GLSKA TRIP REPORTS - 2001
A selection of GLSKA Trip Reports from the 2001 paddling season
[Past Trip Reports from the Archives] [Current Trip Reports]
BEAUSOLEIL ISLAND
THE "BEAR" FACTS
Glenn Davy
In an attempt to duplicate last Autumn’s outstanding trip to Beausoleil (located near Honey Harbour, Ontario), I decided to run the same basic trip this Spring. I was actually hoping for cool weather since this would be only one weekend removed from the long weekend, and the hordes of power boaters that invade this area once the weather warms to a summer-like condition. I got my wish, but the winds that kept temperatures down somewhat nearly blew us off the water at times.
This was not to be a rushed trip, especially being the first trip of the season for some of us, including me. I met the group at a restaurant near the cut-off from Highway 400 to Honey Harbour around 10 a.m. From there we proceeded to launch from the main docks, leaving the cars at Joe’s Parking, as we did last year. (Joe is a very affable character and reasonably priced, if any of you are considering a trip in this area.) By 11:30 we were on the water and heading north through the main channel. The winds were strong out of the northwest, but not unbearable. Nina, Stewart, David, Julia and myself meandered among the few islands and inlets as we passed Big Dog Channel and headed up into the main channel that leads to Georgian Bay proper, and the north end of the Island. The leaves were fairly far along for that time of year and that resulted in a pleasant lushness over the area that had been forgotten over the long winter.
As we left the narrows just north of Little Dog Channel (I am still looking for Medium-sized Dog Channel…), we got the wind full force with a definite funnelling effect down the strait. At this point I estimated the winds at 20 kts gusting to 30. Rounding the point into Honeymoon Bay took considerable effort in that wind, although the waves weren’t really a problem. We finally made it in all right though, and soon had our tents and gear spread out in their appropriate places on the east side of the Bay. It was great having the place to ourselves once again, although I was dubious that any boat short of a large tug could use the dock as the deck of the dock was some 4 or 5 feet above the low water line!
The afternoon was perfect for lazing around, which I took full advantage of, having not that long before, broken a finger which was now paining me considerably. Nina and Stewart went hiking while Julia and Dave decided to practise their braces and whatnot. I decided the only place I wanted ice was in my drinks, so I just watched from the shore. Nina and Stewart arrived back after an hour or so, and I decided to get a closer look at Julia and Dave in their boats, so headed over to the dock where they were. By now it was near 6 p.m., and as I headed down the dock, a yellow sign caught my eye. "CAUTION! Bear in Area – travel with caution!" Ohhhhh great! Just what we needed. We held a quick pow-wow and decided that it was far too late to move, and where would we go anyway. So, we huddled the tents close together for safety and being the only biologist in the group, I gave a short talk on what to do and how to behave in the event of a visit from the local bruin. Everyone seemed receptive to my comments, until I got to the part about sacrificing one’s body to save the organizer (well, SOMEBODY had to go for help in the end!!!). In any event, after an extensive look-see around, there were no obvious signs of any recent (large) visitors, so we really weren’t too terribly worried.
The night passed almost without incident. I thought it had been a very quiet, uneventful night, but Stewart claims to have heard some bird being killed by an animal nearby (a blood-curdling scream was the give-a-way), which I scoffed at. That is, until Julia corroborated his story, and I was forced to admit I had got more sleep than I thought.
After a long breakfast we broke camp and opted to head over to the mouth of the MacDonald River before heading back to Honey Harbour. It was a beautiful day for paddling and we had a great trip over. This seemed like the perfect spot for lunch, and so we lollygagged about the rapids for an hour or so. With the wind on the rise again, and forecast to back to the southwest, we headed off for the Harbour. The number of powerboats on the water was on the increase, but most seemed courteous and gave us our room.
Once again this was a great trip with lots to see and experience, but also once again, it was my good fortune to have such a great group of paddlers along with me. It makes organising and paddling with GLSKA a very enjoyable past time, and I look forward to my next trip. Thanks to Nina, Dave, Julia and Stewart for their participation.
