The newest entries are always on top, scroll to the bottom of the page to start at the beginning.

There is a new photo for the August 30th and final journal entry. An arial shot from above the 170 float plane leaving York Factory with the Wee-no-nah lashed along side. Many thanks to Neal Dellandrea.

A Final Note

I would like to thank everyone who has assisted me in the planning and execution of this endeavor. Although I acknowledge a certain amount of fortitude on my own part, I could not have done it without the involvement of others. I hope that those people and organizations that supported me will share in my sense of accomplishment and know that they are indeed part of “Superior to Hudson”.

I give special thanks to my initial and most generous sponsor, Granite Gear. Mike Cruikshank and everyone at Granite Gear provided me with anything that they had and that I needed. I abused their gear to the max and it never failed me.

To the people I met along the way; I must admit that I was not quite prepared for the kindness and generosity of the many people who provided me with warm shelter, home cooked meals, access to their computers, a ride to the post office, good conversation and much, much more as I traveled along my way and into their lives. Thank you.

To anyone that followed my progress on this website, I appreciate your interest in my trip and your patience in the often lengthy periods between updates. On-line computers can be hard to come by in the woods. Knowing you were with me was a comfort. I hope you enjoyed it.

And to my brother Rob who helped create and manage this website and who would have loved to go with me, I can’t say enough. Thanks Brother.

August 30, 2004

At one time, York Factory was a main hub of trade for the Hudson Bay Company. European trade goods would be brought to the post and stored at the facility for distribution to the network of trading posts that were dotted along the northern waterways. In turn, the pelts of beavers, otters, mink, marten, lynx, muskrats and other animals would be brought to York Factory and placed in the hulls of the same ships that had carried the trade goods from Europe. These goods included tobacco, muskets, gunpowder, lead for musket balls, knifes, wool blankets and cloth, trade beads, liquor and other items of necessity and luxury that fueled the northwoods economy.

Although the existing building at York Factory was built in 1830, the Hudson Bay Company has occupied the land along the mouth of the Hayes River since the late 1600’s. Up until the 1950’s, York Factory was an operating trade post and was accepting pelts from the local trapping community. Shortly after the closing of the post, the native community that had developed around the facility was moved to a location on the Nelson River now known as York Landing. Eventually, the Hudson Bay Company donated the land and existing building to Canada Parks who maintains the area as a historical site.

I spent two nights at York Factory waiting for my chartered Cessna 185 float plane to arrive and transport myself and my outfit to the city of Gillam where I would take the "Polar Bear Express" passenger train to the city of Winnipeg. In the meantime, I needed to find a way to travel the final few miles to Hudson Bay. I could not consider the trip complete until I was at the bay, not just within site of it. My preference would have been to paddle the canoe or hike. I explained my situation to Floyd Saunders, the grounds caretaker at York Factory, and he offered to take me into the bay in his motor boat. According to Floyd, because of Polar Bears and extreme tidal activity, I would be better off going with him.

Timing our trip with the incoming tide, Floyd and I grabbed the shotgun (because of Polar Bears, you never go anywhere without a gun) and headed toward the dock. We jumped in the boat and motored off. It was a brisk day and as the boat climbed, and bounced over the rolling waves, the salty spray stung our faces. Floyd pointed towards the shoreline and I spotted the large solitary white bear. It was strange to see a creature normally associated with ice and snow, lounging in the tall green grass. Once we were well into the bay, Floyd idled the motor and I removed the small plastic bottle that I had carried with me from Lake Superior. I removed the cap from the bottle that I had filled with water from Lake Superior 90 days ago. I poured half of the Lake Superior water into Hudson Bay then dipped the bottle into the cold salt water until it was once again full and replaced the cap.
August 29, 2004

I woke at dawn, made coffee and broke camp. I was on the water and paddling in the cool, brisk morning air that had yet to be tempered by the rising sun. This was to be my last day of paddling. Ninety days ago, I was on the shore of Lake Superior, but now, before me was the final 35 miles of this 1,400 mile canoe trip. How many times had I imagined this day? A trip that had entered my mind nearly ten years ago had become a reality and here I was, just a few hours from its completion. Time seems so precarious; I am still “on” the trip, but so very, very close to the end; torn between the desire to reach the finish line and the yearning to continue the race. Somewhere between the elation of success and the knowledge that this would be the end of my journey, there is a reflective hesitance. And thus, I found myself pausing midway through some random task and savoring the simple acts of living in and traveling through, this northern landscape. Sights and sounds that had become so typical and everyday would soon be seen only through memory’s reflection: waking up inside the tent and the sound of the fly zipping open to great another day; the hiss of the camp stove and steam rising from the cook-pot; the canoe paddle dipping the water and tapping against the canoe. Soon, I would be plucked from this wilderness on the wings of a floatplane, perhaps never to return.

The river wound on and continued about its business and the miles slipped away. Before I knew it, I was in the side channels that snake through the group of islands that break-up the river its final few miles before York Factory. As I paddled back out into the main river channel, high on the opposite bank, I could see the large white two-story building that I knew must be historic York Factory. I made my way across the river towards the wooden dock that reached out into the river. I lifted my paddle from the water for the last time as the canoe slid to a stop on the muddy banks of the Hayes.

I tied off my outfit and scaled the wooden steps that rose some 60 feet up the steep banks. As I crested the cliff and made my way along the catwalk my gaze shifted to the east. From high up on the flats above the river I could see the mouth of the Hayes River and the vast expanse of Hudson Bay.

August 28, 2004

Having pitched my tent and organized my gear in an orderly fashion as I have done so many times before, I took a minute to ponder the fact that this is likely to be my final camp of the trip. I picked up my main paddle and inventoried its many marks of wear. The lower shaft of the paddle had been worn deep by the constant prying against the gunwale of the canoe. The blade of the paddle was scratched from scraping against rocks and the handle that had spent so many hours in my grip was even more smooth and polished than as new. I did a quick estimate and figured that this paddle had accumulated over one million strokes.

I shifted my attention to my upturned canoe and ran my eye down the once shiny underside. The red gel-coat was well scratched and had suffered a few permanent grooves in the Kevlar hull, but was otherwise in excellent condition. Some people had scoffed at my decision to attempt this marathon journey with a Kevlar canoe, but I guess the end result is testament enough; “res ipsa loquitur”. I once again did some quick figuring and put my total time paddling at 700 to 800 hours.

I continued to inspect other miscellaneous items of gear and considered how some of these otherwise trivial possessions had gained an elevated status of personal value. My water bottle for example had become more of a personal treasure than a plastic container. Of the dozen rivers and sixty plus lakes that I encountered during my travels, I had filled my bottle from most of them.

Besides the reminiscent foo-fa-raw, I had a more immediate consideration. I was now 35 miles from Hudson Bay and within the fringes of Polar Bear country. Generally speaking, Polar Bears spend the summer months lazing away their time while waiting for the Bay to freeze. Once the ice sets in, the bears patrol the frozen sea, hunting for Ringed seals. Every so often a bear moves further inland and they are occasionally spotted 40 to 60 miles from the bay. The odds are unlikely that on this particular night a bear would be in my vicinity, but given that they are known to track and hunt humans, I can’t say I wasn’t mindful of the possibility. I set up my tent so that I had a 360 degree view of the outside and kept my pepper spray next to my pillow, just in case. I didn’t want my last night of the trip to be my last night.

August 27, 2004

I made it to the confluence of the Hayes and Gods Rivers. From this point, I am roughly 60 miles from the Bay. As you may remember, I was on the Hayes River earlier in my trip but elected to veer from it and work my way onto the Gods River. Coming back to the Hayes was a bit like meeting up with an old friend. I parked the canoe and walked up the bank to get a good look at the confluence. Someone had built a monument of stones with a tall, straight staff rising from it. I wrote a note saying “Traveled to this point from Grand Portage on Lake Superior via US/Canadian border - Lake of the Woods - Winnipeg River/Lake - Gods River. Solo in Canoe. Continuing on to York Factory. - Dan Carter - August 28, 2004”. I put the note in an extra water bottle and buried it under the monument.

Gods River in Brief

The Gods River flows from the north east shore of Gods Lake near the native settlement named after the river. The river flows for 180 miles to its point of confluence with the Hayes River which runs another 60 miles to its mouth at Hudson Bay. The river is the only point of exit for the waters of Gods Lake which are fed by more that 40 streams and rivers. Because of the volume of water and the steep gradient, the upper Gods River is swift and powerful. The many rapids and falls of the first sixty miles are most formidable and present a beckoning challenge to the most experienced of canoeist.
Human traffic along the Gods River is sparse. Traversing its waters in a motor boat is a skill known only to the local Cree natives and they generally travel only moderate distances from their community to the first major waterfall. Canoe traffic is very rare and an entire season may pass without a canoeist running. Fortunately, this river goes about most of its business without observance and, in ways I am reluctant to divulge, its secluded splendor.
Generally speaking, I found the running of the Gods River to be the most enjoyable part of my trip. By this time in my journey, I was fully conditioned to the rigors and routines of wilderness travel and had since reached that glorious state where the wilderness had become my home and the world left behind had decidedly become better left.

August 25, 2004

I made a good 35 miles today and made camp on an island surrounded by rapids. Four more days of travel and I should be at Hudson Bay and salt water. I turned 34 years of age today and am hard pressed to think of a better way to spend the day.

