The Algonquin Journals
Day 3

As you awake each morning, you feel as if your body is slowly coming to life. Your eyes gaze around the campsite, noting the differences observed the previous evening. The first instinct in the morning ritual, bring the breakfast fire to life! One member of our group will follow the age old tradition of being "fire-starter", or what term we coined: "Pyromaster". He would kneel before the testament of last nights campfire. Push charred remains aside and begin a collection of kindling-tinder, placed architecturally upward, above the circular stone precipice boundry. The "Pyromaster" has developed the art of selecting the ideal wood for combustion. An easy task to master: When you break the stick, if it snaps! with a sharp-crack!; it will burn. One lit match, in the bottom center, and the fire comes to life. The "Pyromaster" will now feed the fire with increasingly larger wood, from sticks to logs.

While the fire is sculpted by the "Pyromaster", another member of the group will become "TrailChef" along with an assistant. They will retrieve a piece of equipment called the trail-chef, which is a collection of pots, pans, plates, cups and cooking utensils. The "TrailChef" might send his assistant to the lake or river, to fetch a pail of water. The pail is a plastic collapsible container, best for a trip like this due to its size and weight. The "TrailChef" will yell out "Who has a breakfast?" Every meal is packaged in self-contained plastic garbage bags. Each person, eager to give up his share of the group meal contingent to lighten his backpack early in the trip. Someone quickly surrenders a meal package. The food is all dehydrated powder, sealed in a clear plastic package with its description written on a small white piece of paper within. All packaging was done a month before the start or our voyage.

Our breakfast consists of scrambled eggs. The "TrailChef" and his assistant rip open the plastic bag, dump the yellow powder contents in a frying pan with water, in place of cracking eggs. Within the boundaries of the pan, the yellow mixture transforms into a viscous concoction. The "TrailChef" moves the spatula across the congealing chunks of what now begins to look like eggs. Upon consumption, this chemical precipitate looks and tastes like scrambled eggs. The same is done for the hash-browns, while the hot chocolate and orange juice are all resurrected with water.

After breakfast, we roll up, pack up, our sleeping bags. Our tents are plicated. Tent poles dismantled into sections packaged with the stakes. Force all our supplies, into a waterproof duffel bag. All equipment is centerd and tied down, stowed along the bottom of the canoe. Every single piece of equipment is tethered, even our drinking cups. The last chore before departure, is to clean the pots and pans, remove the life from the breakfast fire.

Just as we are about to push off from dry land, we see Bob's Group of five canoes, all in formation, traveling westward toward Kiosk, a quarter of a mile away. Our five canoes meet up with Bob's, as we all continue toward Kiosk. Within minuets, we begin docking the canoes at Kiosk. For what we labeled a "wilderness canoe trip", a visit to Kiosk, is a thriving metropolis. It was once home to a succession of railroad lumber operations. A thriving company town of over 234 employees abruptly terminated when a fire engulfed it. On Friday the 13th, of July, 1973; over ten acres of the town was destroyed. Being within park boundaries, the timber licenses were not renewed. Kisok then became a small station stop on the Canadian National Railroad.

Once all ten of our canoes are docked, we had a twenty minute stop over to explore the town. Paul and I entered the General Store, bought some snacks, including a frozen "milkyway" bar. Watched a train enter the station as we each ate a frozen "milkyway" bar, then met up with the group.

Bob's Group left Kiosk first. After they were about a quarter of a mile away, we proceeded southwest across Kioshkokwi Lake. The calm lake consisted of four miles, pleasant, uninterrupted paddling under a deep rich blue sky. We faced the sun as it advanced with its continual climb upward. We felt like we could travel like this all day, but all good things must come to an end. The coast line encroached upon us, the placid lake now turned to a stream.

We first spotted Bob's Group at the portage beginning to remove gear from the canoes. Paddled closer, we could hear the roar of the Amable du Fond River. We had a 220 yard portage around the rapids. We no sooner got the canoes back in the water, repacked, with less then a 100 yards of water, a second portage around more rapids. We unpacked the canoes and transported ourselves across a 300 yard portage. At this point in the trip we were moving at the same pace as Bob's Group. Our original intention was to travel separate, but terrain dictated otherwise.

The termination of the portage brought us out to an unobstructed waterway that no longer looked like a river, but a long thin lake. We paddled the canoes gracefully northwest, up the Amable du Fond River. Up ahead, I could site the canoes beginning to stop. It was another portage. As we were waiting for the canoes before us to unload, it gave me the opportunity for a map check. Unfolded the map, lapped it over my packpack and noticed that this was a 1300 yard portage, the longest of the trip so far.

Both groups embarked on a 3/4 of a mile trek across dry land. Before the trip, we were given many recommendations. One of which, was to get in shape for the trip by exercising. I took the advice of the elder scout, started running about two months before the trip. With running, it is absolutely amazing how you can build up to longer and longer distances, with greater and greater ease. In place of whining and moaning about the portage, I put on my horsecoller lifejacket, lifted my canoe, balanced it on my shoulders, began walking. The portage was a narrow, well packed dirt trail, winding through a wooded area, up and down a series of hills. I decided to carry the canoe nonstop, until I reached the end of the portage.

