EGL Fall Hang 2017 - "Algonquin's Dividing to Parkside Jaunt"

[Bluknu]

I can't wait to find out what happens to this ggreaves guy next.

Me too. Did he make it out alive? you be funny

I was really sorry to miss this trip. Well maybe not the portaging part of it. Sounds brutal. I did that big one in and out between Ragged and Big Porcupine once. Not really planning to do that one again anytime soon.

[infrastellar]

I would like to make such trip, saw this area here several times, very beautiful environment. Load the canoe and roam the waters for several days. It means to live.

[KeeWayKeno]

Jeez, this is almost as exciting as being there! (Even though part of this saga sees me emulating Gilligan.)

Sent from my SM-T713 using Tapatalk

[Chard]

Jeez, this is almost as exciting as being there! (Even though part of this saga sees me emulating Gilligan.)Sent from my SM-T713 using Tapatalk

Lol! Would'a been more exciting if you'd been washed ashore with Mary Ann! Alas... Great pic though!

Typing, typing...

[Bubba]

Lol! Would'a been more exciting if you'd been washed ashore with Mary Ann! Alas... Great pic though!

Typing, typing...

Yeah I always preferred Mary Ann to Ginger myself.

[Chard]

Sorry for the delay, I had to cut it down.

Part 3 Huntsville to Parkside Bay

By nine the next morning I was o the water and making good time west along the northern shore of Ragged, pondering the errands of the day. The fellows certainly had enough dried provisions squirreled away in their cache to see them through the next three and a half days, but amongst their nuts, oatmeal and beef jerky was a notable absence of items that sizzled, seared and smoked. What would an EGL hang be without some form of meat roasted over an open fire? To make matters worse, there was an empty whisky flask that desperately needed refilling and I had been assigned the role of Grand Mariner (Whisky Replenishment Division). A sorry state of affairs, I have to say.

An abrupt bump brought me back from my daydreaming; I love cruising close to shore and occasionally a submerged rock reaches up to grab me. Just ahead the shoreline turned sharply to the right where Ragged forms a long narrow bay that led to the portage. Although it was early, the bay was already whipped up by a strong north wind and the paddling became markedly tougher. If the wind was this strong here, Smoke Lake was sure to be worse.

I carried my canoe out to the small, sheltered bay at the end of the Ragged/Smoke portage and there was a noticeable breeze blowing through the trees and although the waves on the water were little more than ripples, out on the main lake things were a noticeably rougher. The last few metres of the trail narrows into a well worn gulch and with my eyes more up than down, a misplaced step on one of the slick rocks brought me down with a jolt and I heard a sickening crack as the wooden inwale by my yoke gave way. Inspected the damage I saw a long split a few inches from the yoke where a prior accident must have weakened the wood. I'd simply have to add some wood-glue and a c-clamp to my shopping list, but the repairs would have to wait until Parkside Bay.

With a grumbled curse I paddled out of the bay and onto Smoke Lake proper. As I've mentioned before, I'm a strong believer of using kayak paddles with a canoe. For years I had been a purist, spurning the double blades for a traditional canoe paddle, even if it meant getting windbound from time to time. Even now, there's nothing better than the feel of a wooden paddle turning in my hands as I gently carve through the water, but when it comes to tripping where wind and big water can stop a traditional paddler dead, kayak paddles and a well trimmed canoe are hands down the way to go. With very little need for corrective strokes, almost all of one's effort is channeled into forward motion and it's possible to punch into the strongest headwinds. That morning was a case in point; a strong north wind had blown up a moderate swell on Smoke and making any forward progress was a matter of pushing my heavy pack forward and digging in.

Almost as soon as I left the bay and rounded the first point I noticed the alternating flash of a kayak paddle heading towards me from the north. I chuckled when I eventually saw a heavily loaded kayak and LuvMyBonnet's big grin! Bobbing in the swell, we didn't talk long, but I told him to expect Keewaykeno within the hour back at the portage. His kayak was great on the water, but was not particularly well suited to the portage and Keewaykeno had offered to help him with it. Quite a fellow.

