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© 2001 by Wayne Sakal
Part 3 of 12
Every Friday night, with the exception of Christmas, New Year's and 4th of July, the tradition of holding a troop meeting prevails. Tonight, not being one of the three holidays listed, a meeting is held at 7:30 PM. This meeting is different, the membership have the rare opportunity, to mingle with the adventurers, who will be courageously, venturing into, the Canadian wilderness.
The meeting comes to an end by 9:00 PM. We say taps. In leaving, Glen, Rick and I, go home with Mark. Tonight's accommodations are; a pillow, nicely folded sheets and a blanket on a couch. A far better arrangement from last night, sleeping on an airplane some where between Honolulu and New York. It feels like I am in paradise, for the first time in 48 hours, I can now sleep horizontal instead of vertical.
Five of five AM. Emerge from Mark's front door, sky shows twilight, black to dark blue. A few steps, backpacks are dropped into Mark's trunk. The car engine is started, with a lone defrost fan, attempting to clear condensation, clutched along the glass walls. Headlights flash on, climb into the car, Mark's mom waves good-buy from the front porch. Within a minute we are off, to the designated meeting place, Old Congregational Church parking lot.
Four vehicles have simultaneously rendezvoused punctually at 5 AM. The long awaited trip has begun. A second later, the vehicles move. A few seconds later, we are out of the parking lot. A minute later, we are out of the neighborhood. A few minutes later, we are out of our town. An hour later, we are out of our state. A few hours later, we are out of our country.
After traveling in a car, seated in a confined space for better part of half a day, we approach the northern section of Algonquin Provincial Park. A small sign, position on the map, convey to us that, we have found the entrance into the park. No towering billboards nor pink-neon lights point the way. Just that long dirt tote road, into Brent Station. For the past month, we talked about that long and winding road, that will buffer us, from the rest of the world. While moving sedately upon a dirt tote road through the forest, a quick physics problem, reveals a stark reality. An object travels uniformly a distance of over twenty miles at a velocity of under twenty miles per hour. Estimate how long it will take the object to cover this displacement (Ignore friction in this problem). Checking the answer in the back of the book, states: over one hour. We realize that, we will be on this winding, isolated road, for well over an hour, after already being sentenced, to a term of over twelve hours in the car. The trip feels like it will never end. The only break, is a small wooden observation tower, on the side of the road. We stop, climb it, and get a look into the Brent Crater. Site where a meteorite struck over 450 million years ago. Climb back in the car and continue.
At the edge of the woods, a small wooden sign says "Welcome to Brent Station". Drive into a small clearing, several buildings, cars, tents, all dwarfed, by the expanse of a cerulean Cedar Lake. A real working train village we are in cohabitation with.
Our own "township" is established, the "campsite" or "basecamp!". Two jeeps, two cars, ten tents, one tarp, a fleet of ten canoes, fire places, picnic tables. Ten tents fastened to a rocky grass field. One fireplace becomes the centerpiece of a "marshmallow roast". A soft white cylindrical object is pushed onto the end of a stick. Next, it is thrusted into the essence of the fire, pulled away as you watch the confection covering the tip of the stick change from passive white, to an emblazonry of flaming orange, golden sear, then to charcoal black. As you wait for the surface to stop bubbling, a wisp of a smoke streak signals your mouth to open wide as you pull this gourment delight off the stick. The rich saute flavor of the roasted marshmallow only becons you to repeat the ritual, until all that is left is an empty plastic bag. It then becomes fuel for the fire as you search for another bag.
A large tarp suspended over a picnic table acts as our command center. The table has, a Coleman propane stove and lantern atop it. A map unfolded, anchored at four corners by rocks. Charlie, John and Bob study the route while drinking a rich blend of instant coffee from a sierra cup. Bob moves his index finger sedately tracing tomorrow's kismet.
I walked onto a small boat dock, buttressed against Cedar Lake, to view the sunset. There Mark sat, looking westward at the setting sun. I sat next to him, as we contemplated, what adventures await. For I was about to embark on a trip, I dreamed about, for four years. Mark was a veteran, who was on that legendary voyage, four years ago. The trip that sparked my keen interest, of coming to this land.
Mark shared a short story we me. Told me that four years ago, before the start of their venture, while fooling around, took Jeff's sneaker, floated it on the lake a few feet from shore. Suddenly it sank! "Right over there!", Said Mark as he pointed toward the placid surface of the lake. "We never found it!" remarked Mark as he shook his head. Mark wondered if that lost sneaker was still there. His sights pondered on the "Cinderella Sneaker" while my sights, where on, that lost Trail-chef, beneath the Allen Rapids.
After sunset we walked back to our basecamp. Gateway to the start of tomorrow's adventure.
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