SEVEN DAYS IN QUEBEC
Hart Haessler
PART 1: THE MATAGAMI EXPEDITION
There are big lakes out there and I’ve never seen them. This was Sam’s characteristic explanation for choosing the Matagami area of Quebec for his August 2000 GLSKA trip. He had written to the development officer of Matagami for information. In essence this was the reply: "The area is ideal for kayaking, indeed he himself had enjoyed many trips in this beautiful wilderness – blessed with perfect weather, abundant wildlife, and prosperous industries." The fact that Matagami is a mining town of 2000 isolated souls (and dwindling), 800 kilometres north of Toronto, wholly owned and operated by a mining company, was left for me to discover on the Internet.
Ron, Sam and I met in Alliston at 4:30 a.m. on August 12th and at 9:00 we were at the Tim Horton’s in Huntsville. Here we met the remaining two members of our expedition. Bill and Frank had come from Rochester, N.Y. to join us because they too had never been there. Coffee and the anticipation of the unknown cranked up our adrenalin sufficiently to overcome the lethargy of sleep deprivation. We were primed to drive, and drive we did – for 8 more hours – through towns like North Bay, Temagami, New Liskeard, Rouyn Noranda, Amos and then a 200 kilometre stretch of no towns at all, just endless low spruce and sandy road cuts. We had arrived in the Hudson’s Bay lowlands and had left our familiar shield country behind. Finally we arrived in Matagami. Among the 5 of us we did not know enough French to understand that a "Hotel de ville" is not a place to sleep, but we managed to check into the motel, have dinner and scout out the launch site on Lac Matagami.
At the town dock, the development officer’s kayak was noticeably absent, as were all the indications that this was a paddling mecca. The only sign of life was a battered aluminum fishing boat. Then we noticed the water. The waves that lapped at the shore were a sinister brown. The opposite shoreline appeared low and choked with stunted scrub. Only the occasional club tipped black spruce broke free of an unimposing horizon. As I stood at the water’s edge, the light began to fade from an overcast sky and the first Matagami mosquitoes began extracting blood from my neck. I contemplated the next 5 days in this desolate country. I kept my thoughts to myself but I couldn’t help wishing that I were on Georgian Bay far to the south.
The next morning we were back at the public dock and although the sky was still as overcast as the previous evening, my spirits were considerably higher. I was in excellent company and anticipated 5 days of kayaking with nothing to worry about except the rhythm of my paddle. What a difference a good night’s sleep can make.
We launched into the brown waters of the Matagami estuary and paddled upstream to the low falls at the mouth of the Bell River. Here we took pictures and played in the boiling water before the official beginning of our expedition. Our 5 boats quickly found their position in the pecking order. Sam and Ron were generally up front to establish a bristling pace. The rest of us kept up as best as we could. Around the first point came the evidence that Sam was right about the size of this lake. The horizon to the east was broken only by the occasional island. There was no visible end to this coffee-coloured sea. The wind swung into our backs and our progress became impressive. We passed features on shore that dispelled our first gloomy impressions. Occasional tongues of smooth rock projected from the scrubby shore and inviting pocket beaches glistened in hidden coves. We all anticipated perfect campsites for the next few days. As we approached our lunch stop in the lee of a rocky island, we noticed a black bear ambling off into the bushes of the mainland shore. We decided then and there to find our perfect campsites on islands. The blueberries were ripe so our departure from our lunchsite was delayed by serious foraging by all 5 of us. I imagined the bear was doing the same on the opposite shore.
The wind picked up and the waves gave us an occasional rush as we accepted a free ride between bouts of aggressive paddling. By 4 p.m. we had travelled 25 kilometres and could now see the elusive end of the lake. It was time to make camp and, sure enough, we found that perfect site on an island with a fine yellow beach. A walk seemed like a good way to work out the kinks in my legs so, while the others set up camp, I set out to explore the perimeter of our home for the night. The latitude of the James Bay area was evident by the vegetation. Thick sphagnum moss blanketed the depressions in the rocky shore. Hardy shrubs competed with the moss where roots could take hold. The shrubs became an impassable tangle just a few feet inland. Under the foot of an uprooted spruce I found an old axe head. It had been hand-forged and lay in a rocky pocket as if it had been hidden with great care. How old it was, I could only guess but it served to remind me that others had travelled here long before kevlar had replaced birch bark – when buckskin served as Gore-Tex.
