The Algonquin Journals
Day 5

While consuming our pancakes irrigated in reconstituted maple syrup, Charlie mentions that late in the night he thought he saw a group canoeing across the lake. A doubtful conjecture inferring that anyone in their right mind, would be traveling across an isolated lake in this corner of the world, and at that hour. Thinking not much of that remark, we finished breakfast, packed our gear and pushed off onto Lawren Harris Lake. Paddled south, to a short twenty yard portage.

The portage brought us to a small lake called Loughrin Lake, which took us southward. The lake was surrounded by a sylvan forest on all sides. On the west shore we spotted a campsite whose campfire smoke assimilated with the gray cloudy sky above. We could see canoes by the waters edge along with tents, amidst the lush green woodland. As we moved closer, to our surprise, it was Bob's Group. "How did they get in front of us?" we questioned.

We pulled up, as they were just finishing with breakfast. Paul approached our canoe from the shore and told of their misadventure. He then verbally began to scrutinize Bob's navigability sills. As he continued his critique of last evening, I got the impression, what he was trying to convey was: They got lost! This also helped explain how they got ahead of us. They simply sacrificed a half nights sleep.

Just then a pleasant light sprinkle started. We continued south on Loughrin Lake as a light drizzle persisted. When we arrived at the 540 yard portage, the light drizzle transformed itself into a light rain. We moved the equipment, canoes and ourselves through the portage with relative ease. At the end of the portage we searched our backpacks for rain gear.

Prior to the trip, I purchased a fluorescent orange rain-coat, hood and pants at E.J. Korvettes in Trumbull, Connecticut USA. This came complete with a clear plastic carrying case for added comfort and convenience. The equipment list recommended just a rain poncho, but, why not go that extra step? Other members of the group had similar apparel to fight off the impending tempest.

We were now on a small pond called Barred Owl Lake. We saw no barred owl, only a strong rainfall that doused the surface of the lake. Legend tells us, the owl is wise. That must be true, for only a fool would be out in weather like this, not a wise barred owl. We crossed the lake to a ten yard portage that brought us to Nod Lake. Did not stop to unpack the canoes, just lifted them over this ten yard embankment and dropped them in the other side. By now the sky appeared to burst with a deluge of rain that drenched us. All our fancy rain gear failed to keep us dry. Somehow water will irrigate its way within our fortress of plastic. The portage at the end of Nod Lake, looked to be some shelter from the precipitation.

At the base of the portage we pulled the canoes ashore, got under a deciduos tree canopy to give us some shelter from the rains. Selected this site to have lunch. A glance at the map revealed that we were now poised on the edge of a 2130 yard (Oh! No!) portage. "Would everyone like some hot!, soup?" asked Mark in an attempt to cheer up the group. We could use hot soup but nobody wanted to attempt building a fire at a start of a portage. Mark reached into his backpack, pulled out a small metal box with several cans of sterno or better know as instant "canned fire!" We had some hot soup with our crackers, peanut butter and jelly.

After lunch we then confronted the 1.2 mile portage. The forest canopy above sheltered us from some of the rain. The dirt trail was converted to an elongated dark, murky, filthy sludge passageway through a real rain forest. The trail was now a winding wearisome obstacle that slowed our progress profusely, with the exception of a smooth slick mud embankment beneath your feet. We would each experience similar ballets throughout this portage. Suddenly! both feet slide outward, you instantly fall as your right knee penetrates the mud while your left knee finds a jagged rock to meld with. As you continue to fall face forward, you would like to put out your hands to break your fall. The only problem is that you are holding a 100 pound canoe above you. As you are falling upon the earth, an attempt is made to throwaway the canoe. That just can't be done. You hit the soggy, slushy trail, before you feel any discomfort, the canoe that you were balancing on your back, smashes into you, pushing you just an extra inch into the mud. Two questions come to mind. "Way am I here?" and "How do I get up?" "Are you OK?" asks Rich who was carrying a canoe behind me. "No!" I answer, as I attempt to crawl out from under this metallic monstrosity. Emerging from the blanket of ooze, begin to stand upright, only to see Rich slipping with his canoe. Slight hesitation, little juggling, down he goes, up his canoe goes as it now comes toward me. His canoe crashes into mine. A clanging rumbling sounding prompts; "Be careful with those canoes!, we have a deposit on them!" yells Charlie from somewhere in the woods. Next I clutch a rope tied to the bow and begin dragging the canoe across the muck which now acts as paste. Searching for something close to dry land where I can place the canoe back on my back. What else can go wrong today? you wonder. Just then it started to rain just a little harder.