August 24, 2004

I broke camp to an overcast sky and fished for a bit in the downstream pools of Peter Burton’s Rapid before continuing on to the first portage of the day at Sturgeon Falls. As I unloaded the canoe, a calm but steady rain began to fall. I carried my gear across the portage and as per usual, fished below the falls, catching a few pike, a walleye and a nice brook trout.

Eight more miles of paddling brought me to Muskeg Falls and the second portage of the day. Being that this section of the river seldom sees human activity, the portage trail was difficult to find. I spent a good half hour tromping through the muskeg looking for signs of the trial. My dictionary defines muskeg as “a bog of northern North America, commonly having sphagnum mosses, sedge, and sometimes stunted black spruce and tamarack trees”. With the exception of sedges, this particular patch of muskeg fit the definition. I could find no reliable trail as I marched through the thick mosses that covered the ground and grew to depths of two to three feet. Walking through moss several feet thick provides a sensation similar to stomping around in “moon-walk” ride at a carnival. Throw a fifty pound pack on your back and the experience is even more challenging. After seven passes across the portage (over and back for scouting, plus five more for getting the gear and canoe across), I was pretty whopped and glad to be back on the river.
My last portage of the day was around Big Bear Falls. I had hoped to camp at the falls, saving the portage for the morning, but the rocky ledges around the fall provided no tent site. Between the continuing rain, my sopping wet clothes, the incessant mosquitoes and my fatigued condition, I was anxious for dry clothes, hot food and a warm sleeping bag. I lugged my gear through the rain-soaked bush and over charred and fallen tress, lopping limbs from my way with my hand axe. All the while, the thunderous rush of water over Big Bear Falls roared continuously on.
Just downstream from the falls was a small island of purple colored granite, worn smooth by glaciers and finely polished by the running water. I pitched my tent and made some chow. Another good day on the river...

August 23, 2004

After embarking from my camp I continued on, successfully negotiating Marshall Falls and Oskawtukau Rapids without portaging. Once past Oskawtukau Rapids, the river mellowed and provided calm steady current. Before long, the scenery along the river changed dramatically as a recent fire had scorched the forest to a crisp. The previous lush, green foliage was now a graveyard of charred black skeletons
This fire must have raged as nearly every living plant and tree had been torched for mile after mile. I made my camp at Peter Burton’s Rapid amidst the burnt remains and ashes. The blood red sunset made for an eerie scene as night fell and the river rushed by.

August 22, 2004

I departed my camp on the first rapid of the Gods River and eased from shore into the swift, steady current. I drifted for a bit, enjoying the effortless accumulation of mileage that gravity and water were providing. As I gazed down through the three or four feet of crystal clear water, I could see the smooth stones and boulders of the scoured river bottom. While watching the rocky bottom race by, I began to realize that the speed and power of this river were to be regarded with caution and respect.
From my earlier experiences as a river guide, I have developed certain attitudes and beliefs regarding rivers. For most “river men”, a river is an “it” as opposed to a “thing”. A river may not be sentient but it is certainly not inanimate. A river is much like a living thing. And like all living things, a river has a beginning and an end. A river has a desire and a will to continue. A river flows, and thus has power. This power can be precariously harnessed but never fully tamed. We can design and build a dam to impound our largest rivers, but given time that river will fill its reservoir with silt and cascade over its dam as a waterfall. Given more time it will erode its concrete dam to its foundations until it once again flows free. The natural flow of water is one of the most powerful forces on Earth. It was while pondering this thought that I began to hear the impending rush of water that signified the next rapid of the Gods River.

Because the shorelines on the Gods River are so dense with brush, scouting rapids can be difficult to do from shore. In most cases, scouting is done from the canoe in the safety of the upstream waters of the rapid. The river is wide, so one must ferry from one side to the other in order to get a feel for the full breadth of the rapid. My canoe has proven to be fast on the open lakes and extremely stable in rough waters, but due to the length of the canoe and its flat bottom, it is not delicately maneuverable. For this reason, I have learned to run rapids in straight lines, using eddy pools and slack water to change my angle in technical rapids. The whole process can be quite tedious because the view downstream from the canoe is limited and a bend in the river or a steep gradient of the river bottom tends to limit the line of site even further. This “touch-and-go” approach to running rapids can prove exciting. Fortunately, I never upset the canoe but the consequence of this possibility tended to dampen the fun. If I were to capsize while traveling solo in a remote wilderness on a fast flowing river I may wreck my canoe or loose my whole outfit to the downstream current.
I continued downstream running two more rapids then portaging the next as the river dropped over a ledge producing a class 5 rapid. All in all I did not cover many miles. Between scouting and running rapids there was the ever present call to try my luck at the excellent fishing. I opted to forgo the tent camp and sleep in a bush cabin just downstream from Allen Rapids. The rule of the bush is that bush cabins are left unlocked and are available for use as long as the guest is respectful and the place is left as found. If you find a locked bush cabin it is probably because the latter half of the agreement was, at some time, not fulfilled.

August 21st, 2004

Yesterdays wind has progressed into today’s wind. It is now nearly six pm and it is clear I will not by moving at all today. Perhaps tomorrow I can complete the remaining 30 miles across Gods Lake and make my way into the strong currents of Gods River where the wind should not be stifling.

August 19th, 2004

I left Gods Lake Narrows late in the morning and paddled the few miles out of the protection of the narrows into the main body of Gods Lake. A strong wind blew from the north which churned the lake surface into a tumultuous mix of white capped waves. To avoid the heaving surface of the lake, I skipped from island to island paddling through the calmer leeward waters on their downwind side. At a point, even this became futile as the lake opened up to larger expanses which offered no seclusion from the wind driven fury. I was in an area of relative calm but could not see the larger lake from this vantage point. I felt the best option was to find a refuge where I could observe the main body of the lake and wait out the weather.

I decided to make one final crossing towards a group of islands. Conditions were rough but I felt that I could safely make one last push to this vantage point. As I worked my way towards the target, a cold sleeting rain began to sting my face. Increased winds drove the waves even higher. My canoe, normally a very stable craft, now seemed at the mercy of this storm.

I suppressed the effects of nervous adrenaline and checked myself for steady focus. At a time like this, life is lived in the moment. The canoe rose, hovered, slipped and fell as the tall, thick waves forced their way beneath my keel. Every sinew of my being was taught with grave trepidation. My efforts at forward progress were often stalled by the higher need of maintaining an upright canoe. Minutes later, this short crossing that seemed like an eternity was over and I sat in the relative protection of my island goal. As I collected myself, the sleet subsided and the sun broke through. As this trip has conditioned me to do, I shrugged off another dangerous flirtation and shifted my focus to the next task.

August 12, 2004

After two long days of hard travel ending with the Mink River, I entered Gods Lake. Gods Lake is the last lake of my trip. Once I leave Gods Lake I’ll be on river for the last 240 miles to Hudson Bay. Gods Lake is a phenomenal place. Nearly 50 miles in length and half again as wide, it encompasses a huge territory. The original name of the lake in the local Cree language meant “Devils Lake”. It was so named by the native Indians because its frequent storms and rough waters claimed many lives. When the Jesuit missionaries arrived and discovered the lakes namesake, they abruptly “converted” the lake to Christianity and renamed it ‘Gods” lake.

My destination for the next few days is “Healey’s Gods Lake Narrows Lodge”. I had called Sam Healey before the trip concerning fishing possibilities on the lake. He provided some good information and offered to take me fishing once I got here. I think he figured if I made this far, he would treat me to a days fishing. Healey’s Lodge is the premier resort in greater Manitoba and offers some of the best fishing opportunities in North America. Be sure to read my upcoming fishing report from “Healey’s Gods Lake Narrows Lodge”. If you want the fishing experience of a lifetime, this is the place. Sam has a great website at www.godslake.com

August 8, 2004

I am finding it difficult to make my daily allotment of miles. The scenery, fishing, wildlife and my desire to explore are constantly causing tugging at my senses and slowing my progress. I worked hard to get here and want to enjoy all that this land offers, but I also have my destination of Hudson Bay that must be reached.

As I packed camp this morning I watched a cow and calf moose enter the shallow waters of the back bay where I was camped. At first, I thought they would simply cross the bay and head back into the forest but they turned and swam right past my camp not forty feet from me. The mother munched aquatic vegetation as she moved along and the calf bleated and snorted at its efforts to stay afloat. If the mother stopped for a quick bite of grass, the calf would climb half onto its mothers back and take a break from its struggling efforts to swim. They swam to the end of the bay and exited into the bush. It was then that I noticed a large bull moose amble from the trees and wade into the marshy water. This mature bull had double shovel antlers that were still in velvet. He stood broadside in plain view before catching wind of me and moving on.

I finished packing camp and paddled down the stream that flowed from the lake and pressed on to “Watt” portage that crosses a height of land and brought me into “Hermie Lake” and Gods River drainage.

August 7, 2004

I am in country now that seldom sees human presence. I am likely the only person for miles and miles around. Odds are I won’t see anyone for days. Some people I suppose would be uncomfortable in this situation but in many ways I find it comforting and peaceful.
Today I crossed my first set of lakes and portages that lead to the height of land crossing that will take me into the drainage of the Gods River. This country is beautiful and pristine. I no longer feel the need to filter my water. I drink the clear cold water right from the lakes. I crossed a lake today that was full of the clearest water you could imagine. The lake was fairly shallow and the bottom was made of white rock. You could see every underwater feature as if looking through glass. As I paddled along, it was as if I was hovering in mid air.