Back at camp, Bill was fishing and soon caught a sizeable pike. This created a stir of activity and we hauled out various makeshift fishing paraphernalia to try our luck. By suppertime our total catch remained at one. Bill was kind enough to share his catch with the less skilled. By evening a cold wind had developed from the northwest, but Ron had set up a fire in the grove of twisted birch and we chatted in comfort while getting to know each other better. It turned out that our two American companions were as different as chalk and cheese. Frank is a wise and cautious wilderness traveller who spared no effort to hang his food and keep his gear in perfect order. Bill on the other hand, subscribed to the GLSKA method of throwing everything into the bulkheads for the night. Frank was quiet and observant, as Bill entertained us with stories of past adventures of his un-politically-correct days of hunting and fishing. Frank seemed to eat only seeds and berries but was as strong as the carnivores in our group. He blew me away with his confession that he was in his mid sixties. Bill and Frank share a consuming interest in wilderness travel and think nothing of driving 1000 miles at a moment’s notice to explore new destinations.
Ron and Sam love to paddle long and hard. They talk about hull-shapes and widths and the merits of different manufacturers. Their paddles weigh less than my pogies, and their sleek 22" boats are barely visible under their powerful arms when viewed from my usual 100 yards behind them. I’m always a little embarrassed by my Boreal Saguenay. It can carry my camp-chair and cooler but looks like a bathtub beside Sam’s sleek Seda and Ron’s low-volume Ellesmere.
The next morning the sun came out and we pointed our craft in a new direction, south and up the Waswanipi River. At first the river did its best to stop our upstream progress. It hissed and churned all around us. Menacing holes opened up in the vortex of whirlpools, threatening to suck our little boats to the bottom. At one point we were forced to land and line along the shoreline that consisted entirely of huge black slabs of rock turned sharp-side up. My earlier worries of capsizing in a whirlpool were replaced by the real fear of breaking my legs. Once we were through this barrier, the river gave up and let us pass with ease. The sun beat down on us and we moved up the meandering stream as lazily as the osprey above. Lunch was on a mud bank covered with fresh bear tracks. It was now hot enough to swim and since I needed a bath, I took the plunge. Opening my eyes underwater served no purpose. Three feet under and all light was shut out by the tannin-stained water.
Back in the cockpit, our ears began to pick up the sound of rushing water and before long we were faced with a 15 m cascade that took us all by surprise. The topo map indicated only a 7 m rise between Lac Matagami and Lac Groeland. How can this sizeable river be so poorly mapped? We expected a chute but not this thundering fall. A thorough search for a portage turned up an overgrown trail that snaked up a steep hill. A rusty cable and drum system was discovered in the undergrowth. This was the first clue that maybe we were not meant to go any further. Even the hardy souls from an earlier time had to winch their possessions up this portage from hell. Ron, Sam, and myself decided to climb this faint track to Lac Olga and it soon became obvious that no one had passed this way for decades. When we regrouped below the falls, we held a pow-wow. After much discussion we decided to turn back like sensible sea-kayakers. We prefer the sting of spray on our faces to the sting of mosquitoes.
It was getting late but the sun still beat mercilessly on our tired bodies. We were determined to return to Lac Matagami rather than spend the night on this river of our defeat. The current helped us now as we swept through the hard-won eddies. After just over an hour we were back at the place of sharp black rocks. The current gripped us as we approached the angry swift. The shore became a blur as I concentrated on keeping the boat facing downriver. The gurgling holes that had intimidated me on the way up were now more easily mastered with the advantage of momentum. Suddenly all was quiet again and we settled into the familiar rhythm of lake-travel. We headed steadily north in search of another perfect beach, and at the far northeast end of Lac Matagami, we found it. It had been a long day – 10 hours in the hot sun and we were no farther than where we were the day before. But this campsite was ideal. Fine white sand to sleep on and smooth gray rocks for lounging. As the sun went down in the west, a full moon rose in the east, creating a silvery path across the water. Over the evening campfire Sam suggested we return to our trucks the next day and abandon the Matagami area. He had a new lake in mind – an even bigger lake that he had never seen.