Once the canoe is on your back, it would shield you from the water above, but the wet brances would slap water at you from all sides. This portage felt like it would take us forever to get through. Bob's Group caught up with us on this portage. They also steadily pushed through. The only difference between our two groups, was that we had a good nights sleep, before this assiduous hurdle.

Once through the portage we came upon the Nipissing River. The rain has been reduced to a light continuous movement over the downpour's of morning. Traveled east on the Nipissing until we encountered a wooden obstruction creating a cataract making another burdensome barrier for todays demanding trek. We portaged around an unidentified structure, most likely left over from last centuries logging operations. Portaged 380 yards around it, and continued east on the Nipissing River.

Mark's canoe beached itself on the left side of the Nipissing River. He got out and stood on a rock signaling us. The other four canoes closed in on Mark. He stood upright, with the rain cascading off his rain poncho. We got closer, could hear the howl of the river. "This is it!" said Mark as he held his rain soaked arm out and pointed downstream. "What?" came a voice, from one of our canoes. "This is the Allen Rapids!" Mark exclaimed! We are now here I thought. The spot that created the famous trail-chef folklore, which has lasted for over four years in Troop 64 history. I could remember back four years ago, when I first saw the photographs of this spot. Then it was a sunny warm summer day. Today it was a rainy cold damp summer day. With how our luck was going, we never even thought of shooting the Allen Rapids. We did the same as the Algonkins, explorers, trappers, loggers, and other wisemen; we portaged around the infamous Allen Rapids.

Allen Rapids Portage is over a mile and a half through a level trail. More then halfway through the portage there was a clearing. Both groups were rejoined on this trail that edged above the Allen Rapids. Those of us portaging the canoes, found this as an ideal resting spot. It also does not hurt to mention that the rain finally stopped. Those hauling the backpacks found this as an ideal resting place also. A concerted amalgamated consolidated thought came upon all of us simultaneously. Lets not go any further. This is were we should camp for the night. Bob and Charlie reached us. They rested their canoes, both wanted to push on. We told them that we were staying. They liked the idea also. Tents went up along both side of the trail, a dinner fire was started. We ate our last supper, trailside, above the Allen Rapids.

No one knew where or how the Allen Rapids got named, it most likely was a man named Allen, who either conquered this waterway, or it conquered him. First heard the phrase "Allen Rapids", in Troop 64 folklore. Where the ill-fated, 1972 expedition, capsized canoe carrying its only cooking collection, was lost. Lost beneath a cascading mile and a half of river thrashing currents.

Was this story fact or fiction? The map revealed the name "Allen Rapids". A 1974 quartermaster manifest recored, did record the trail chef being signed out in the summer of 1972, entry inventory lists it as: NOT RETURNED! Standing above the mummer of the river, Chuck, Rick, Paul and myself decide to climb down to the river, to meet the rapids face to face.

Below, we step on to a rock, viewing this moving white blanket of roaring water. I wonder what treasures must lie beneath. Freshly sharpened arrow heads from an Algonkian brave, who's birch-bark-canoe first ventured into these new hunting grounds, only to be crushed by the mighty hydrolic pressure of rocks, falling water and gravity. A leather bible cover from an early Jesuit missionary. A rusting ax, from an early lumberjack. Maybe a 110 instamatic Kodak camera, in an attempt to capture a still shot of this waterway. The prize, Troop 64's 1972 lost trail chef, wedged against mighty glacial rocks, beneath a furious river, with food still encrusted from the expeditions last cooked meal.

A short distance up stream, we spot Mark, seated on a large boulder, steering into the river. We jump over to that rock. Mark wears an olive drab colored rain poncho and a red crusher upon his head. He then begins to tell us how this river beat Branden and him four years ago. We then had the opportunity to hear the tale of the lost trail-chef, first hand. The event lasted only seconds, yet the error lasted a lifetime. We questioned Mark, if we were cowards, to portage around the Allen Rapids. He responded with the assurance, that we were wise not to shoot the rapids. Sitting on a rock centered among a white roaring current of rushing water, rivers mist abound us, we had a sort of "quasi-vision-quest". As the skies grew darker, we ascended the walls of the rapieds, to our campsite.