August 5, 2004
Yesterday I made my way some 25 miles up the Echimamish River and set camp some 5 miles from its termination and the headwaters of the Hayes River. The Echimamish is a narrow river but deep for its width so paddling is easy. It is prime habitat for Beaver and their presence is everywhere. Every half mile or so is a beaver lodge. There are also more than a dozen beaver dams that must be crossed. The dams are made of sticks and mud and can be several feet high from the downstream side. Crossing them involves pulling along side and sliding the canoe over the embankment to the upstream pond.

So I am told, “Echimamish” means “water that flows two ways”. The end of the Echimamish River and the beginning of the Hayes River is not well defined. The final mile of the Echimamish becomes shallow, marshy water and at some point you begin to notice the flow of water has changed directions and you are on the Hayes River. Once on the Hayes, I paddled another fifteen miles to Robinson Lake and made camp.

August 3, 2004

I left Norway House and paddled the length of Little Playgreen Lake its north east end where the Nelson River picks up again. For some reason, I always seem the most tired after I leave a layover point. I made an early camp and dozed off early in anticipation of tomorrow’s journey up the Nelson River to the Echimamish River and the beginning of my entry true Canadian wilderness.

July 30, 2004

After 15 days and 250 miles of tough paddling, a faint shadow of trees appeared on the northern horizon and extended well to the west. The northern shore of Lake Winnipeg was now in sight and another tough leg of my journey would soon be history. As I paddled the final few miles of Lake Winnipeg, I thought back to all the times that this day seemed so far away, and now here it is.

As I paddle along I usually get the sensation that I am pulling the foreground to me rather than propelling myself toward it. It is as if I am causing the world to spin under my canoe as I dip my paddle and leverage its blade to the water. This is the sensation I had as the northern shore emerged from the shimmering haze and transformed itself from a treeline to a line of trees. As I drew closer, a gap in the trees reveled itself as the head of the Nelson River and the end of Lake Winnipeg. After two months and 1000 miles of travel, Hudson Bay suddenly seems a lot closer.

July 27, 2004

I left camp this morning in breezy conditions and paddled in rough waters for all of three miles before being forced to shore by breaking waves. Generally speaking, I can travel in rolling waves up to 5 or 6 feet, but once the waves start to break, I head to shore. When a wave breaks, the release of energy is enough to toss a canoe like a flapjack.

As I have made my way along the length of Lake Winnipeg, I have attempted to choose my campsites strategically. This time, I had no choice in the matter. I was forced to shore at a small strip of beach not 20 feet wide. If the winds increase and the surf is driven further up the beach, I’ll be forced into the thick tangle of mosquito-invested bush. This means donning my full regalia of insect proof clothing and hacking a tent site out of the swampy muskeg. Not a task I look forward to.

Lake Winnipeg is such a large body of water that wind can literally push water from one end of the lake to the other. The result of this effect is a raise in water level at the wind blown end of the lake, sometimes up to 4 or 5 feet. When the French and English explorers moved into the area of Lake of the Woods, they quizzed the Indians on the land and waters to the west. When the Indians described Lake Winnipeg, and this rise and fall in water levels, the explores took this to mean a tidal effect and concluded that Lake Winnipeg must be a bay of the Pacific Ocean and the missing link to the Northwest Passage.

This false conclusion by the hopeful explores doesn’t change the fact that waters of Lake Winnipeg frequently rise and fall as weather conditions change. Nor does it change the fact that my precarious campsite was gradually shrinking as water levels rose. Once my 20 feet of beach was reduced to 15 feet, I dug my tent site further into the bush and used my paddle blade as a shovel to build a sand platform for my tent and a burm between my tent and the breaking surf.

Fortunately, my efforts sufficed, but I was awakened at 3:00 am by the spray of water entering my tent as waves poured over my burm before receding inches from my tent. Not exactly the situation to inspire restful sleep or pleasant dreams. The high wind persisted until four o-clock the following afternoon. I took advantage of the lull and moved on.

July 21 to July 25, 2004

After several relatively wind free days on Lake Winnipeg, I encountered the high seas conditions the lake is notorious for. I spent nearly four days “wind-bound”, waiting and watching for the rough waters to ease. Fortunately, I was at a good place to be stuck. On the eastern shore of Lake Winnipeg, about 125 miles north of my entrance to the lake is the small fishing community of Princess Harbor, population six. This quaint fishing village is no longer the bustling place it once was, but nevertheless has the well-groomed feel that only years of prideful care taking can produce. Once a busy hub of commercial fishing, Princess Harbor is now mostly a safe haven and waypoint for pleasure boaters from the city of Winnipeg. Vacationing yachters and sail boaters use the government dock as a mooring point for their craft as they peruse the lake on summer getaways. Two such boats were tied to the dock during my stay. Little did I know I would find myself sipping cocktails and swapping stories with their captains and crew in the posh comfort of their galleys.

Two of the six people that make up the population of Princes Harbor are Ed and Brenda Anderson. Ed and Brenda are commercial fisherman, as well as postal carrier and postmaster for the community. Ed and Brenda invited me into their home for meals and shared many stories from their lives on the lake. Ed gave me an education on the commercial fishing business on Winnipeg and told me about his experiences as a winter road builder, trapper and pilot.

On the evening of my fourth day at Princess Harbor, the winds eased and I loaded the canoe with my gear and moved on.

July 19, 2004

A long, tough day! I covered nearly 40 miles today. I left camp this morning at 7:00 am and just settled into the tent at nearly midnight. I intended to stop around 9:00. The map showed a protected bay off a point and I thought it might be a good place to camp. I paddled around the point and scanned the bay. It had a sandy beach and a flat slab of granite that was good for a tent. Only one problem, a large black bear was patrolling the beach. This chocolate colored adult weighed a good 250 and was obviously browsing for food. I had no other choice but to move on.
I continued paddling and began to encounter a common occurrence on the eastern shore of Lake Winnipeg. Along the shoreline are fields of boulders and larger rocks that lie just at or below the surface of the water. As the wind blown water moves across these fields, it creates dangerous conditions for a canoeist. A breaking wave can easily capsize a canoe and the ensuing waves could smash the craft to bits against the rocks. For me, this situation became double danger as the evening light faded to darkness and the rocks and waves became more difficult to see and avoid. I had already taken several waves over the beam and was soaked to the bone.
My dilemma was that after I saw the bear, the shoreline became marsh and bush right to the waters edge. There was no place to camp. My only choice was to keep moving. As the last bit of dusk faded to full-on night, I decided that for safeties sake, I would take the next possible spot that could hold a tent. That spot was a slab of rock not 15 yards across and backed by swamp. I did not like it but I figured the possible alternative could be worse. If continued traveling in those conditions at night, I could find myself standing in a buggy swamp at nighttime with a smashed canoe, lost or floating gear and no headlamp. As I landed the canoe and began unloading gear, I encountered the highest concentration of mosquitoes I have ever seen in my life. If you were to open you mouth and inhale, you would draw in 2 dozen mosquitoes per breath. If you were to wave your arm you would strike a hundred with the back of your hand. So many mosquitoes were hitting my body that it felt like rain. By the time I donned my jacket and head net, I suffered a hundred bites.
I set up the tent in the darkness as the northern horizon flashed with lightning and thunder echoed in the distance. I had nothing to lash the tent to but my two packs and the canoe. I organized my little pile of necessities in front of the tent and began sliding them through the smallest possible opening in the fly. Once my gear was inside, I opened the fly enough for myself to climb inside the tent. I zipped it shut behind me and turned on my headlamp. The inside of my tent was as thick with mosquitoes as it had been outside. I started killing mosquitoes by the score. Periodically, one would explode with blood, my blood. After 20 minutes the air was clear and the tent mosquito free.
I stripped off my wet clothes and peered out of the tent toward the northern sky. The occasional flash of lightning illuminated the horizon. I counted the seconds to the impending sound of thunder. The rain won’t bother me. My concern is the wind pushing waves over this piece of rock and into my tent. Maybe I’ll be lucky and get the night of rest I need.

Lake Winnipeg in Brief

It felt good to get to Lake Winnipeg. It meant the end of the Winnipeg River and the crossing of the halfway point of my journey to Hudson Bay. Throughout the planning of this trip, I generally felt the crossing of Lake Winnipeg to be my most daunting task. From north to south, the lake is over 300 miles long. It is 70 miles across at its widest point and a conservative estimate of surface area is over 60,000 square miles. She is stunning in her beauty, shifty in her moods and deadly in her rage. Those who fail to respect her power may find her unforgiving. The slightest breeze can produce rolling waves of 2 to 4 feet. A moderate wind creates breaking waves of 4 to 6 feet. A heavy wind means 6 to 10 foot waves and a gale sends even the largest boats to harbor.

My approach to this crossing has been to paddle whenever the conditions allow. I made the 250-mile crossing in 15 days, 5 of which I was wind bound and could not travel at all. On my best day I covered 40 miles in 12 hours of paddling.

