The Algonquin Journals
Day 2

The fog has now lifted, as we push off into Little Cedar Lake, leaving behind last nights island home. A few strokes later we spot a moose along the southshore grazing on some waterside vegetation. It stops, drools as he looks at us with disgust. We stop our paddling to observe. He turns towards the woods, and runs off before I could get my camera out.

How easy and natural canoeing is from Matt's canoe lessons at Camp Pomperaug. He would yell, shout and screech out commands to bestow inferiority if you failed to display a textbook inside-pivot or j-stroke. In canoe class never, ever, were you allowed to bend your elbow. It was like looking at the keyboard in typing class; a taboo. Matt just never mastered the concept of humanistic education. All of us failed Matt's final exam. It's surprising that we would ever touch a canoe after Matt's class.

In the open waterways of the northeast woodlands, the textbook canoe strokes are just that, a nice name, an opportunity for a few pen-ink drawings, interspersed within a canoer's manual. Your best stroke is the WWFY Stroke. What Works For You. A feel for the water, the canoe stroke comes natural. Slight bend of the arm, rhythmic subconscious movement, devoid of all technical nomenclature.

As we move northwest, railroad tracks are to the right of us, slightly elevated from the shore line. Paddle under a bridge, the tracks are above us, they shift to the left of us. Ahead we view a yellow marker, identifying and welcoming us to our first portage of the trip. Immediately, we bring each canoe to the shore, get out, begin unpacking. Each canoe is lifted, placed on a comrades back, moved across a 300 yard trail, to be deposited in Laurel Lake. Packpacks, paddles, cook-kit, first-aid-kit are all shuttled likewise.

Another pristine waterway lies before us. Gently dipping the tip of the paddle into the clear fluid beneath, a pull backwards, resulting in an equal and opposite reaction, pushes us forward. We have mastered the delicate art, of moving this astonishing machine as indians, fur trappers, traders and explorers who came before us.

Gliding upstream along the Canadian National Railway line, time avails itself to introduce the dramatis personae of our flotilla. Expedition leader is Bob, the Scoutmaster who is in the first group, probably one mile upstream. Our group is lead by Charlie, the Assistant Scoutmaster, an Eagle Scout with a vast resume of wilderness canoeing experience that transcends four decades. Perched in the bow, his son Tom. An eleven year old with a vast series of adventures yet to come. Their canoe acts as command center. The lead canoe, acting as the pathfinder we find Jim, a recently awarded Eagle Scout, holding the office of Assistant Senior Patrol Leader, seated in the bow. Pathfinder canoe's stern is Rich, who's Indian Guide name was Straight Arrow. Rich is a Star Scout finishing out his term as Senior Patrol Leader. Sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth century explorers normally brought an indian guide with them, familiar with the territory. Our guide was not indian, he was Mark, an Eagle Scout who followed this route, four years ago. The bow of his canoe sat Chucky, brother to Tom, son of Charlie, who is a Second Class Scout, Patrol Leader of the Wolf Patrol. Next canoe, in our cartel, where First Class Scout Chuck is seated, at the stern, wearing a cowboy hat, inplace of the traditional red or orange crushers. I knew Chuck almost my entire life, we were veterans of Camp Wipawaug. Bow, occupied by Star Scout Ricky who I knew most of my life whereas he lived across the street from me, when growing up.

In the sweep canoe was myself, I finished all the requirements for the rank of Eagle Scout, awaiting approval for my final Eagle Board of Review. The bow of my canoe sat Glen, a Second Class Scout and Assistant Patrol Leader of the "Moose Patrol".

Our second portage quickly manifests itself. 140 yards, we are on Little Cauchon Lake. Approximately 1,500 Algonquin Park Lakes have been named. Many lakes still remail nameless. This lake was named after a journalist and politician; Joseph Edouard Cauchon (1816-1885). This narrow lake, follows railroad tracks to the north, on the waters edge. We are now about to see a site that we rarely experience. A train is now coming through. From Brent Station, a Canadian National locomotive with four diesel engines, now appear, to our right, reflected in the mirrored surface of Little Cauchon Lake.

The train once called the iron horse, to us looks like an elongated city moving across the boundless Canadian countryside. The freight train fills the the lakeside stretching from horizon to horizon. Both the iron horse and us are meandering northwest, along the shores of Little Cauchon Lake uniform, yet different paces. This far reaching structure, also has its end. The caboose appears, with a lone railman, standing on the back looking at the vast panorama before him. We stop a paddle stroke to give a friendly wave. He acknowledges by lifting a hand off the rail for a wave back to the canoers, The excursion train disappears, leaving only its iron-wood tracks behind, the ninteenth century solution to the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries mythical Northwest Passage.

We venture northwest,beneath the railroad track, along a waterway that opens into Cauchon Lake. North shore we spot an ideal setting for lunch. Upon a rocky encampment, we begin our feast. Square crackers, with canned Underwood develed ham, that resembles dog food. Another can is Underwood chicken spread, that more resembles cat food. Despite the looks, when you worked up an appetite, it tastes good!

Across Cauchon Lake, a train now travels southeast, toward Brent Station. From our positon, the train, terrain and tracks resemble a model HO layout. I can view an occasional boxcar that I have an O-scale Lionel car sculpted after.

Lunch commences with a quick and tidy cleanup. Push off, lake narrows. A 480 portage crosses the train tracks and takes us to the next waterway. Mink Lake also continues to parallel the railroad. Now the iron tracks are quiet. No trains traverse them, only our five canoes in the waters beneath. As we move northwest on Mink Lake, we feel like characters created in Mark Twain's Huck Finn. We view our setting as the pictures and captions within the pages of the seventh edition Boy Scout Handbook.

We paddle our canoes under an old wodden logging dam that still stands testament to the flow of the water it once controlled. This might be the flood gate depicted in Thomson's oil painting "The Drive" (1917). Tom Thomson (1877-1917) was a Canadian artist who first came into this region in 1912 to paint landscapes. The vast beauty of this land gives us the illusion that we are moving into an artist's convergence of color and light, fixed to a canvas for all eternity. We all wonder how we may preserve the memory of this trip. Color photographs, pen and ink sketches, campfire stories, words on paper, super eight-millimeter movie film or just the memory burned into your conscience. We all have the feeling of hoping that this trip will never end.

In place of following the train across the land, we follow the sun across the sky, as it also moves westward. A 490 yard portage into Little Mink Lake. Short paddle distance before our longest portage of the day. 800 yards, crossing the railroad tracks once more. Kioshkokwi Lake is before us. By now the sun is getting tired and needs to rest. She begins to fall toward the horizon, we too are just as tired and view a potential resting place on the north shore. We gently paddle across the lake and pick a campsite. Beach all five canoes, pitch five tents, begin the supper fire.

Dinner tonight is spaghetti with meatsauce. Handfulls of long light crispy sticks, falling into a pot of boiling water, dehydrated meatsauce simmering with water in a frying pan. Pudding being mixed waiting to gel along a pulsating campfire. Soon the spaghetti and meatsause cover the plates, only to be twisted around a fork, for our dinner delight. Not the same as mom or grandma makes, but this lumberjack special hits the spot. Nothing is left behind on the plate making clean up, an easy task.