The Algonquin Journals
Day 7

Sort of felt like I was in paradise, a sunny morning, well rested, birds chirping. The breakfast fire is blazing, fog lifting over a serene section of the Nippising River, out of the swamp and still alive! Two questions are fired at me. First: "how are you feeling?", "Good" I answer. Second: "Ready for some pancakes?" which are ready to cover the plate. "Yea!" I answer affirmly, which means yes!

While finishing my hot chocolate, I now begin to orientate the map and compass, to plot our position, from the shape of our surroundings. We missed Brent by about seven miles. After breakfast, was the normal time of the day to discuss how we were going to solve foreseeable problems, before we break camp. This morning there was one problem, only one. Problem: It was Saturday. Don't mean much out here does it? No! But it does mean much in Brent, the General Store closes at noon on Saturday. At our present pace, position from Brent, a 1000 yard portage, and unaware of the wind conditions on Cedar Lake, we just might not make it in time.

We were just moving too slow due to the size of our group, weight of equipment, and present exertion of the whole group. A quick solution was surmised. Jim and Rich were both strong paddles. We would send them up ahead with no gear, thus enabling a steady and speedy passage to Brent, before the close of the only shop in town: The General Store. Two soles, two paddles, one canoe. No time to waste. Off they went eastward to Brent.

Eighteen of us, now broke camp, loaded up our flotilla of nine canoes and pushed off, east along the Nipissing River. One portage for the day. 1000 yards, 10 football fields, two and a half laps around the track or a little over a half-mile. Last portage of the day and the trip, provided we make no more wrong turns.

End of the portage brings us into the West Bay of Cedar Lake. The waterway now opens,as each of the nine canoes emerge, from a marshy cove to enter the expanse of Cedar Lake. No winds present, which allows us an easy passage across Cedar Lake. Toward the northeast we, can begin to distinguish the Town of Brent. Each paddle stroke brings Brent closer into view.

Mark, in attempt to lift spirits to further the homeward quest; recommended that we start with a song. Organizing a choral group was at the low end of the totem pole of priorities, we thought. Mark started with a familiar ballad to us "I got that Troop 64 Spirit". Our flotilla vocalize in harmony with each paddle stroke, which in turn brings us closer and closer to Brent.

The features of Brent come into a clearer focus. Being able to distinguish structures on the horizon between the lake, sky and woods. The next folksong is "Back to Pomperaug" where the word "Pomperaug" is replaced with "Algonquin". As the chorus continues we can see the general store, post office, ranger headquarters, homes, the train station, water tower. The final lyrical selection is our old time favorite: "Daddies Whiskers" which almost got our troop thrown out of the Camp Pomperaug Messhall in 1974, just because we stood up on the dinner tables, to sing the final verse. Nine canoes have slowed their stealthy pace as they are but a 100 feet from the shoreline of Brent.

Jim and Rich have successfully made it to the general store before it closed. Both wait patiently for us at the waters edge. As each canoe banks itself on the shore, we get out for lunch, which is on a nearby picnic table. From where we came from, the picnic table looks like a medieval banquet. There were bags of potato chips, fresh bread, milk, sandwich meet, containers of soda.

Like an amphibian who undergo a metamorphosis from gilled aquatic lifestyle to a lunged terrestrial existance, we also undergo a transformation. Wilderness mountain men to civilization's concept of "modern man". Clean clothes were kept in the cars for the return trip. You clutch a bar of soap, leap into the frigid waters of Cedar Lake which would be analogous to a nice warm shower. Bob and Charlie shave facial hair from their faces. Kenney and Tom share a pack of cigarettes, a chance to inhale that clean crisp Canadian air through a tobacco filter, infused with tar, soot, and nicotine.

The next rite of passage, is to change into clean, dry, clothes for the trip home. A fair farewell to seven day old socks rouged with mud. Pants tinged with dead mosquitoes, black flies and mud. A tee-shirt flushed with campfire smoke, and underwear that needs to be quarantined. The final step is to strap a watch to your wrist, where a mechanical device will now dictate, the time of day inplace of the position of the sun in the sky.

Our caravan cosists of four automobiles: two cars, two jeeps. Ten canoes are distributed; two per car, three per jeep. The vehicles enter the 25 mile dirt tote road at a pace of 20 miles per hour. Brent and the deep rich blue waters of Cedar Lake vanish, from the rear-view mirror. For the second time, we enter this lofty limitless forest, that engulfs Brent as a distance outpost from humanity. Anchored to our seats, we are pushed through this woodland diorama by internal combustion engines. Only way to track your progress, is by the spinning odometer, or hands on your watch face. After more then an hour of a winding dirt road, we emerge from the forest. A paved road greets us, as we leave Algonquin Provincial Park. This glimering sheet of asphalt is another sign welcoming us back.

A left turn, a northwest excursion along Highway 17, paralleling the Ottawa River, Canadian Pacific Railway line along with a hydro-electric power line. A short 15 mile jaunt, brings us to Mattawa Canoe Rentals. Our ten canoe armada, removed from the roofs, placed across the front lawn. Twenty of us climb back into our assigned vehicles, and travel southeast, into the dark, with the sunset in the rear-view mirror.

Hunger again sets in, endorsing a single avowed alliance that supper will be the first eating place we come upon. Mark tells us, four years ago, on their return from Algonquin, the first establishment they came upon. It was a Howard Johnson's, with an orange roof, sign outside reading "Friday: All the Fish you can eat $3.99 per person", and it was Friday! Mark told us about how they just ate fish all evening. Suddenly! the signal lights flash, as our terrestrial flotilla slows. Is it McDonald's?, Burgerking?, Pizza Hut?, no!, we pull into the parking lot of Dairy Queen.

Walking into a Dairy Queen somewhere in Canada, we are greated by a girl behind the counter who asks "Been fishing for the day?", "No!, Canoeing for the week!" we answer. Bob pulls out a very important piece of equipment; the "wampum". This is a wad of paper currency, folded in half, within a clear plastic bag, useless on the trail, except for fire starting. Now, acts as legal tender, as we refamiliarize ourselves to the capitalistic medium that is easily traded for food.

In essence we are within a trading post well garrisoned with an unlimited supply of food, for the trading of paper currency. Parallel and perpendicular walls, tables, chairs and windows abound us, illuminated with fluorescent lights festooned above. Before us, another banquet of cheese burgers, french fries, milk shakes, ice cream, all in paper, plastic and styrofoam.