July 11 through 15, 2004

The remainder of my journey down the Winnipeg River involved a series of portages around the seven dams that impound the rivers flow and produce power for Manitoba Hydro. As you near one of these generating facilities, you usually hear it before you see it. The fall of the water through the spillways produces a noise that can be heard from several miles. As I approach a dam, this is what I see; a high voltage power line leading to a generating station with 10 or 12 intake gates, a length of dike that leads to a spillway with 6 or 8 large gates with an overhead lift on a steel framework that can be moved from gate to gate to raise or lower them. These facilities are manned 24 hours a day but you seldom see anyone and there is no fencing or barricades to restrict movement around the plant.
My typical procedure was to paddle up to the dike between the generating station and the spillway, then have a look-see of the down stream side for portaging options. Most times, there was no trail established for portaging, or if there was, it was impractically long. In most cases I would follow a service road, then bushwhack down to the water on the other side of the spillway.
Getting back into the main river from the spill-water behind the dams was usually a bit hairy. So much water is coming out of the spillways (I would guess between 10 to 15 CFS) that rapids, eddy lines, boils and whirlpools were a constant threat. I was glad to have the last dam behind me.

July 10, 2004

Now that my brother let the cat out of the bag regarding the capsize of my canoe, I suppose I should tell the entire story for the sake of posterity.

I was on a back bay of one of the many lakes that lie along the Winnipeg River.
The evening before the disastrous morning, I had experienced some of the best, no, the best Northern Pike fishing of my life. For those of you who have been following my fishing reports, let’s just say, I got the Big One! And his brother, and his sister, and his cousin! I caught over 60 pounds of pike in 5 fish in less that 2 hours.

My plan for the day was to pack and load camp, fish the first half of the day in the same area, then move on. It was a cloudy, calm, cool morning. I had the canoe loaded and a strong cup of coffee to go with a virtual guarantee of good fishing ahead of me. I starting casting in the weeds towards the back of the bay working my lure just below the surface.
It is hard to describe the anticipation you feel when you know big Pike are all around. Any second one may strike. I tossed my lure to land in a pocket of clear water surrounded by weeds. Three or four cranks of the reel and the calm surface of the water exploded as a monster pike struck my lure. As I set the hook, I could feel the power of my opponent through the bend in my rod. He made his first run, and I adjusted the drag on my reel to match the zeal of the fish. I retrieved line and closed the gap between the fish and myself. He came just close enough to the canoe that I could get a good look at him. He was a pig! Twenty-pound fish!
He made several more runs and was strong enough to pull the canoe (I am not kidding). Once he was tuckered, I pulled him along side the canoe and gently slid my hand under his gill plate and lifted him into the boat. I quickly attached the camera to the tri-pod and, using the timer, was able to get a good photo of the fish and myself. I was so anxious to get the fish back in the water that I set the camera and tri-pod on my pack. The canoe moved, the camera fell overboard; I jumped over after the camera (I had all my fish pictures in there and figured it was worth a swim) and the canoe tipped over. Just like that.
There I was, in the water 200 yards from shore, my canoe upside down and all my gear floating around me. The Pike was tired from the play and floated there for an instant, looking at me, before diving below the surface. Oh the irony.
I grabbed my life vest and began to put it on. I tried to kick with my legs as I worked my arms thorough the vest, but something was wrapped around my ankles. I reached below the surface and discovered the 20-pound test fishing line was wrapped around my legs. I freed myself from the line and donned the life vest. I picked the nearest shoreline grabbed a paddle and the canoe and started swimming. I kept saying out loud “my camera, my camera, I lost my camera”.
This is when it started to rain. Big, heavy, thick streams of rain began falling and pounding the lake so hard that it was splashing back up into my face. I could not make it to shore because of the dense Alders growing out into the lake. I climbed half into an Alder and was able to dump the water from the canoe and climb back into it. I looked out onto the lake at my gear floating like jetsam. I quickly paddled out and began scooping up the precious items. The two large packs were too heavy to hoist back in the boat so I lashed them to the thwart, one pack on either side. With the two large packs in tow, the canoe moved like a tugboat. It seemed like forever before I made it to shore.
Once on shore, I began to take inventory and tally my losses. At the bottom of the lake was; my camera and tripod, one 256 MB memory card with all fish pictures, my portage yoke for carrying the canoe, my main tackle box, one small cooking pot and my spoon.
I went through my packs and remaining gear and put on some dry clothes. I couldn’t believe I lost the camera. I was thoroughly depressed. As I sought some consolation for this recent turn of events, I considered that I was healthy and fortunate enough to be here in the first place.
I didn’t want to stay there but I was no longer in the mood to travel. As I considered what to do, I gazed the short distance across the bay. A mother bear and two cubs had come out of the bush and were patrolling the shoreline, working their way around the bay. I took this as a sign. I packed my gear, loaded my canoe and paddled away.

Winnipeg River in Brief

The Winnipeg River is an interesting body of water. It stretches some 170 miles from Lake of the Woods to Lake Winnipeg. About one third of the way down its length is the north/south border between Ontario and Manitoba. On the Manitoba side of the river, there are seven dams and generating stations. It is as much a series of Lakes as it is a River.
I have run my share of rivers and have seen a good many lakes, but I have never seen a body of water behave like the Winnipeg. As I traveled its course I encountered rapids in the middle of lakes, I saw eddies the size of shopping malls. There are places where all the surface water travels up stream. If a person were to emerge from the forest at one of these places, they would swear the river was flowing the other way. Because the water lacks any real canalization, it becomes confused and disoriented as it attempts to fill all the spaces while also succumbing to gravities tug.

July 3 through 6, 2004

As I paddled up to the northern shore of Lake of the Woods and to the town of Keewatin, I had no idea where I was going to stay or how I was going to accomplish my necessary business before heading up the Winnipeg River. It being Saturday, I could not pick up my re-supplies from the post office until Monday. I also needed to find an on-line computer so as to update the trip web site. I paddled under the bridge and up to a dock and building. The sign said “Two Bears Marina”. I thought perhaps I could leave my canoe at the dock while I scouted the town for the post office and library.
After talking to the owner, Jo-Anne Hill, I had a place to stay, and use of a computer. Jo-Anne let me pitch my tent in their timber framed boat marina. It was a great place to go through my gear and organize my packs before heading on. She also let me use her home computer. I continue to be amazed at the great people I meet on my travels. Jo-Anne and her husband John made me feel right at home. I can’t thank them enough.

July 2, 2004

I had anticipated seven days to cross Lake of the Woods. Tomorrow I finish my 100-mile trek across its length in five days, including a full day of layover.

I camped on an island of which I don't know the name. Not only do my maps not provide the names of many of the islands, but they also don’t show many of islands. I’ll find myself sitting on the lake in my canoe surrounded by islands trying to identify them relative to my map. Using the GPS, I can confidently fix my position to within a half a degree or less, north and west, so I can place my location on the map. It then becomes a guessing game to identify the islands around me. I’ll scratch my head and try to determine what makes one island worthy of existence on the map and another island not. The size of the island plays a small role but is not the limiting factor. Some small islands are shown, others are not. Some medium size islands are shown, others are not. The maps occasionally indicate a submerged island with a small “x” mark. Buried treasure maybe? Sometimes an “x” will be shown but not the island next to it? It’s crazy!
I imagine some pale skinned person in the map making room, deep in a dark basement office, becoming drunk with power as he indiscriminately approves or denies each islands two-dimensional existence.

On the whole, much of this monkey business can be disregarded however. Navigation for a canoeist on the Lake of the Woods is more a matter of bearing than precise location. If it is 20 miles from “A” to “B” and the bearing from one to the other is 80 degrees east from north, the here nor there of each island becomes moot. As long as ones bearing is generally maintained and distance is gauged, as a result of time and speed final destination results. Large islands and mainland shorelines can be used as guidelines to prevent major blunders.

Tomorrow I head to Keewatin, Ontario at the north end of the lake. The kicker is, I won’t get to the post office to pick up my supplies before they close. The next day is Sunday, so I can’t get my packages until Monday. This would all be fine if I had a place to stay and access to a computer to bide my time, but I don’t. I may not sound like I have a plan, but I do. I am going to wing it!

July 1, 2004

After a restful layover day, I proceed north to an early camp. Because of the continued tail wind, I can rack up twenty mile in the day and still have time to enjoy the marvels of the Lake of the Woods. I am reluctant to blow through this lake without having a good look around, thus the early camp.

I seem to be camped along a beaver highway. The industrious creatures swim about regularly and at just about any time, I can look out on the water and see one about his business. When threatened, or just for kicks (I’m not sure) these guys will swim by and slap their tail on the water as they dive. It makes quite a racket and can be alarming to someone not familiar with the source. I can tell the sound right off and I tend to enjoy the display. This particular group of beavers seems to have accepted my presence however. They will swim right up as if to say hello. I fail to see how they can become so sleek and fat from eating bark and leaves. I have used beaver meat to feed sled dogs and it is amazing how much fatty oil the meat contains. The carcasses we get come from local trappers.

I have seen many otters on this trip. They tend to travel as a family unit and are a curious bunch. They make a “rumph” sounding noise and can convey expression through variations in pitch and volume. There is a noticeable difference between a “what is that?” “rumph” and a “don’t mess with me”, “rumph”. They will bob and dip in the water, resurfacing here and there. I have had them surface 15 feet from the canoe, give a “rumph”, and dive again to swim away. They will even follow you for a ways. This morning, I woke to a whole series of “rumph’s”, and looked out of my tent to see a whole group of them not thirty feet away on the waters edge. They were looking at my tent and as I sat up to look out; all five heads disappeared under the water. I wonder if they find me as amusing as I find them.

June 29, 2004

After crossing the 49th Parallel yesterday, paddled on to Sabaskong Bay and across it to my camp near Hay Island. I had paddled nearly 30 miles yesterday and made it 1/3 of the way across Lake of the Woods. Quite a days travel! After a breakfast and some good conversation at the neighboring Duck Bay Resort, I packed camp and headed for Whitefish Bay.

