes entered the expanse Cedar Lake, headed southeast, I questioned "Where are they going?". I was assured that Bob was headed to a passageway on the other side of the lake. I did not recall seeing that on the map. Come to think of it, the Northwest Passage, has yet to be mapped.

A short time later, it was our turn to venture onward. Glen, positioned in the bow, of our canoe, eagerly awaited his first stroke of trip. I grabbed the stern, moving my hands along the gunwales, pushed the canoe northwest into Cedar Lake, kneeling in my paddle postion, proud of a successful, launch, without getting my feet wet. As I made my first paddle stroke of the trip, I glanced at the other four canoes, in unison. Unbeknown, the other four canoes, were off in the opposite direction from us. Stopped, looked at Glen and asked "Where are they going?". Instantly, Jim yelled to me: "Come on, your going the wrong way!". "Where are you going" I questioned. Jim affirmed that we were to follow Bob's Group. Turned the canoe and followed the fleet, knowing that in my journal, I would have to admit, my map and compass skills are lacking. Always felt I had a good sense of direction. Oh! Well!, time to paddle onward!

The Algonkian Indians once pioneered these waters in birch-bark-canoes. A vehical fabricated entirely of raw materials found along the forests of the Ottawa. Exterior of bark from birch trees, soaked in water, stretched over a wooden frame. Stitched together with threads made of cedar roots. Shielded with a concoction of pitch, wax, sap and animal fat. A flexiable carriage that can transport heavy loads across rivers and lakes, yet can be light enough to be carried over land. The ultimate in 17th century travel, the "birch-bark-canoe". The 20th century has replaced the "birch-bark-canoe" with the aluminum canoe. Fabricated entirely of raw materials found along the surface of the earth. Exterior sheets of silver metallic aluminum, riveted together with magnesium bolts. Stark black lettering that reads; "Mattaw Canoe Rentals".

Soon we are in what appears to be the center of this sea called "Cedar Lake". To us, a massive expanse, yet by geological standards, a mire puddle left over from the last ice age. Our metallic canoes float across the placid blue surface at odds with the sky. Looking down, into the abyss, the sun's rays follow the paddle downward until they vanish. We are not the first to pioneer these waters. History shows that Samuel de Champlain (1567-1635) was the first to document coming near this region. The first written reference to Cedar Lake was recorded by cartographer Alexander Shirreff in the summer of 1829. He meet an Algonkian Chief Constant Pennassez who maintained a farm at the edge of Cedar Lake. The Hawkesbury Lumber Comapny established opperations on Cedar Lake from 1870 to 1914. A 25-mile wagon road was bilt in 1892, which course we followed into Brent. In 1912 the Canadian National Railway began construction of a line along the north shore of Cedar Lake. The line was completed in 1915. Mr. E Thomas established the Kish-Kaduk Lodge in 1928 on the shores of Cedar Lake. The ruins can still be found today. For Troop 64, Brent Station and Cedar Lake have become our stark gantry to a myriad land frozen in time.

A leisurely pleasant four and a half mile trek across Cedar Lake, brought us to the southshore, where we met up with Bob's Group. They were moving along the coast searching for the tributary, bringing us into Little Cedar Lake. I mentioned that what they are looking for, is back where we came form. My remark was neglected, treated as if I spent too much time in the Hawaiian sun. By now, Bob was out of the canoe, standing on the shore, eyes peering upon the map. What could be construed as analogous to a tribal council of sachems convening for a pow-wow. They stood, in ankle deep water, all holding maps, right side-up. As a compass in being removed, I paddle over to make the recommendation, that we change course. Once more, declined the distinction of pathfinder, until I advise them to turn the maps upside down, then read'em. Slowly, one by, one, the maps are rotated, which now show our destined gateway, into the Algonquin interior.

One slight navigational error, easily corrected by a four and a half mile, backtrack. Not so easy, the spirits, forces to be, decide that a group of mortals, must now face, the vile turpitude of nature's malicious side. As we attempt to return, strong wantonness winds, manifest like a foul plague upon us. As we desperately paddle, into the wind, we are pushed back, as a barricade of air, prevents and easy access across Cedar Lake.

While regrouping, on small island in Cedar Lake, we stop. Break for lunch, entire time facing the wind. Each gastronomic morsel of nutrients are helping us to regain strength. We must keep our energy level up to continue the battle. Once finished with lunch, we face into the wind and push onward as it continues to impede our movement.

Waves break against the bow of the canoe, as if we were venturing in Viking Longboats across the North Atlantic. Each wave lifts the canoe up, while gravity smashes it back to undulate a berate thump. This sound resonates along the hollow of each canoe. The tranquil blue lake, turned to a sea of gray, as white-caps etched their way upon the surface. Our hands become numb as the cold choppy waters splash up to deracinate away the only warmth. Hands continue to cling to the paddle as we fight our way across Cedar Lake, never yielding to submission. When we returned to Brent, after our nine mile wrong turn, it was like we completed our initiation to this land. For upon our crossing, the winds then stopped. Shut off!, like someone turned the fan of nature's wind tunnel, to off.