In the morning a cold wind blew from the west directly against the direction of our return. Bill left a half-hour earlier than the rest of us. He felt he could use the extra time to slow his pace and spare his shoulder, which had given him trouble the previous day. We agreed to meet on a small island 8 kilometres to the west. The oncoming waves broke over my bow and within a half-hour I was wet and cold. I found myself falling farther and farther behind. I could not muster the strength to go any faster. Something was wrong. As my bow rose over a particularly high wave, I felt water swirling around my butt and I identified the problem. My cockpit was filling with water. This was the result of a failed seal in my latest kayak innovation. I had drilled a 1" hole in my deck to accommodate a siphon tube, which was attached to a standard bailing pump. The pump was mounted to the deck in front of me and I could use it with one hand. Pretty handy – but now I was sinking because of it. All was not lost. My one-handed pump system worked great so I was able to pump out without removing my spray-skirt. Once emptied the boat sprang forward again and the gap closed between us. After we met up with Bill in the lee of his island, a quick duct-tape repair job solved the problem. Here I received a valuable tip from Ron; to keep the water from washing over the deck, point the bow slightly angled to the waves. I now stayed drier in the headwind. After 24 kilometres we decided we had had enough. Just as the sun broke out we discovered a protected beach where 2 ice-huts had been pulled up on shore waiting for winter.
We had noticed other huts on the lake and judging by the construction, the Matagamians take their ice-fishing seriously. These structures were more like little cottages on skids, with real windows and aluminum siding. While we examined the huts someone prophetically mentioned they might be useful shelter in severe weather. (More of that later.) First we enjoyed a really pleasant afternoon in the sun. We fished and hiked, washed and did laundry. We had a leisurely supper and suddenly the setting sun was extinguished by thick black clouds. Undaunted, Ron made a fire anyway, while the first fat drops fell and the lightening increased in frequency. Then all hell broke loose. The roaring wind flattened the trees and heavy rain turned the water white with its intensity. Ron, Frank and I took shelter in the unlocked fishing hut and watched a perfect storm through its little window. There was smoke on the water and fire in the sky. Bill and Sam rode it out in their bombproof tents. Half an hour later it was all over, but now it was cold, so we retired early.
The evening thunderstorm was the forerunner of a cold front and breakfast on our beach was a wet and windy affair. We packed up quickly and launched into the wind, hoping that the exercise would warm us up. We had only 18 kilometres to go, but it was that hardest 18 kilometre of my paddling career. The wind gusted and the cold rain stung our faces like sleet. By lunchtime we had 4 hours of hard work behind us but still had 7 kilometres to go. The wind increased and Bill and I fell behind. At the last headland, before turning south to the Bell River, the others were out of sight. The two of us needed a break so we pulled into a little cove, fully aware that the others would wonder where we were. We decided to walk along the rocky shore so we could signal them and let them know we were okay. Presently we spotted them paddling back to find us. They now had a full side wind and the waves against the headland made it dangerous for them to land. But somehow they managed a bumpy exit because in their minds we were in trouble. They had not noticed our little cove and thought we were walking because we had capsized.
We soon had everything sorted out, and Bill and I walked back to our boats to tackle the last of the waves. Very slowly and with every ounce of our remaining strength we rounded the point and steered south. The wind was now from the side and we made better progress. Within 20 minutes we were in the shelter of the mouth of the river. The lake had one last surprise for us. Just as I was relaxing in the sheltered water, I heard a shout beside me and noticed Bill riding a high pillow of a wave that had somehow found its way up the river. He shot past me with a look of total amazement and then I too was lifted by this unexpected parting gift from Lac Matagami.