To cross from Sabaskong Bay to Whitefish Bay, there is a short portage over a chunk of rock. To allow motor boats to cross, there is non-motorized mechanical portage cart at this location. It is similar to the one I described earlier but without a motor or attendant operator. To operate the cart, you slide your boat on the cart cradle and crank a big metal wheel that drives a cable attached to the cart. If the cart is on the opposite side, you first have to “crank-it” to the side your boat is on. Because the cart happened to be on the right side of the portage, I went ahead and cranked my loaded canoe to the other side. I probably didn’t save any time or energy, but it was fun.

I should note that once you cross from Sabaskong to Whitefish Bay, Lake of the Woods is essentially, a different body of water. Sabaskong Bay is relatively shallow and has stained water. Whitefish Bay is deep and clear and at this time of year is a better source of water for swimming and drinking.

Because I had such a long day of paddling the previous day, I decided to take an early camp today and a layover day tomorrow. I had decided to look for a camp in cluster of islands adjacent to mainland a few miles up Whitefish Bay. An area such as this is good for many reasons. The islands themselves provide good protection form high wind and are usually free of bear activity. The added shoreline and channels between islands offers additional habitat for fish and the mainland shoreline allows access to water for larger animals such as Deer and Moose. Throw in an incoming marshy creek or two with a shallow bay, and quick access to deep, main lake water and you have yourself all the fixings for a complete, north-woods wildlife experience. You are likely to see any of the animals that live in the area and the fishing should be good.

As I paddled into this group of islands, the area exhibited all the features I have just described. There it was, the island I was looking for. It was nestled right in the mix and had all the features of a good campsite to boot. This would quite possibly be the quintessential north-woods campsite. Little did I know, it would never see my tent stake.

As I approached the island, I noticed a fur bearing animal intently digging in the shallow soil. I removed my camcorder to get some footage and take advantage of the zoom lens. It was a raccoon. I assumed he was finishing off scraps from a fisherman’s shore lunch, but why would he swim to such a tiny island for a few meager scraps? Satisfied with my footage, I whistled to get his attention and paddled up as he scurried away. As I was thinking of how to protect my packs from a foraging raccoon on a small island, a large snapping turtle about as big as beech ball, slid off the edge of the island and into the water. My only thought was that I missed my opportunity to get the big turtle on film. I assumed I would never see her again.

On closer inspection of the island, it became apparent that I had stumbled into one of natures little dramas. That turtle had recently laid eggs and buried them in the dirt. The raccoon was digging up the eggs and having a feast. There were broken eggs scattered about and the whole area looked like a crime scene complete with victim, motive and evidence. No wonder that coon swam out here. It must have watched that old turtle lay her eggs from the main shore and closed in after the deal. Pre-meditation. As I contemplated the situation, I turned to check my canoe and whom do you think had crawled out of the water back on the rock, Mama turtle. I don’t know if she was guarding the clutch or wanted to lay more eggs, but she looked like a woman on a mission and I am old enough to know to stay clear of that.

O.K., how do I fit into all of this? Well, here is the answer, I don’t. I figured I had no business getting in the middle of the whole mess and sometimes things are better off left alone. I climbed back in my canoe and paddled away from perhaps the best camping spot I have yet to see. Some things are worth a clean conscience I suppose and I don’t want any bad karma following me through where I am headed. End of story.

June 28, 2004

Today, once again, there is wind, but it is calm and at my back. According to the GPS, I am ticking along at 3.5 to 4 miles per hour with hardly an effort of the paddle blade. I have turned on the GPS so that I can determine exactly when I cross the 49th parallel. The crossing of the 49th parallel is a milestone in the trip for me. I started this trip on Lake Superior just south of the 48th parallel, barely 80 miles south of my present location. Given that I am nearly 400 miles into the trip, my generally westward bearing is evident.

Not only does crossing the 49th parallel mark the start of my real northward travel and my departure from the U.S. border and committed entry into Canada, but the 49th parallel has historical significance as well. From Lake of the Woods, west, to the Pacific Ocean the U.S. border follows the 49th parallel exactly. With the exception of a short jog to Northwest Angle Bay on Lake of the Woods, (the northern most point of mainland USA) the U.S. border is entirely south of that line. When Lewis and Clark set out on their “Voyage of Discovery”, they had hopes of finding the fabled “Northwest Passage”. If a water route connecting the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans across North America did exist and if it was south of the 49th parallel, then the United State would gain control of a cross-continental trade route to China (via the Louisiana Purchase), and virtually insure its manifest destiny as the youthful master of a virgin continent. Sound too good to be true? Well, it is. There is no Northwest Passage as far as a water route is concerned. The excitement of the prospect was however, enough to spawn many a man to vainly seek it out. I find all this fascinating, so the prospect of crossing the “all-important line”, especially by canoe after 400 miles of solo travel from Lake Superior was very meaningful to me.

After I crossed the 49th parallel, I parked my canoe in a protected bay. I climbed out on a rocky point and looked south and west across the line as I contemplated its significance. My GPS read 49 degrees, 00 minuets, 01 seconds. Pretty Cool!

June 27, 2004

Lake of the Woods! It is good to be here. I finished my travels on the Rainy River with a quick stop in Baudette for some fresh fruit and smoked bacon. Oh yea!

Before me is the expanse of open water on the south end of the lake known as Big Traverse Bay. It stretches some 35 miles from shore to shore with nary a chunk of solid ground rising from the waters surface. It takes hardly any wind to bring big rolling waves across its open field of water. The sandy beach of my camp with its crashing waves, grassy mounds, seagulls and pelicans, feels more like a gulf-shore than a north-woods lake.

I have camped early to enjoy the tropical qualities of this part of the lake that are so refreshingly different to the river passage of recent days. Tomorrow marks the beginning of a change in my overall course. I will no longer be following the westerly line of border water, but will swing the bow of my canoe towards starboard to fall in line with the needle of my compass; North and into Canada.

June 24 to June 26, 2004

The head of the Rainy River is at the southwest corner of Rainy Lake. Here sits the town of Rainer on the American side. The start of the river is marked by a train trestle that connects the U.S. and Canadian shorelines. Downstream a short poke are the twin cities of International Falls on the US side and Fort Frances on the Canadian side. A bridge connects the two cities and a dam straddles the river which temporarily backs its flow.

The first fort to be built at this location was constructed in 1793 by the Northwest Trading Company. It was erected on what is now the Canadian side just below what used to be the falls of the river. Originally named Fort Lac La Pluie, it was subsequently renamed after the charming bride of the new governor to the conglomerated Hudson Bay and Northwest Trading Companies, George Simpson. Thus, Fort Frances. Apparently the young bride was more of a hit than the new governor was.

At present day, the view from the river approaching the cities, provides no hint of the falls. Straddling each side of the Rainy River are two industrial paper mills. Access to the river is restricted above and below the mills and dam. The only way around these monstrosities is to portage along the fenced in facility and through the city. As I carried my up-side down canoe on my shoulders and along the city streets, I received quizzical looks or the occasional “thumbs-up”. There is a certain amount of pride in casually skirting the belching behemoth of industry in much the same manner as the River slips through the dam turbines with graceful nonchalance.

The Rainy River is very wide for its relatively short run of 85 miles. I would guess its average width to be somewhere around 1/4 of a mile. It runs relatively straight and west with an occasional bend to the north. It never meanders and seems content with its dutiful task of portioning the discharge from Rainy Lake to the Lake of the Woods. The shorelines are a silty mud that seems to suit the cluster maples and cedar trees that dominate the riparian. The banks are a tangle of driftwood and abandoned or lost upstream paraphernalia. Homes, cottages and shacks of all sorts appear regularly, people however, are scarce. The two main tributaries of the Rainy River enter at its southern most section. These two, the Little Fork River and the Big Fork River add their kitty to the pot from the American side and enter its flow respectively.

As I paddled along the shore between the confluence of the Little and Big Forks, I noticed a lump of reddish-brown hair, half submerged in the water. The soft, dark eyes of a young calf blinked at me as I paddled closer to inspect his predicament. The little thing was thoroughly stuck in the silty mud, chest deep at all fours. His nose was just an inch or two above water line and he was clearly unable to help himself. As I pulled up to shore and stepped onto the bank, I sunk to my knees in the grippy slop. My boot was nearly pulled off as I extracted my foot. I climbed the steep bank and collected large slabs of bark and logs to construct a working platform on top of the mud.

I first tried to crab the little critter around the waist and give him a tug. He gave one bleat of protest, but didn’t budge a millimeter. I worked each of his legs independently, starting with the front and was eventually able to extract the little hombre one shank at a time. I hauled him up the bank to solid ground and gave him a final inspection before exiting the scene. He was clearly in a state of disrepair and I was hoping that once I left, the mother would come around and feed him. I don’t know if he is going to make it, but at least he has a fighting chance.

Decent camping spots on the Rainy River are few and far between. I made my first camp on the upstream point of an island a few miles downstream of the aforementioned rescue. The mosquitoes on the Rainy River are the worst I have seen so far. My saving grace at this spot was the upstream wind that blew through my camp. It was another “eat in the tent” night. For my next camp I was fortunate to find a municipal park on a high bank on the Canadian side. It had mowed grass, a bench for sitting, and a nice view of the river. My third night on the Rainy, I camped at the town of Rainy River. My tent sight had a water spigot and power hook up. Not my idea of wilderness camping but, if I can lay flat, I’ll call it camp.

