The Algonquin Journals
Day 4

We reach the western end of Manitou Lake. A 450 yard portage brings us to another massive lake; North Tea Lake. Paddled for many miles, turned southeast into a lagoon for about three miles. We came to a 260 yard portage, hungry and tired. Partway across, broke for lunch on a grassy clearing over the rapids. Had a chance to rest, eat chicken and ham spread on crackers. After eating and resting, we were still hungry and tired. Paddled a very short distance south on Hornbeam Lake to a 100 yard portage, paddled 100 yards, then portaged 150 yards to Biggar Lake.

Biggar Lake looked smaller, until we paddled east for two miles, the lake opened up and looked bigger. Although Biggar lake was not named for its size, but for an 1882 surveyer named J. L. Biggar. We are now on a secluded lake, surrounded by vacant campsites. I query about the possibility of stopping. "That's a good idea!" I'm told was we continue to paddle toward a marshland. "Well are we going to stop?" I question. "We can't", Jim answered. "Why not?" I requestion. "Were low on food" is conveyed to me. "How low?" I interrogated. "We have two dinners, two lunches and three breakfasts to last us for the rest of the trip". "How did that happen?" I question. The answer I'm given: "Remember that wrong turn we made the frist day?", before I have a chance to recollect, "That put us behind schedule for the remainder of the trip". answeres Jim, continually paddling toward a nice lush swamp.

I got my explanation as to why Charlie and Bob were pushing both groups so hard. We are tired, hungry and now, low on food. What else can go wrong as we make a southwest turn bringing us into a marshland. Moving up a narrow marshy creek, we see some salvation, it's the portage, this means dryland. Lifting the canoes from the swamp, we discover another long one: 2200 yards. One comment; push on! In addition to the encumbrance of the length, we also had hills and mud to contend with.

Partway through this long portage, we came across another group of fellow canoeist. Resting near the side of the trail. We stopped to great them, exchanged some pleasantries. Found out they were a church group from Minnesota, on a one week canoe trip. They were traveling at a much slower pace then we were. Not sure how many were in their party, for they were spread out across much of the portage, like our group was.

At this same portage we encountered, yet another group. They were going at a faster pace than we were, much, much faster. Their group consisted of two men (mid 20's) and two boys (14-15 yrs old). They also stopped to exchange polite, trail side, conversation. They had a French accent, said that they were out canoeing for the week, no set course. The two boys were not carrying knapsacks, but backpacks. I mean real! backpacks. Solid wooden crates, strapped with leather straps. The two men said a "good day" and "lifted" or should I simply say: "tossed" the canoes on their backs with the greatest of ease. Next proceeded at a jogging pace, with a 100 pound canoe on their backs. The two boys, pushed their backs aginst the crates, placed a head-band on attached to their head and crate. A quick jerking motion, a hard thump, and the two boys had the ballast upon their backs, and they were off. We sat there in total amazement, as this herculean foursome juggled, over a quarter of a ton of equipment, through a portage.

The finale to the portage came, as our overture brought us back to another swamp. Sat at the edge, overlooking the marsh, swating black flies and mosquitoes. With the herculeans far ahead, disappearing out of site, the church group far behind, out of mind, and Bob's group, who knows where? We sat motionless. Gone was that pioneering spirit of exploration, along with that quest for adventure. Had this been solid land, we might have been tempted, to setup camp.

Did a map check which served a double purpose. One it established that we were in Loughrin Creek, with no campsites present. Second the map came in handy for swating black flies. Regrouped, a status report indicated that Bob's group, decided to camp on Biggar Lake and not attempt the portage today. "Bob's group must really be tired to stop this early in the day." remarked Charlie. We sort of envied Bob's maneuver, for a well earned rest. That's where we all wanted to be.

The heinous black flies that swarmed above us in rapacious swarthy clouds, could be just a reality of nature. Or the mythical evil fiend of Algonkian legends. The Indian demon known as Master Lox, who prided himself as man's mischiefmaker, trickster, archenemy of the Good Spirit. Master Lox appeared to man as a wolverine. One day an Algonkian hunting party decided to put an end to Master Lox's mischief. With the help of Kitpoo the Eagle and Kahkahgoos the Crow, they hunted him then surrounded him within the forest. Lox transformed himself into a large boulder such that he could not be harmed. The braves each picked up a rock in each hand. Piece by piece they attempted to dismantle Master Lox into rock dust so that he will never plague mankind again. When he was pulverized to rock dust, his spirit transformed into a dust of black files to annoy man and beast for all eternity. Could this be what was left of Master Lox?

Our immediate problem lies not with the black files and mosquitoes. Instead, we were now in the realm of the beaver. This creature, might look cute and cuddly in the zoo, or adorable on Saturday morning cartoons. To a canoeist, a beaver acts as an obnoxious, incommodious sentinel, hampering our movement. They build ingeniously designed architectural entanglments, to prevent the easy passage of a canoe. Mud, stick, sod dams barricade the waterway. The lead canoe must break up the beaver dam. Once broken the water rushes your canoe through. Behind you, they begin rebuilding, before the next canoe can get through. The water level goes up and down. On both sides or your canoe, you see scraggy branches coming back together, guided by eyes and fur floating above the surface, as the beaver attempts to quickly rebuild.

It is like we are playing a strategic game of chess with the beaver. We just want to move our pieces across the chessboard. The beaver is in almost total control of our progress. As the sun now moves closer to the horizon, the beaver is attempting to slow our pace, box us in, so that we will be trapped here after sunset. Should that happen, the beaver would have the advantage, trapping us in his labyrinth, till morning. We our in a frantic quest to win, to escape. It is too late in the day to be playing games with a cunning stubborn creature. We will not yield, no matter how tired we are, we will prevail as we begin our fight. The bow man in each canoe, take their paddles, and begin smashing all dams. Any stick, twig or branch that moves is pulverized, by the bow man's mighty paddle. The stern man follows with a frantic, steady stroke for propulsion. Soon, victory is ours, our only reward, a 700 yard portage.

From the 700 yard portage, we emerge into Lawren Harris Lake. In the early part of this century, Tom Thomson (1877-1917) encouraged a group of artists from Toronto, to paint landscapes in the newly established Algonquin Park. After Thomson's tragic death in 1917, (three days paddle distance from here) this group became known as the "Group of Seven". One of the members who came to the park to paint was Lawren Harris (1885-1970) who this lake was named after. It is doubtful that Harris ever made it to this lake, but it is bestowed with his name. The map reveals other members of the group who's names now flank lakes within the park; Varley, Jackson, Johnson, Lismer, MacDonald and Carmichael.

The sun has already set, this being the latest we were canoeing. Bob's Group already found a camp site. The marshland that we meandered through did not beckon us to any inviting campsites. The 700 yard portage brought us to Lawren Harris Lake. A small camp site was spotted, on a tiny island. Immediately we unloaded the canoes, The site was so small we set up only four of the five tents. Started cooking dinner, which was spaghetti. This was the first time in the trip that we needed flashlights. Before we knew it, it was late, and dark. We could hear loons crying from the center of the lake. As we climbed into the sleeping bags. We could hear, the not to distant wolves, howling their watch.