Sam was right. It was a big lake out there, but now we’ve seen it. Tomorrow we will be on an even bigger lake that we have never seen.
PART 2: THE KIPAWA CRUISE
By 4:00 p.m. we had loaded our wet gear into 2 trucks and were on our way to a new destination. The heat vents in our vehicle provided the first physical comfort since we emerged from our soaking tents this morning. We drove south through the 200 kilometres of stunted spruce and sandy road cuts. By 6:00 p.m. we arrived in Amos and checked into a hotel. The sun had finally reappeared so we draped our tents and paddling clothes across the kayaks on top of the trucks. Our vehicles, festooned with colourful wet nylon, caused more than one passing car to slow down while the driver tried to make sense of a pile of rags in front of the motel. Two hours later, showered and changed, we felt human enough to think about food. We found a good Italian restaurant and talked about our next destination while loading up on pasta.
Two hundred kilometres farther south, parallel to the Ottawa River, lies the complex maze of water known as Lake Kipawa. It covers 300 square kilometres and has over 2000 kilometres of shoreline. The village of Laniel, halfway between Villemarie and Temiscaming, was our access point. We arrived here in bright sunshine the following morning. The friendly proprietor at the general store provided us with maps and enough verbal information to give us a sense of what to expect and where to camp.
The word "Kipawa" means "closed off waters" in Algonquin and after the open water of Matagami, we looked forward to the shelter of the countless bays and islands. We launched from the village park and within 2 kilometres, all signs of civilization disappeared and the true character of the lake unfolded. The dense spruce extended right to the waters edge and their trailing roots snaked their way down rocky ledges to drink from the lake itself. Every inch of land was claimed by some form of boreal vegetation. These protected shores were never scoured by storm waves and there was no evidence of possible campsites. Fortunately, our friend from the general store had marked his own personal favourite fish camp on our map and that was now our destination.
This was truly flat-water paddling. In the sheltered bays the mirror image of the green shores shimmered and danced in the sunshine. Loons called as we passed from one quiet inlet to another. Before long we had lost ourselves amongst the green islands and had to do some serious map and compass work to stay on course. No development marred these shores and traffic was limited to the occasional fishing boat in the distance. Far from urban areas, the cottage culture had not taken hold here and the country had the feel of an undisturbed wilderness. Our map indicated a half dozen hunting and fishing lodges hidden in the narrow bays but they seemed to have little impact on the solitude.
After a few hours of easy paddling, Sam discovered the island that was to be our home for the next 2 days. A primitive dock was the only indicator that camping was possible here. From the water the island looked as steep and overgrown as all the others. We landed and climbed the bank, barely hoping for enough open space for our tents. We got much more than we expected. The island had a flat top and not only was there enough space for our 5 tents, there was also a well used fire ring with 2 grills and a fully equipped outdoor kitchen. A plywood shelf held frying pans and underneath it was neatly stacked firewood. This "improved" campsite would be considered an eyesore on Georgian Bay but here in this isolated part of Quebec it made perfect sense.
We whiled away the afternoon in the sun and prepared our evening meal in unaccustomed leisure. Frank soaked his usual seeds and beans in boiling water while Ron prepared his 5-course Freddy-Chef paper bag army rations. The rest of us cooked pasta and rice like civilized kayakers and washed it down with Sam’s beer. After supper Ron and I set out on a quick paddle to Baie du Canal, a deep and narrow cut in the Precambrian rock. We arrived just as the evening light set the cliffs on fire. We drifted through the gap while taking the best pictures of the trip.
The next day we leisurely explored the far reaches of this bay and met a group of canoeing ladies who had spent 9 days on this lake and were still not bored. Their canoes seemed more appropriate to this lake but the speed of our kayaks suited the "see-it and go on to the next destination" mentality of our group. At the far end of the bay Sam displayed his exploratory instincts and left his kayak to search for portage links to other bays. I suspect his real purpose was to find blueberries. He never passed a patch without stripping it clean and I even caught him picking overhanging berries from his kayak.