I figured three and a half days travel would get me down the Rainy River to its mouth at Lake of the Woods and that is what it took me. I am convinced however, that it can be done in two long days. I fought the wind the whole way. It was constant and upstream. It has been blowing out of the northwest for nine days now. You feel it in your eyes and on your face. You feel it in your ears with its constant nagging. You feel it in your paddle and up your arms, through your back and into your spine. If you stop paddling to take a break, it turns the canoe sideways and pushes you up-stream. It makes you edgy and irritable. It bothers me more than rain, or hot sun, or cold, or bugs, or bad camping spots. I tell myself that I am getting all of my windy days over with early in the trip. It has got to stop at some point. Doesn’t it?

June 23, 2004

From Black Bay, I paddled out its mouth to the main body of Rainy Lake. My westward course along the shoreline brought me to City Beach and the lake side home of Mary and Andy, Anderson. I met Mary and Andy on my boat tour of Rainy Lake with Wade Watson of “Voyageurs Adventures Outfitting“. Mary and Andy had offered to put me up for the night prior to my “inner city” portage around the dam and paper mill at International Falls at the head of the Rainy River. Mary and Andy are the nicest people and I enjoyed their company and Mary’s cooking. I continue to be surprised by the incredible people I meet as I travel.

June 22, 2004

After leaving the village area of Kabetogama, I paddled the remaining length of the lake and found the river outlet that flows from Lake Kabetogama to Black Bay on Rainy Lake. Black Bay is deserving of its name. The water is dark and the color of “cowboy coffee”. So I am told, the bay was a shallow marsh before the dam at International Falls raised the level of the lake several feet. The tannins from the vegetative matter that grew in the bay for many years, leeches out of the soil and gives the water its distinctive color.
Once out of the protective channel of the river, high winds stalled my forward progress and a mid-day camp was my only option. I pitched my tent and watched the white caps breaking on the chocolate colored waves as they built across the bay and pounded the shoreline.

June 20 - 21, 2004

After a couple of nights at “Voyageurs Adventures Outfitting”, I met up with my friend Keith Aili. I first met Keith at my first, continuous format, sled dog race in 2000. Keith won that race and I was proud of my fourth place finish. Keith continues to have success in the sport and has since competed in the Iditarod in Alaska. Keith is known for his eloquent and anecdotal speeches at race banquets, so, when Keith wins a race, the banquet is always a sell-out. Keith is a former fishing guide on Rainy Lake and he set me up with one of his fishing cronies, the notorious Mike "One-Doggie" Lessard. “One-Doggie” is 20-year veteran guide on Rainy Lake and was a pleasure to be with. Keep your eye on my “Fishing Report” for an upcoming account of our Rainy Lake fishing exploits.

I must say, I met some of the nicest folks during my lay-over at Kabetogama. I could have stuck around till I wore out my welcome, but I had other business at hand. In the words of Merle Haggard, “my hat don’t hang on the same nail to long”. Keith dropped me off at the same spot where I landed a few days past and I headed off towards International Falls and the head waters of the Rainy River.

June 18, 2004

I woke to the sounds of my tent fly snapping in the wind. This is not a good alarm clock for a solo canoeist anticipating productive travel. I broke camp and donned my toughest wind and water shell as I watched the waves rolling across the lake.

It was slow but steady progress as I made my way through the narrows to Kabetogama Lake. The waves were big and the wind would grab my bow in hopes of hitting me broadside, but by skipping from one leeward nook to the next protected cranny, I could progress. Out on the open waters of Kabetogama, however, it was a different story. I finally decided to give it a break and hold out on land, hoping for an evening lull.

I really wanted to get to the village area on the west end of Kabetogama that night. It would be the beginning of a lay-over for rest and fishing. At 6:00 in the evening I left my rocky enclave and moved on. At 9:45, as the sun set, I landed the canoe at a lake-side tavern and called Wade Watson for a ride to his base of operations at “Voyageurs Adventures Outfitting”. I met Wade at the outdoor expo in Minneapolis this spring, and he agreed to put me up for a night or two and let me use his computer.

Wade is as good as they come. He put me up in one of their rental cabins and the next day I joined him as he guided a tour of Kabetogama Lake and Namakan Lake in his boat. We visited the historic Kettle Falls Hotel for lunch and took a different route back, stopping at various points of interest. Wade runs a first class operation and is a full service outfitter. From kayaking and canoeing, to guided fishing or interpretive trips to shuttle service and accommodations, Wade can help. Visit his website at www.voyageursadventures.com for more information.

June 17, 2004
From my camp on Little Vermillion Lake, I paddled on to Sand Point Lake where I crossed out of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness and into Voyageur's National Park. I don't know the exact mileage across the BWCAW, but it is somewhere around 200 miles from South Fowl Lake where I entered, to my exit point on Sand Point Lake. With the exception of Saganaga Lake and Lac La Croix to Sand Point Lake, I have been traveling through a dedicated "wilderness". This means that the US Government has restricted the use of the area to non motorized means. Therefore, most people traveling in this country do so by foot or canoe in the summer, or, skis or dog teams in the winter.
As I had grown quite used to the quietness and solitude of wilderness travel, it was a bit of a shock to see lake homes, cabins and lodges lining the shores and fishing boats and houseboats cruising the lakes. The geography never really changed but the whole feel was dramatically different. I see and appreciate the value in both types of access to this incredible part of this country. I would love to spend a week at a lodge or houseboat and move briskly across the lake in a nice fishing boat, but I'll do that on another trip. This trip is different. I look forward to moving on to the wilder country, north of Lake Winnipeg. I will continue to use my wilderness skills as I move along, but it is more rewarding for me to utilize those skills in a manner that is actually necessary as opposed to simply helpful.

As I searched for the Namakan Narrows leading into Namakan Lake, I pulled up to a campsite to verify my location from the folks at the site. We compared maps and I could not refuse the offer of a cold can of beer. Cheers to the good folks from Deerwood, Minnesota. Ahh!
I paddled on till 9:00 and made a camp on Williams Island.

June 16, 2004

I awoke to the sound of airplanes. Just around the bend from my makeshift camp on Lac La Croix, there is a Canadian customs and re-fueling station. Float planes carrying fishermen into the remote lakes of Canada must stop and clear customs before moving on to their drop points deep in Canada.

I felt drugged with fatigue from the rigors of the previous day, but the desire to move on overcame the snug comfort of my down sleeping bag. I dressed and began my morning routine. It is amazing what a toothbrush and strong coffee can do for the resistant and reluctant morning soul. I packed my rain soaked gear into my packs and loaded them into the canoe.

After a tough windy paddle along the remaining length of Lac La Croix, I arrived at the first portage of the day. This portage is marked on the map as a “marine railroad portage”. As I found out, a “marine railroad portage” is just what it says. I mini railroad track is laid down from lake to lake and a cart carries motorboats from one lake to the next along the track. The cart is pulled along the track on a cable, powered by a propane motor. There was a house and outbuildings on the spit of land between the two lakes and a full time attendant lives there to operate the rail car. No kidding!

I briefly considered paying the $3.00 to have my canoe and gear motored across for the novelty, but decided it was contrary to the mission so I hauled my packs and canoe across the old fashioned way.

I encountered one more of these “railroads” between Loon Lake and the Loon River before making my way to camp on Little Vermillion Lake. Tomorrow, I would leave the Boundary Waters Canoe Area after paddling its length from South Fowl Lake near Lake Superior.

June 15, 2004

Tough day! I paddled the length of Crooked Lake, through Iron Lake and on to Lac La Croix. I intended to stop for camp at 7:30 but could find no campsite. I continued on until nearly 10:00 before making a makeshift camp in the darkness and pouring rain. I figure I traveled over 25 miles. I cooked and ate in the tent.

I was surprised at the lack of camping locations in this area. In the Boundary Waters Canoe Area through which I have been traveling, there are designated camping sites established by the Forest Service. Under the terms of your entry permit, you are required to camp at one of these locations. These campsites are marked on most maps (but not on my maps) and have a fire grate and a pit toilet. You can usually spot these sites right off from the water and in most cases there is usually a site about every 30 to 40 minutes of paddleing.

The"unofficial" site that I eventually settled for had none of the typical features that make a good camp. When I am looking for camping spots, there are several features that I find appealing. A good campsite has a nice landing and unloading area for the canoe, preferably flat and with no jagged rocks. The best sites will be open and have a smooth, level area of granite rock surface on the windy end of a point. A site like this usually has a low mosquitoes and black fly population and is safe from falling trees. Evergreen trees are better than deciduous tress, once again because of bugs. The more leafy trees and plants, the more bugs there will be. Red Pines are the best. Stands of Red Pines offer great camping spots, as there is usually no undergrowth and a nice carpet of soft pine needles on the forest floor. There should be a nice flat spot with a good view of the lake to pitch a tent. The best tent spots will be on a slight rise so that rainwater runs away from and not under the tent. Finally, there should be quick access to main lake water. Sights in a stagnant bay have a greater chance of parasitic water. On a big lake with clear, deep water, I will paddle out a ways and get drinking water straight from the lake with out filtering, treating or boiling.

June 14, 2004

Today I finished my way across Basswood Lake and ran the Basswood River and on to Crooked Lakecamping on Wednesday Bay. I dropped considerably in elevation today as there is a series of waterfalls on the Basswood River. Camped fairly early at 6:30 pm to dry and organize gear. I had my first camp fire since my first night on Lake Superior.