We parted ways and I was heading north again. I passed a couple of canoes close at hand and saw four young men laughing as they were being blown down the lake. A little later I saw what looked like a large school group of nine or ten canoes working their way slowly down the western shore in a long line. I eventually pulled in for a rest in the lee of Molly Island, named in honour of Molly Cox Colson, a fascinating lady, a veritable Jane-of-all-trades, who lived in the Park from the early 1900's until her death in 1945 (I recommend reading her short bio at http://www.algonquinparkheritage.com/profiles.php?ID=2).

After a drink and a handful of trail mix, I pushed out into Smoke's northern bay, the access point clearly in sight below the hills where trucks and cars could be seen moving back and forth along Highway 60. Beyond that hill lay Canoe Lake and the Portage Store. Subdued dark oranges, browns and ark greens coloured the forest all around.

A few canoes were angling in towards the parking lot from the east where the Little Island Lake portage enters Smoke. Little Island, the first lake I ever camped at in Algonquin. It was on that trip long ago that we had the pleasure of meeting up with a young guitar-playing guide who was leading a group of Germans on a weekend trip. After his clients had all been tucked away in their sleeping bags for the night, he paddled over to our camp, guitar in hand, and we partied late into the night. Profound hangovers were had by all the next morning.

Back on Smoke, I pulled up to the docks and saw a couple of small but excited groups of college kids huddled around their trip leaders getting what must have been their orientation talk. Although it's been thirty five odd years since that weekend on Little Island, I can still remember how exciting and overwhelming it all seemed. The adventure of it all. Looking at those kids I felt those years and all of those countless trips weigh heavily on me but I was heartened to see the love of canoeing being passed on to a new generation.

With the canoe back on the car, I took a moment to check my phone and saw that I had some new calls and text messages from Ggreaves. My first thought was "Hey, at least he was alive!". I tried to return his call but didn't get an answer, so soon Lipstick and I were speeding down Highway 60 towards Huntsville. On the way I stopped at Henrietta’s Pine Bakery to pick up some lunch but unfortunately I had arrived too late. While there were delicious looking pies and cakes in abundance, gone were all of her famous sandwiches.

Driving into Huntsville, my first chore would be to find a laundromat. It'd be nice to have clean clothes again after a few days of sweaty portaging. With my clothes soaking in the washer I used the next thirty minutes to race to the grocery store to buy supplies for the guys as well as the ingredients for the chowder. Racing back, I transferred my clothes the dryer and used the next thirty minutes to dash over to Canadian Tire and the liquor store, which, in Huntsville, are very sensibly located across the parking lot from each other.

I was just getting to return to the laundromat when I was finally able to get through to Ggreaves who was driving around Huntsville taking in the sites. Fortunately he was just passing Algonquin Outfitters' Huntsville store which was literally around the corner from the laundromat and in a couple of minutes we were shaking hands. I threw my now clean clothes into the car we went to get lunch. Given the choice, I would have preferred to stop by "The Family Restaurant" for one of Huntsville’s best breakfasts, but it was getting late and I didn't think that I had time for a proper meal. In the end, Ggreaves and I swung into the local McDonald's and had a nice lunch.

Of course the conversation quickly turned to what had happened on Monday. Explaining it as he did, it made perfect sense not to have pushed on to Dividing the first day. Looking at maps and measuring portages at home are one thing, but the pace we were going wasn't something he was keen on or prepared for. Rationalizing that he didn't want to slow down the group or impact our plans, he felt that just doing some solo camping made more sense for him. After having survived the Little Coon/Dividing portage, I can't say I fault his decision.

