Day 8, Sept 8, Whiskey Jack Lake
“Where are you?”seeks the crying loon upon the water. I whisper in response that I am here, still upon the land. My weary back is pressed upon this sun-drenched boulder (who needs a hot stone massage at the spa?), which is both warming my bones and sheltering me from a blustery north wind. In truth, I am warming up so much I may soon need to shed the layer I just donned when I was up above on the knob of land, pitching camp in that brisk breeze. I am facing west, where the sun is glittering across the surface of this sparkling gem of sapphire water. The lakes in this part of the park are spring fed headwater lakes, blue-green and crystal clear.
Don is casting for a fish around the corner. We have landed upon a ridge of land, jutting out into the lake, with a deep narrow green-water cove around the south side of its peninsula. The clouds are finally breaking apart into puffballs on the western horizon, the grey cloud cover of last evening having persisted throughout the night and most of this morning. However, it didn’t rain on us today!!
We were up and out of camp, paddling into that gray, this morning a little past 9 and onto the 1285 portage into Robinson lake an hour later.
Paddling the length of Burntroot was a ‘breeze’ this morning (hehe), while the portage was slick with wettened rocks and roots. At first, the trail led us down into a dark deep and inviting woods, but soon came up and around a long beaver meadow, which we traced for at least 1/3 of the walk. There was a low ‘bridge’ of sorts across the seep at the foot of that meadow, where there were a few remnant raspberries to pluck and photographs to snatch. We’d been hearing that seep (perhaps a spring?) trickling long before we crossed it, feeling its evaporative cooling upon our skin. It was like stepping into a refrigerator, my nose was so cold.
Robinson Lake! What a surprising beauty, with its impressive island campsite perched high over the lake, and a smattering of smaller islands and inlets dotting its surface, inviting passages through and around them. We hope to revisit it again someday, when we are not just passing through.
The short portage into Whiskey Jack takes you up, over and around a knob of land into a tiny inlet/cove of still water bogged with lily pads and moss covered logs. It was a perfect
sitting spot for lunch, which we were both well ready for by then. The portage is signed 25 meters, though there was no way to put into the water at that point and we walked the well-used trail to the putin 50 meters farther along the shoreline. Perhaps in spring it is possible to enter the lake sooner, but it looked pretty unlikely.
We are alone on this lake, which is, of course, what we’d hoped. The weather is supposed to clear, which may make for a cold night and a chilly morning, but perhaps a sparkling blue tomorrow! For now, the pines, rustling in the winds, are hushing me to just be still. With water, wood, shelter, fire and food all cared for I can simply sit and be. Close my eyes, feel this luxurious heat penetrate my body. Remembering that chill on the portage, this feels like heaven.
pooped partner
Day 9, Sept 9, morning Whiskey Jack
Quiet. No…. Silence. Still, fog-blanketed dawn. Golden sun just beginning to burn reflections into mirrored water. Hot coffee – warms my hands, my nose, my belly. Trio of loons float by in the mist. As they seemed to do throughout the night, their echoed calls saturate the lake with song, these quiet hillsides mirroring their voices as the glassy water does the trees….
I wonder how Gray Jay got its nickname, Whiskey Jack, after which this lake is named? Does his behavior make him seem to have imbibed in a bit too much of the spirit ? Did a drunken lumberjack proclaim that a large jay-like bird swooped in to snatch the bannock from his hand, causing his friends to mock and name his ‘bird’, Whiskey Jack?
The sky is clear blue, as promised, our first in many a day. We hope to spend it idly, easily paddling the shoreline of this little lake, perhaps crossing back over to revisit Robinson, taking our lunch there. Now, I can hear Don’s gentle snoring from the tent up on the knob. This morning I understand, after having heard in the distance the sound of lumbering last week, why they refer to it as ‘sawing logs’.
The sun is reaching over my shoulder to light the edge of the page. Soon enough, I will be warm. Begin shedding layers. That makes me wonder what could be the sunshine I need in my life that will encourage me to shed the layers that cover over my soft, naked self, for I have been feeling so protected, so hard, of late. Perhaps I will just close my eyes now. Soak some of this in. Can this be stored, I wonder, like Vitamin D, in my cells?
One hour later.