June 13, 2004

Broke camp on the west end of Knife Lake and portaged and puddle jumped into Basswood Lake. At the final portage into Basswood there is a dam and a Canadian Customs. I had heard that there was a small store on the Basswood side of the portage and I was hoping for a soda and a candy bar and maybe an apple, if I was lucky. Well, I had held off on lunch in hopes of getting some goodies at the “store”. After finishing the portage, I walked up to the “store” to see what they had. Much to my disappointment, all they sold were hats and t-shirts with local logos. What in the ****! Hats and t-shirts? I went back to my gear and dejectedly munched on granola and moldy beef jerky. Hats and t-shirts?

I made a few miles and a storm started brewing, so I pulled into a protected bay on an island and covered all my gear with the silicone tarp from “Granite Gear”. The wind picked up and some close lightning strikes had me nervous. The tallest tree on the island was a big white pine. I stayed well clear of it as I figured if lightning hit the island, it would tag that tree. I was also worried about falling trees. Here in the north woods, the soil is shallow and trees don’t have much of a hold to the ground, so they fall down a lot when the wind blows. If it got worse, I was prepared to move all my stuff to the point of the island, up-wind from any trees. If a tree landed on my canoe, it would be a long swim to Hudson Bay. The storm passed without incident.

I paddled on till 9:00 and made camp on the south east side of American Point on Basswood Lake. The bugs were bad, so I made dinner in my rain gear and ate in the tent. I figured a made close to 25 miles today.

June 12, 2004

I worked my way down Ottertrack and Knife Lake, making a pit stop to hike up to “Thunder Point”.

June 11, 2004

I packed up camp and headed out across Saganaga Lake. It was open and windy with 4-foot rollers. The boat was stable, but the wind kept grabbing my stern and bringing me parallel to the wind. At the first opportunity, I pulled ashore and adjusted the load with more weight stern end. After that, I had much more control of the boat and my direction.

I continued on to my first portage of the day. I pulled into a small bay and met another party crossing the same portage. The portage was long, muddy and buggy. I have been making three trips on portages (that’s five times across, counting the two return trips). I made it to the next lake, which was supposed to be Ottertrack Lake, but it just didn’t look right. Once again, I began to question the scale of my maps. As I have said, most people use a 1:24,000 scale map or a 1:50,000-scale map for this type of travel. Mine are 1:250,000 scale. If I purchased all the maps needed for this trip in the 1:50,000 scale, it would have cost me six or eight hundred dollars. I have found that on larger lakes, these maps are OK, but on smaller lakes, where landmark features are smaller and the line of sight is relatively short, navigation becomes a guessing game.

I figured once I paddled down the lake a ways, I would find some reference point that corresponded to my map. I paddled the entire length of the lake (about ¾ of a mile) expecting it to open up. All I found was a swampy dead end. I looked at my map once again to see if I could have taken the wrong portage. No other portage was marked. Well, I paddled around the entire shoreline looking for a channel out to the main lake and found nothing. I finally located another portage trail and walked it, leaving my gear behind. I came to another lake but could find no landmark to indicate where I was. I sat on a granite boulder looking at my map and swatting mosquitoes.

I finally decided that I had taken the wrong portage and was off my route. I could continue on this alternate route dipping south of the border before meeting it again on Knife Lake, but something about doing that did not set right with me. To me, it would have been a concession, taking away my control of where I was heading. “No, I am running this trip, it is not running me”. I headed back across the lake and back across the long, buggy, muddy portage (another five trips). Sure enough, in a tiny little bay not 80 strokes of the paddle away was the portage I should have taken the first time. I humped all my stuff across and pushed off on Ottertrack Lake. It was 9:00 at night and getting dark. I paddled to the first camp, ate and fell asleep.

I lost some time this day, and burned a lot of energy needlessly, but at least I could wake up with the satisfaction knowing I was where I wanted to be rather than ending-up where I happened to go.

June 9, 2004

I left Gunflint Lodge this morning and paddled down the Granite River to Saganaga Lake and made camp on Conner’s Island. I had spent the last two days at my friend Sheryl’s at Gunflint Lodge. She runs the outfitters at the lodge and was my boss when I worked there as a canoe guide back in 1995. She has been a big help in planning for this trip.

At Gunflint, I spent most of my time going through gear, re-packing and wrapping up personal and trip related business. From the start of the trip at Lake Superior I brought only one pack, with minimal supplies and six days of food. When I left Gunflint, I carried two packs containing all my gear and a month’s worth of food. I will not re-supply again until Kenora at the north end of Lake of the Woods. My original plan was to re-supply about every two to three weeks, but after further consideration, I decided to simplify the plan and re-supply just three times; Gunflint, Kenora and Norway House (see route description).

The trip down the Granite River is beautiful and relatively easy travel. Normally, this leg would have taken me six hours, but due to a sore muscle in my back, it took me close to ten hours! I am glad that tomorrow I will fish from a motorboat (see fishing report) and not have to paddle and portage. I set up a nice camp in a stand of red pines. Regardless of the sore muscle, it was good to be back on the water.

June 6, 2004

South Lake is the last lake in the line of lakes whose waters flow out and down to Lake Superior. Its deep, blue waters are crystal clear and one can easily see bottom in 30 feet of water. It is prime habitat for Small Mouth Bass and Lake Trout.
Towards the northeast end of South Lake is the “Height of Land Portage” that leads to North Lake and Hudson Bay drainage. I find it remarkable that I am less than 75 trail miles from Lake Superior and already crossing into Hudson Bay watershed.
All along the “border route” that I am following, I come across metal “benchmarks” that indicate reference to the actual line that is the border between the United States and Canada. These “benchmarks are usually placed in a solid piece of granite where the great “Canadian Shield” exposes itself through the thin soil of the Boreal Forest. As I travel along this section of my journey, I cross this invisible line between countries dozens of times every day. The U.S. and Canada bickered for so long about where the border would be, that they apparently felt the need to mark the “holy hell” out of it. All along this vast wilderness boundary are these reference markers. Some of the portages (such as the “Height of Land Portage”) follow the border exactly, so that one literally straddles the border as you walk. I often imagine two government officials, one from each country, patrolling the border to make sure that the plants are not being pollinated by foreign partners, or that Canadian birds aren’t feeding their young U.S. insects.
As I understand it, the border was determined to be set upon the “most commonly used trade route”. This allowed both the U.S. and Canada to “share” the route for trading purposes. So, for the entire span of the North American fur trade, trappers and traders plied these same waters that I move through today. For these men, the crossing of the “Height of Land Portage” was right of passage into the life of a “Voyageur”. The tradition at the “Height of Land Crossing” was to drink a spot of rum and anoint the “rookie” voyageurs with a pine bow as they vowed “not to sleep with another voyageurs wife without his permission”, or so the story goes.
At the “Height of Land Portage” there is an actual boundary marker that sits smack-dab on the line. It is a tall bronze conical shaped pylon that sits atop a concrete footing. One side of the bronze cone reads “Canada” and the opposite site reads “United States”. Apparently, they are still concerned with a proper marking of the boundary because the concrete footing says “1997”.
I performed my own ceremony at the “Height of Land Portage” by setting my canoe in front the monument and snapping a self portrait.

June 5, 2004
I paddled along the rest of Mountain Lake and on to Watap Lake and Rove Lake where I began to look for the portage trail to Rose Lake. Some portages are significant enough to deserve a name. This particular portage is called the “Long Portage”. I had been on this portage once before in the winter of 1998. I was leading a dog sled trip with my two brothers Rob and Larry and our friend Kent. As I paddled into the bay at the end of Rove Lake, I remember thinking back to the dogsled trip and this particular portage. The way I remembered it, it was long, flat and on the right side of the creek. So I began searching for a flat trail head on the right hand side of the creek. After 30 minutes of bush whacking around, all I accomplished was to wake up a young moose from an afternoon nap. Back at the canoe, I paddled around the bay and found a trail head that immediately split in two directions. One trail headed east one headed south. I wanted to go west. “Well, maybe this is it?” I put on the pack and started walking down a steep (not flat) trail that was on the left (not right) side of the creek. It was however, long. After 20 minutes I came to another intersection with a sign that said “Border Route Trail”. Convinced that I was right all along, and that I had taken a hiking trail and not the portage I was looking for, I headed back to the canoe to look for the “right” trail. I paddled back up the bay looking for the trail that I remembered being on the right hand side of the creek. After another 30 minutes of paddling around and bushwhacking through swamp and thickets, I finally came to my senses. “If the Border Route hiking trail goes past Rose Lake, and the portage I am looking for goes to Rose Lake, why would the Forest Service put in two trails on opposite sides of the same creek? They may be a bureaucracy but the grunts who maintain the trails have plenty of work as it is. I went back to that trail and after two and a half hours of portaging, I shoved off onto Rose Lake. I paddled and portaged on to South Lake and camped.