I found the portage to be slightly difficult while other memebers of the group, would decline to use the word "slightly". Being the first through the protage, I had some time to take in the beauty of the surroundings. The termination of the portage was a clearing, viewing a large lake. The trail opened to a sandy beach, where I placed the canoe down. Sat on a stone wall, began unfolding my map to assess our location. A few bees hovered around a patch of wild berries on the other side of the wall. A slight wave and they were gone.

The map revealed to me; I was on the northeast shore of Manitou Lake positioned on the remains of a farm abandoned half a century ago. Glanced westward toward an vast lake, that appeared to move endlessly toward the horizon. To me the area resembled a sandy shore on Long Island Sound. This lake even had a slight surf to it. As I sat there waiting, for my group to join me, I was wondering why there would be a farm in the middle of the woods, on an uninhabited lake?

The site in question was a depot farm, established in the 1880's to supply fresh food to the workers of the nearby lumber camps. This farm was reported to have a log house, a barn, crops and livestock. The farms began to vanish as the railroad pushed into the northern section of the park. This farm ceased operating in 1916 when Ignace Dufound died, and his wife Suzanne left the farm which was then, as is now, completely surrounded by Algonquin Park. Fifty years later, the site still puzzles canoeists who pass by, wondering what type of archaeological discovery confronts them.

The location of the Dufound Depot Farm was magnificently located on the shore of Manitou Lake. Legend has it, the lake's name came from when the Dufounds first entered this site, and found a large water snake which they believed the Great Sprit "Manitou" was in it. The Algonquins believe Manitou to the the life force present in all living things.

After a short rest period at the Dufound Depot Farm site, I decided to hike back, through the portage to see what happened to the group. As I made it halfway through, I encountered Jim and Rich wrestling with their canoe. Behind them was Chuck and Rick balancing their canoe while teetering at the edge of an embankment. Just then I heard some crys "Look Out!" "I can't hold it!", then the canoe fell down the embankment with a pounding metallic rumble. "How much further is this portage?" questioned Jim. "Your at the halfway point" I answered as I assisted Chuck lifting the canoe back up to the trail. "You got to be kidding!" yelled Chuck. "What, were not at the end yet?" questioned Rich. I assured them, they still have a haul!, as I continued to the start of the portage for my backpack. As I passed other members of both groups on the trail, I could read their faces. They were tired! I got my backpack, rewalked the trail to the Dufound Depot Farm. This time, when I returned to Manitou Lake, more members and equipment, from both groups were scattered across the beach.

Chuck glanced at the expanse of Manitou Lake as the waves pounded the sandy beach, the winds conveyed to us, staty put. "No Way are we going across that!, today!" Chuck remarked. After a short discussion, it it was decided that we would set up camp here, with how tired everyone felt. Bob's group pushed on with a consensus bordering on near mutiny. Our group placed our backpacks on and climbed an embankment to set up camp as we eatched Bob's Group edge toward the horizon.

I immediately pitched my tent, in the center of a stone foundation. This can be construed to be the Dufound's Farm House. When finished, four other tents surrounded this stone structure interlaced with red and white pines atop a hill with a coniferous pine needle carpeting overlooking Manitou Lake.

Being the earliest time of the day we stopped; gave us some free time for a swim. Unpacked my towel. From the sandy beach, ran into the lake. Toes become numb as your feet hit cold frigid waters. A slight hesitation, you continue to run, legs feeling the glaciation shock. Skin tightens, tingles and twists. You scream as the nipping arctic chill oozes into your pulse. The viscosity of the liquid has slowed your run to a slow motion walk as you fall, plunging into this aquatic zone. Pain fires across every square inch of your skin, only to be followed by complete and utter euphoric feeling as your body has adjusted to the temperature gradient between air and water. Amazingly the water description has gone from freezing to invigorating. You dive down and surface. Rotating on your back, while doing the back stroke, you have a chance to take in the beauty of the environment. Looking up at the sky. A celestial dome of contrasting blue and white. Totally devoid of all jet-streaks, air planes, helicopters and smog. The sky rests on a green circular horizon, devoid of homes, lodges and resorts. We swim in a lake all to ourself's, only for a short time, but the memory will last a lifetime.

Dinner was just like a clambake on the beach, without the clams. We cooked up some hamburgers with fresh meat and rolls, bought this morning in Kiosk, which seemed so distant. We had a blazin radiant campfire distal to the setting sun, as it clutched the west shore of Manitou Lake, only to glisten the sky with a bright orange-red sunset. I had some free time to update my journal, as the stars above flashed pulses of light toward us, while our campfire did the same back toward the stars. The northern lights waved across the Algonquin sky, like a glimmering curtain as I attempted to recall as many summer constellations from memory.

Fatigue and slight irritability creaked in among the assemblage. We have just finished three straight days of canoeing, interrupted only by eating, sleeping and portaging. I thought back to when I first learned to canoe, three summers ago at Camp Pomperaug. The most canoeing we did was one hour a day, for five days, while working towards Canoeing Merit Badge. While in these classes my friends and I always dreamed of, one day partaking in a wilderness canoe journey in a far-off land. Well, this is it!, what we always wanted to do, I thought as I pulled the pen away from my journal. Caped it, folded up my writing pad, then joined the rest of the group, at the evening campfire for a collection of songs and stories. A perpetual east wind off Manitou Lake, kept the bugs way, producing a rhythmic flapping of our tents which helped us fall, right off to sleep.