By 3:00 we are back at our camp just in time for another spectacular thunderstorm that threatened to flatten our tents. Frank had to wait out the storm without shelter. His tent was pitched with the door to the wind and any attempt to get inside would have flooded his gear. He chose to shiver in his t-shirt rather than risk a wet sleeping bag. This man has discipline.
The following morning we were homeward-bound in a headwind and were reminded of Lake Matagami, but here, with no fetch, the wind could not raise a wave worthy of a kayaker. We made a race of it and covered the 12 kilometres in 2 hours, and our 7 days paddling in Quebec were over. We had experienced 2 big lakes that we had never seen, and we will surely continue our quest for new destinations in other summers. So much water – so little time.
KILLARNEY TO HARTLEY BAY
Daniel K. Jenkins
Well this is a first for me so don’t be too hard on me. I feel like I’m in grade school and doing a "What I did on my summer vacation" report. Having only been on a few day trips, the Rendezvous and one extended trip with one other member it was with great anticipation and some reluctance that I signed up for this trip.
Day 1
I had talked to Hart the day before to arrange a shuttle and met him and Bob Graham at the Hartley Bay marina. We left our vehicles and loaded all into Bob’s truck (it’s amazing how 3 people can fill the back of a pickup with gear) and we were on our way. Once at Chikanishing River put-in in Killarney Park there was a flurry of activity of people getting boats ready and meeting the members of the trip. By noon we were on the water and starting our trip.
Once we rounded the eastern tip of Philip Edward Island and headed into the prevailing winds, thoughts of work, did I leave the coffee maker on and such, quickly faded into nothingness and the water, rock and trees filled our senses with never ending beauty. Making our way down the coast to the Foxes, we stopped for lunch on a great flat rock in a secluded bay. We spent the time eating and getting to know fellow trippers/members better. After lunch we had to do one of our larger crossings (about 5 km). There were easy waves and a nice breeze to keep you cool. When we got to the west side of the Big Rock Portage we were able to take some sheltered channels and see some of the rock formations up close. We made our way around the point and camped on a huge flat rock site on the east side of the portage. It was not long before the tents were up and supper was on and we had quite a social evening getting to know more and more of what each other had done and wanted to do. Greg, the "Trip Photographer," was snapping pictures and it was not long before the evening came to a close with a nice sunset, quiet time and off to bed.
Day 2
We were up early and the action around camp was in full force by 7 a.m. – breakfast cooking, coffee on and tents coming down. Rumour has it that Hart was up before everyone and had a swim. Bob found what at first was thought to be the largest arrowhead I had ever seen, but when a second one was found we decided that they were the tips from an old anchor. It was added to Hart’s "Rusty things I’ve found" collection. John gave us a weather check and all was ok. By 9 we were all on the water in the prevailing tailwinds. I was put in charge of navigating since I had been in area a few weeks before and knew all the dry channels and passageways. We made our way down through the channels of the Chicken Islands and stopped at a great hidden beach for lunch. Bob had found some turtle tracks but it must have scurried off when it heard us coming. We had a nice break and were back on the water in a decent time. We had our next crossing ahead of us now – about 6 km. After a bit I thought land was getting farther away or someone had grabbed hold of my boat and I was dragging him or her across. We made camp near Eagles Nest Point on Green Island. I got all set up and lay down for an hour, then got up and made my supper. I learned some of the finer points about Menu Planning and Packing Light from Wayne. We had our usual evening social and photo shoot and then off to bed for the night. The night brought in a windstorm that kept the better part of the group up most of the night.