June 4, 2004
I woke and packed camp without breakfast as I was anxious for some easier travel and sick of the constant nagging of black flies and mosquitoes. The calm morning provided for easy paddling across South Fowl Lake. I paddled on through the narrows to North Fowl Lake and began to see and hear the signs of human activity. There were cabins along the American shore line and there were people clanking around in metal fishing boats moored to docks that stretched into the water.
As I paddled along I could see two men in boat, tied to a dock, and a man on the dock filling a tank from the boat with gas. On the shore line was a fishing shack with a sign on its gable that read “Don’s Lodge”. Hungry for some conversation, I pulled up with a “good morning”. The two men in the boat asked me where I was going. When I said “Hudson Bay”, they just kind of looked at me funny. I don’t think they knew where Hudson Bay is. After some off hand talk about fishing spots the two men fired up their motor and headed off. I asked the dock hand if they sold soda. He said he would have to ask Don (I guess that is the Don of “Don’s Lodge”). The dock hand went inside the small cabin and came back with a Coke. Apparently Don authorized the transaction because he gave me the Coke and I gave the dock hand a dollar. I drank the Coke as we discussed fishing locations and compared hot-spots with the map. Moose Lake, as I had heard, is good lake for Walleye according to my new found “local source”. He wished me well. I said thanks and headed off to Moose Lake.
Moose Lake was good fishing. One of those fishing experiences where you find yourself laughing out loud because you just keep catching nice fish one after another. I met a lot of nice fish and let all but one go. That one I invited to dinner.
I paddled on to Mountain Lake and camped about half way down on the American Side.

June 3, 2004
The Grand Portage is now something that is done. For me that means a lot. There is not much more to say on that subject. It is what it is, a mostly up-hill hike of 9 miles with a heavy pack on your back and a 44 pound canoe on your shoulders.
That was yesterday. Today, involved the 15 mile paddle up the Pigeon River to the portage head that leads to the South Fowl Lake. The first 8 miles or so is no big deal. Hard paddling provides slow but steady, upstream travel. There is a short portage around Partridge Falls (see photo gallery). At a point however, the current strengthens and forward progress by paddling becomes futile. I found myself on the rivers edge in tangled mess of tress, snags and brush in a mosquito infested, beaver induced swamp. I searched upstream and down for any sign of a trail that may lead around this difficult section of river. Sorry buddy, no trail! I headed back to the canoe and my gear to think the situation through. Just then, I large tree came crashing down less than fifty feet away. Upon inspection, I realized that it was a tree that had been chewed half through by a beaver at some point in the recent past. As I looked around, nearly every tree in the area had been chewed in the same way. I decided, “This is no place for a siesta”.
I put on my NRS “Hydroskin” pants and shirt, laced my shoes tight, and snugged up the life vest. I slid into the cold, racing water up to my waist and began walking up-stream while towing the canoe full of gear. Step by step, this went on for a mile or more before the water leveled out and I could get back in the canoe and paddle. After a while, the current once again overcame my efforts at paddling and back into the river I went, this time for a couple of miles.
After several more miles of paddling and a wrong turn up a side creek, I came to the portage trail that leads to South Fowl Lake. After three quarters of mile of hiking, I was looking down onto South Fowl Lake and up at the granite cliffs that tower above its south east shore. As the setting sun illuminated the water and cliffs in shades of purple and pink, the calm, easy water below was quite a site after two tough days of travel. I set up camp on a sliver of beach at the lake shore and drank from an ice cold spring that poured from the rocks at the base of the cliff. My tent was so close to the water that, when looking out, all I could see was water, sky and the distant shoreline. I went to sleep.

June 2, 2004
I rose early and broke camp. Robert Vogel Jr. (Bob) is the Grand Portage Chief Conservation Officer for the Grand Portage Band of Lake Superior Chippewa. He agreed to escort me to the “Witch Tree” (see gallery for image). The “Witch Tree” is a sacred site to the Band and I was honored that he allowed me to visit it. After a short drive we headed up a trail that leads out along Hat Point to where the tree lives. The “Witch Tree” is a cedar tree that grows out of a solid rock precipice that overlooks the waters of Lake Superior. I quietly approached the tree and left some tobacco as an offering for a safe journey.
Back at my lake shore camp site, Bob and I met Gilbert Caribou and Curtis Gagnon, two respected members of the Grand Portage Chippewa. Gilbert loaded a ceremonial pipe with tobacco and offered a prayer in his native language as he smoked to the four directions and the Great Spirit. I could not understand the words of his prayers as he was speaking his native language. The only two words I did understand as they were in english were “Hudson Bay”. I watched the wind blow through the grass and figured his prayers were like the wind.
Gilbert passed the pipe to Curtis who smoked, then to Bob and then to me. Once again, I felt honored that these men felt my journey worthy of their customs. I smoked, then passed the pipe to my friend Eric, who had come down to see me off.
I thanked them and told them I would come and see them when my trip was over. Then I put on my pack, hoisted the canoe on my shoulders and started walking up the Grand Portage and towards Hudson Bay.

June 1, 2004
I set up camp on the shore of Lake Superior this afternoon. I received permission form the Park Service to camp on the grounds of the Grand Portage National Monument next to the reconstructed fortifications at the head of the Grand Portage trial.
As the wind died down in the late evening, I jumped in the canoe for a paddle on Lake Superior in the Grand Portage Bay. The Prism moved easily through the cold water of the lake. The bay is shallow and the water is clear, so you can see the bottom surface all a-tumble with boulders varying in size from bowling balls to Volkswagens. Shadows danced along the bottom as the surface ripples bent the sunlight this way and that. Or perhaps not all that moved were shadows but the creatures that swim among the rocks? Lake Superior has that timeless feel that large bodies of water seem to create. One can’t help but think of the stories she must hold in her depths. You can get lost in trancelike thought staring into the clear cold water.
I looked up to check my position and paddled back to shore. The sky was clear and a full moon was rising behind Grand Portage Island. It is a nice night.

May 28, 2004

The start date is official. I am committed to a June1 departure. I have permission from the National Park Service to camp on the grounds of the reconstructed Grand Portage Site right on the shore of Lake Superior. I will camp there the night of the first and head up the morning of the second.

May 26, 2004

I’m in Grand Marias, MN staying with my friends, Eric and Heather Kemp and their two children, Seth and Hazel. From here to the starting point of the trip at Grand Portage is about a 30 minute drive.
Things have been fast and furious as final planning and packing is finished. Tying up the loose ends and securing last minute items is always nerve racking before a big trip. I always get this same feeling before the start of a big sled dog race. Your mind races as you try and think of what needs to be done or what you are forgetting. There is always a great feeling of relief once you actually get out on the trail.
My friend Eric has been busy making the spray cover for the canoe. We are using a 500 denier nylon material that was donated by the folks at Granite Gear. I must admit I was a bit nervous when Eric began cutting the precious cloth material and drilling holes in my brand new canoe, but I trust Eric and I figure it is best to stay out of his way and let him do his job. I think the cover is going to look and work great.
I went to the “Sun Splash” canoe event in Ely, Minnesota over the weekend and picked up two very nice “Bending Branches” paddles. My main paddle is a double bent shaft reinforced blade called a “Viper”. Lets hope I can hang on to it for the whole trip as it will be a great souvenir of the trip.

May 19, 2004

On my way north, I stopped by the We-No-Nah main office and production facility in Wenonah, Minnesota. I had much anticipated this stop because this would be my first opportunity to meet my paddling partner, the 16 ½ foot We-No-Nah, Prism solo canoe. As I inspected the prism for the first time, I imagined what we would encounter in the 1,300 miles to come. The hull of the Prism was smooth and flawless and imparted the tell tale marks of hand made craftsmanship. What would she look like after 500 miles, 1000 miles? Surely she would develop the character that weather and hard travel impose on all things.

After loading and tying down the Prism, I took a tour of the We-No-Nah facility. Josh Stussy with in-house sales and customer service gave me a first class tour of the very impressive production facility at We-No-Nah. Josh knows canoes like a bear knows the woods. I saw each step of the production process from start to finish. Each canoe is built using a combination of state of the art technology and time tested, hands on craftsmanship. Thanks We-No-Nah!
(I'll post pictures of my tour soon.)

May 13, 2004

Rain gear / cool weather paddling gear from NRS (Northwest River Supply) came in today. I will be disappointed if I don’t get some adverse weather on this trip. There is a great deal of satisfaction in being comfortable in cruddy weather.

I ordered more maps today. I will soon have the entire route on the Canadian topographical maps at the 1:250,000 scale. I also ordered three maps in the 1:50,000 scale for the area where I will transfer from the Hayes River to the Gods River (see route description – Norway House to Hudson Bay). This transition, from one drainage to the other, will be interesting. I am not sure how many people have attempted to cross this particular height of land. It is possible that there may be a noticeable portage system through this area, but I am not counting on it.

May 6, 2004

I Finally got a canoe. I picked up a We-No-Nah, Prism for a good price. There are many considerations when selecting a canoe; length, hull design, construction material and price are the big ones. Selecting a canoe for a trip such as this is an exercise in compromise. On this trip, I need a canoe that performs well in a variety of conditions from wind blown lakes, to shallow marshes, to class III rapids. The craft must be lightweight yet strong, sturdy yet nimble. To gain a good understanding of how all the elements of canoe design come together, I recommend visiting We-No-Nah's website.
In researching this trip I have read and heard a lot of opinions on expedition canoes. Although there is general agreement on certain issues, everybody has their own personal preferences when it comes to which boat is best. Ultimately, there is no perfect canoe, but a smart paddler learns the limit of his boat and adapts accordingly. My guess is, I’ll have a good feel for the “Prism” after 1,300 miles.

May 3, 2004

Expedition Status: The expedition is now in the late planning stages.
Open Items
• Sponsorship for food, canoe, packs, tent and camp equipment
• Final Gear List
• Final Map Selection