The Algonquin Journals
Day 6

As both groups push-off downstram, we notice an absence of any significant river currents assisting us. The Nipissing River appears not as a river, but more of an elongated lake shaded by the forest it shunts through. Eastward, we embark, a two day trek, we will attempt in one.

Last century three timber companis logging limit extened to the Nipissing River. In a quest to control the river; four dams were built. An attempt to produce more hydraulic pressure to flush logs through this corridor to Cedar Lake, then onward to the Ottawa. The dam names are Graham's, Dogay's, Stewart's, Gauthier's, all lumber foremen. Today, the dams are no longer in management, leavig in their wake, the roar of an otherwise quiet river. Yet they leave behind an obstruction, a log-jam that we must portage around for 450 yards, then 400 yards. The waterway opens, out of the woodland's shadow, we emerge into the morning glow of the sun. A beacon guiding us toward Brent Station. Soon a 1300 yard portage is sighted by Bob's Group.

Placed the canoe on my back, commenced with a 1300 yard obstacle of earth, following in the footsteps of Bob's Group. Proceeded to the end, but the end never came. My sneakers continued to tread, across a long dirt trail, that appeared to have no end. Finally I rested the canoe down, wondering why I was still in the portage, no end in site, alone!

The bugs began to go from bad, to worse. Reached for my bug repellent, twisted open the roll-on-stick, painted my skin with this invisible shield. Where ever I missed, the mosquitoes would land and begin feasting. Come in for a gentle landing. Place their proboscis delicately against your skin, teeth like tiny razor blades begin cutting as the feeding tube floats into your skin. The mosquito then spits an anticoagulant into the feeding tube, which is injected into your body. By now, you feel the bite, a quick slap on the skin, and you see the crashed remains, hesitate too long, it is interspersed with your blood. Once my entire skin is covered with Maximum Strenght Deep Woods Off!, they then begin to bite through the t-shirt. Once I begin caking the repellent across my t-shirt; I'm free, as I can see them hovering around my eyes, in a protest of my victory.

Ahead I see two canoes, left abandoned, at the side of the trail. In this moment of solitude, wondering where I am, I glance at the map, for my "surroundings", just do not look right! I'm puzzled, by now, I should have finished the portage, not standing in a mosquitoe's cafeteria line. What went wrong? I walk toward, the two abandoned canoes, no site of anyone. Suddenly I see Paul from Bob's Group, walking toward me. This is odd, for they should be done with the portage by now. He is carrying a series of canoe paddles, with a full backpack on. Greets me, and tells me that we are on the wrong portage, as he puts the pile of paddles tailside.

What could go wrong next? From the termination side of the portage, we hear and see Greg, from Bob's Group hurrying along, in a sort of walk-jogging pace. He stops, asks us if we have the first-aid-kit. We answer no! He then runs on. Wondering what that is all about, I sitdown, back against a sugar maple tree, studing the map. Paul, then starts the ritual of putting his bug repent on, then sits next to the tail, back against an abandoned canoe. Next player to enter our stage, is Mark, canoe on his back, sees the two of us sitting with long faces. Mark gently puts his canoe down, in hopes of cheering us up. "What's wrong?" he asks. We explain that we are following Bob's Group down the wrong portage. "What!" yells Mark, as he looks at my map streched out over the trail, as he is frantically, reaching for his bug repellent. Just then, Greg runs by from the other direction. "Where's he going?", asks Mark. "We don't know", Paul and I answer. "What was he carrying?" asks Mark. "A first-aid-kit", we answer. "What does he need a first-aid-kit for?" questioned Mark. "We don't know" we answer. Even though we did not know why they needed the first aid kit, we did know that we were not lost, we just took a wrong turn. A turn that brought us almost two miles across land, in the opposite direction from Brent.