I have moved my seat over to the sunny south side of the peninsula. It is after 9. Don still sleeps. The fog is almost completely gone- just traces linger in the bay and along the edges. The bees are busy gathering the last bits of goodness from the fading summer, as am I. We’ve noted some color, subtle but fast approaching, on the ridge tops, and brighter flashes on some of the more boisterous adolescent maples in the understory, here and there.
I’ve tried my hand at fishing this morning, with Don’s rod while he sleeps, thinking perhaps fish for breakfast would be a welcome treat. (Last night’s dinner was a disaster!!—note to self, remove the dried avocado from the butternut/chickpea soup, add a boullion cube, some cinnamon and perhaps a pat of butter or oil for fat. ) I selected a lure, successfully tied it onto the line (that is, after getting its triple barbed hook extricated from my woolen glove), and made quite a few decent casts, with tiny fish following the lure back to the shoreline. And then….. I got caught, like an anchor on the rocks offshore. I tried all the tricks I’ve watched Don do to dislodge it—walking up and down the shoreline for a better angle as I whipped the end of the rod up and down.
Perhaps we can take the canoe out in a bit and free it.
So here I sit, once again. I do hope Don gets up soon. I’m getting hungry.
5 pm.
Don finally rose @ 9:30, so I cooked up our breakfast of scrambled eggs, with sausage and ‘rick’ (I’d mislabeled those bags with a mistyped ‘k’ in place of the ‘e’ and so we’ve just given in to the amusement of the renaming). I wonder if it isn’t the eggs that upset my tummy, though, because again today I had to run to the box on a campsite, where we’d pulled over. By chance, it was a fortunate stop as it turned out, because I also found a tackle box full of lures left behind there. Don was happy about that, as he’s lost quite a few on this trip (though he did manage to salvage that one from my morning’s miscast)
Honestly, I am fairly exhausted right now (though it could be the decongestant I took for my smoke inflamed sinuses). We really do need to learn how to take a true R&R day, as the day of idle paddling again turned into a 6 hour expedition. We left camp shortly after breakfast for that leisurely paddle around the shoreline of this picturesque, green water lake.
Quite small, with both ends winding into narrow creeks, the lake encompasses just one small island. In no time at all, we had paddled its contours, even with Don trolling a bit down the center, which tires me as I have to work quite a bit more physically to draw the canoe along from the bow and keep it tracking straight than when both of us are paddling along.
Back across the short portage into Robison Lake we went, ‘trip-trap-tripping’ over the tiny footbridge, the one we suppose may possibly be the put-in for the lake during times of high water, and into its westernmost bay. Again, we were enamored by this green water gem of a lake.
Contrary to its 2 dimensional image on the map, making it appear to be little more than a wide river, it is curvaceous and appealing, with a few islands for charm and that crown jewel of a campsite. Perched high on that granite throne during our lunch break, we soaked in the stunning western view as a cormorant down below stretched out its wings to delight in its own way. I could imagine drinking in the sunset or lying back to bask in the stars from that roost, although I imagine hauling one’s gear up its craggy trail to the top might be a chore and winds from the west could be quite intense (a good or a bad thing, depending upon the season, the bugs, and one’s personal penchant for stiff breezes).
Stopping just long enough for a quick lunch today, we both wanted to get back to camp early, the fatigue seemingly hitting both of us at once. We did continue paddling toward the end of Robinson lake before turning back. The lake’s second campsite, along its northern shore appeared to be overgrown and unused. (I can understand why), and the eastern end of the lake opened out into a wide alpine meadow, alongside which a portage trail would take you to tiny Junco Lake- its silhouette on the map resembling the tiny bird– though we decided to save that exploration for another trip.
Back across the portage trail to Whiskey Jack, we again gathered firewood along its short stretch and loaded it into the waiting canoe. In camp, Don finished sawing it to length, while I gathered and processed water and completed some dinner prep. The fireplace here is amazing, with its deep and tall rear wall offering protection from the west wind, which rises up from the water. We were cozy tucked into its warmth in last evening’s chilly temps. We hope to enjoy its comfort again this evening. Tomorrow is a heavy day of portaging, with one long 1900 meter portage to tackle.
For now, Don is again with his fishing rod, I with my journal, both of us, I suppose, hoping to pull up something nourishing from below.
an algonquin affair 