Day 3
I was first up so made as little noise as possible. Soon, all started to emerge with their stories of how the wind kept them up and how their tents almost collapsed. Hart had his swim and attracted a few onlookers to see how it was. Sam decided to do a bit of solo practice and paddled back to Killarney. He set off about 8 and within minutes was around the point and out of sight. The sky was overcast and we had our first bit of Liquid Sunshine for a few seconds before putting on the water in the Prevailing Tailwinds. The day took us through many channels and passageways that included a few bumps and scrapes as well. Along the Fingerboards I saw what I thought was a stick in the water. Once close enough, I was able to see the diamonds on its back and realized it was a Massassauga Rattler. Best to leave it alone John and I thought, so off we paddled. We arrived at our site on the west side of Sand Bay and set up camp and had lunch. The plan was to rest and then do a paddle out to the Bustard Islands. At 2:30 Hart said he was resting for an hour and then would set off to the Bustards. I lay down and awoke at 6; I must have needed the rest. Ray and I spent some time talking navigation and at about 7 the paddlers arrived back from their excursion. Soon after, we had some champagne and beer to celebrate the near closing of the trip. The evening was over far too fast and we were off for our last night’s sleep.
Day 4
I was up at the usual 6 and the rest soon followed. Hart had a few followers for the morning swim, maybe not too eager but followers nonetheless. All I know is that Georgian Bay at 7 a.m. can’t be that warm. We were all fed and packed and ready for the last day of paddling, or would it be? The wind was out of the SSE, which made it look like a decent day to finally try out the umbrella sail I had carried the whole trip. We were on the water at the usual time and a short paddle brought us to the French River Main Outlet. We turned the corner and, "presto," tailwind. I set sail and in no time was well ahead of the group. I sailed up the channel and near Loading Cove could see some remnants (foundations and boilers) of the old town of French River. We came to a fishing camp and asked if it was ok to come in for a coffee. They obliged and we had a fresh brewed coffee and spent some time looking at artifacts and pictures from the old town and area.
On the river again, we came to Dalles Rapids. A quick carry over (4 to a boat) and we were on our way. We had about a 4 km paddle to the east past Tramway Point. There we saw remnants of some sort of steam-driven cable "tugger" or something to do with the tramway possibly, half under water. I have since found out that they were from an Alligator Boat, which was capable of pulling itself over a portage. We turned north up the Main Channel again and stopped for lunch in a very secluded cove. After a short break we were on our way and I set sail again. I turned on my GPS and was able to track a speed of 8 km/h. I was impressed until my umbrella turned inside out. It took a bit to get it back, but soon I was able to and was off again. This happened about 5-10 times throughout the day and I realized that the string I had seen on someone’s umbrella on another trip would make the difference. I was still able to keep up to everyone, even though I hardly used the umbrella and held it into the wind rather than have to fight to turn it right side out all the time. I was able to sail the whole channel to the north and at one point passed a moose carcass on an island. I could only hope that age befell this great beast.
Finally, having put the sail away after a total of about 13 km of sailing, I paddled the last 3-4 km to the take-out. With each turn in the river, knowing the end was that much closer, my thoughts turned to two things: I knew I would come back and see this area again and I was 80% sure I had turned off the coffee maker. After the shuttle back to Killarney and some good-byes to some really great people, I made my way back home to make sure I got it all into my log for future memories and add string to my umbrella sail. All in all, it was a great trip. I would like to thank the organizer Hart Haessler from his faithful followers Sam Wyss, Bob Graham, Greg Jorstad, Wayne Fuchs, Ray Walker, John Cross and myself.
RENDEZVOUS 2001
Donna Griffin-Smith
Rendezvous returned to Byng Inlet this year, when more than 60 paddlers gathered at the Georgian Cottages campground on the weekend of June 23-24. Many arrived on Friday evening and hubbub prevailed as old friends caught up on the events of the past winter and new members were introduced. Kayaks were carried to the beach and tents sites were located. Reports that the local bear had been spotted just beyond the trees may have influenced some choices. This was one time when a large group camp was an advantage. In spite of the infamous Britt mosquitoes a campfire was started and Rendezvous was off to a great start.
Saturday morning got off to an early start with greetings from our president, Bill Lanning followed by workshops on various topics. Glen Davy shared his extensive knowledge of weather and navigation; Linda Ball was the Chef du Jour of camp cuisine; Bill Lanning let us in on some tricks of the trade for better kayaking photos, and Elke Greunwald and Wolf Kushke showed us some of their favourite kayaking gadgets and how to load all that gear into the hatches. Donna Griffin-Smith helped kids and adults create watercolour scenes on the rocks overlooking the inlet.