A map check confirmed our navigational blunder. Both groups moved gear and personnel, stretched across a mile and three quarters of trail, back to the Nipissing River. It was time for lunch, but we had no food. Each time, when you think morale and spirit, cannot sink any lower, it does. In addition to numerous obstacles, pencil in that Mr. McStavick twisted his ankle at the end of the wrong portage. Despite our set back, we continue to push on, both groups in a solidarity of purpose, onward to Brent. Continuing in this waterway, meandering back and forth, with numerous dead ends. Beaver dams continue to encroach our passage. After much paddling we are upon the 1300 yard portage we searched for. Only to be followed by a 1200 yard portage. Despite the conservation law of mass an energy, matter can never be created nor destroyed. Well, the canoes and packs are getting heavier.

I envisioned the Nipissing River as a moving body of water gently pushing us downstream to Cedar Lake. In reality it was a 400 yard wide swamp-marsh land with a waterway meandering back and forth for many leagues between a white and red pine forest. As we attempted to go downstream, the river became a maze that zigzaged through a bog trotting labyrinth. We shared the journey with frogs, muskrats, turtles, beavers, snakes and bugs.

The sun moves to our backs. We become disoriented, with walls of tall marsh grass, mounds of mud, a shallow depth of fluid below. Each canoe begins to run-a-ground. Halted as the floor of the river reaches up and holds us in stasis. I can view Mark, Charlie and Bob standing upright, ogling for the only gateway through. Chuck whos canoe is beached, steps out on a mound, to enable a better view. His foot sinks over a foot, into quick-sand like mud. In an attempt to pull his left foot out, his right foot sinks deeper into this slushy muck. He could feel the filthy slimy sediment oozing between his sneaker's and socks. Sort of makes it a bad day! This signals to me, the best place to be, is in the canoe, wishing I were not in the "Great Outdoors".

We wait for someone to make a decision, which way to go. No one knows the secret passage way. Only a guess can untie this perplexing Gordian knot we are in. As I am waiting, a dragonfly hovers in front of my face. Swing of the hand, it vanishes, then returns. Swing of the canoe paddle, it is gone, then returns. While pointing my index finger into the thick swamp grass. The dragonfly aligns it's thorax with my finger, majestically floating in the air, sunlight, reflecting the colors of the rainbow off the wings. Watching as the wings vibrate with rhythmic frequency. I know it was never mentioned in any scoutcraft manual or woodcraft field book, yet I see no way out of the swamp. I decide to follow the path of the dragonfly. "This Way!" I yell out as the other nine canoes follow in formation. Fearful of admitting that I am following a dragonfly through a swamp. Miraculously, the waterway opened as we advance eastward, the dragonfly acting as my pathfinder, vanishes. Leaving me puzzled as to how the historians will write this epic journey in the centuries to come.

Supper time is finally upon us, but we have no food, we push onward. The sun sets behind us. We reach for our flashlights, strobe beams of light, along both shores in a frantic search for the start of a 400 yard portage. I had no idea what time of the night it was, all I could remember was that I began to fall asleep while sitting up in the canoe, against my paddle. I lost all perception of time and place. Jim woke me! told me we reached the portage. Shivering from the cold Canadian night air, I climbed out the canoe, placed it on by back, suddenly collasped from exhaustion. Rich and Jim promptly grabbed my canoe, moved it across the portage for me.

Alone, I would not make it, nature would win out, yet we were surviving, unified against the forces to be. We did give it our best shot to assimilate. But we were products of civilization. We fantasized about dry clean clothing, frozen "milkyway" bars, TV sets and TV dinners. We must now escape the drudgery of nature's dungeon.

Marching toward Brent Station (the promised land). We will settle for anything, that looks like or feels like dryland, where we can pitch our tents. We all know that we will not make it to Brent Station today. I am too tired to even think straight, confused and dazed, being helped by friends, trying to hold my own, not to become baggage for the group. At this point, I was in a dream-like state, unable to differentiate between hallucination and reality. A campsite is found at the end of a 400 yard portage. Once tents were up, I climbed into the tent, laid down, on my wet soaked sleeping bag, and fell off to sleep.