After lunch Jack Elliot entertained us with a humorous and somewhat irreverent look at self-rescue systems. One by one, he shot holes in each type of rescue – rolls, paddle floats, and other devices were soon seen as unreliable methods, particularly when demonstrated on dry land. Then he proceeded to charm us into placing our faith in sponsons. First he unraveled the mystery of how to attach them while swimming beside your boat, followed by an on (and in) water demo. Whether or not you were convinced to add a pair of sponsons to your ever-growing pile of kayak gear, we all admired Jack’s agility in climbing aboard his kayak. Thanks for the great presentation Jack.
By mid-afternoon all boats were on the water. Ron Coulson led a session for those interested in learning paddling strokes, bracing and rescues. Others paddled out in pairs and small groups to explore the nearby islands. For me it was enough to paddle out to the McNab Rocks and sit and enjoy the bright sunshine and afternoon breeze until it was time for supper.
The potluck chefs outdid themselves again this year. Hot stuff, cold stuff and dessert stuff. I tried them all! I think that next year, everyone who brings a dish should also bring the recipe. We could publish a cookbook.
After supper, some drove to the high school in Britt for a bug-free slide show on West Coast Kayaking Destinations presented by Donna Griffin-Smith and Don Smith. An evening campfire (definitely not bug-free) followed, and a few were lucky (?) to meet the bear out for his evening inspection of the campground. Six paddlers joined Sandy Richardson for his annual night paddle. I heard later that there were reports of a strange, glowing yellowish orange coloured UFO seen on the inlet that night. I wonder if Sandy saw it too?
Sunday morning, Bob Knapp organized an orienteering contest, and several informal groups formed for paddling. Some went to the north towards the Cunninghams and Black Bay, others paddled out to the lighthouse and southward. The group I paddled with enjoyed the latter, and as usual, I went too far and too long for my first outing of the season. But I had fun.
Rendezvous 2001 was the best! Thanks Linda Ball and Glen Wright for organizing a great weekend.
CAPE CHIN TO LION’S HEAD
We launch our precious vessels
Each a distinct lovely sculpture
Like Oriental vases crafted as kayaks
We are a motley crew of gender and origin
United in the pursuit of joy and peace in paddling
Belgian, Canadian, American and Brit
A flotilla in search of the perfect day
On the right the unfolding vista of pulsating greens and blues of
shoreline water against the dolomite cobbles and splendid cliffs
On the left the intimidation of nothing … but the timeless sea and the horizon
A scene fit for Robinson Crusoe?
We float along like bugs in pistachio shells
On water filled with memories of tribal war parties, voyageurs, schooners and steamers
And now our fibreglass and kevlar "schooners" carrying cargo of escape
fantasies?
Feeling like grand potentates trying to hold on to nature’s
perfection
Paddling solo then chatting with others: for a moment I think it is a kayaker cocktail
party
Then the rhythm of paddling and the roll of the sea brings me back to me
We stop for lunch at a headland
Pull our precious vessels carefully up on the rocky shore
Spread ourselves out on the white cobbles and assorted boulders
Nearby we gaze in amazement at water-smoothed gigantic boulders of sublime shapes
Like Henry Moore sculptures without the holes
I climb up one which had a natural seat sculpted just for me
I look out at my vast domain and silently declare myself King
King shit, headman, chief, Master of the realm
My minions cheer in indecipherable wave language
But I know what they were saying, "We love you, come back in, we just want to touch
you"
So I do
Back on the water the west wind comes up
Funneled against Lion’s Head
Though still feeling confident and strong as a beginning sea kayaker I admit to feeling
like a bug in a pistachio shell
Then, signal of journey’s end
We reach the Lion’s Head escarpment
Where calls ring out from the cliffs
Rock climbers like spiders suspended by threads are shouting back and forth in their own
search for the perfect day
Provide a frame for this perfect paddling day
Dennis Niedbala, 22 Aug 01
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