After leaving us he paddled back up to spend a quiet night on Big Porcupine, then another on Ragged before making his way out to the access point and a hotel in Huntsville Wednesday evening. His plan was to meet up with his friend Steve, where they'd overnight again in Huntsville and then paddle to Parkside Bay bright and early Friday morning. I told him how the rest of us had reached pretty much the same conclusion and had cut our own trip down. Alas, Louisa would have to wait.

With an eye ever on the time, I quickly finished lunch and excused myself. I told Ggreaves that I looked forward to his company on the weekend, and was off.

Back on Smoke I took a few minutes to pack away my clean clothes and groceries, decant the bottle of liquor into a plastic flask and load up my canoe once again. It was getting late and the sun was getting low. Stretching out my arm, the sun was only two hand spans above the horizon meaning I had little more than two hours before sunset at around 7pm. Not that I was worried, I rather enjoyed paddling in the dark. My only concern was navigating the maze of narrow channels that marked the entrance to Parkside Bay. In the dark, it wouldn't be difficult to get turned around.

Fortunately the same morning's headwinds I had battled up the lake now all but blew me back to the portage in record time. Although easier on the arms, I had more than my share of excitement contending with the large following waves. Always keeping my eye on the seas behind me, it was still a bit unnerving to be unexpectedly lifted by a large roller and feel the canoe ever trying to turn broadside. For safety's sake I stayed fairly close to the east shore, but not so close as to be buffeted by the waves reflecting off of the shore. When those big waves start combining with those reflected off of the shoreline, the water can become chaotic and sometimes downright dangerous. I much prefer to take to the "clean" waves some fifty to a hundred yards offshore.

I double carried up and over the Smoke/Ragged portage and I was back on the water paddling hard for Parkside with little more than an hour before sunset. With its many bays tucked between dark, pine covered hills, the western reaches of Ragged are actually quite a majestic. I passed through the narrows between Ragged Lake and the West Bay and followed the north shore until I came to the weathered graveyard of a long drowned forest.

It occurred to me then that it had been over a quarter of a century since I had last paddled here, when a group of friends and I decided to take a break from our university studies to meet up with my old canoeing buddies and take a paddle in the Park. It seemed like only yesterday that the six of us drove in from Ottawa one foggy, miserable morning. We planned to meet my two canoeing buddies at the time, John and Dave meet by the first small island on Ragged and paddle down to Crown Bay together. As we paddled up to the island in the gloom, there was no sign of the boys and after waiting around for a while we decided to split up; my partner transferred to one of the other canoes, I took the displaced gear and they'd go ahead and find a site. Crossed paddles would be our sign. After watching them disappear into the gloom, I spent the next hour or so paddling slowly around the area simply enjoying the quiet and solitude of a morning in Algonquin, the corner of the bright orange tarp covering my gear dragging in the water.

As I was turning back towards the small island the outline of a canoe suddenly emerged out of the fog. At once I recognized the easy yet powerful way the bowman dug into the water and I knew that my pals had arrived. To this day that scene of my friends coming out of the fog is my quintessential canoeing moment. Anyways, we paddled down towards West Bay, past the aforementioned graveyard and found the rest of our group camped at the northwestern edge of Crown Bay. At breakfast the next morning my friends from Ottawa, rookies all, turned to me and held up a spatula dripping in a pasty goop, complaining that their pancakes were not solidifying properly. It didn't take long to explain that adding boiling water to pancake mix was their mistake; in their zeal for water purification they had basically cooked the batter in the bowl. And one of the was a PhD candidate! Later that day, as I was paddling alone through the twisting maze of Crown bay itself, I came across a family of otters frolicking in one of the side channels. It was the first and only time I've seen otters in the park and I watched them with wonderful for upwards of half an hour. It's funny, I've always been so intent on making miles or catching fish that cruise past little gems like Crown Bay. Now, as often as not, I reach for a camera instead of a fishing pole and use it's lens to slow down the world and focus on the details. In so doing I take the time to explore and in so doing often find a deeper appreciation of each moment.

Shaking off the ghosts the past I pressed on, directly through the field of dead heads and fallen logs. In the failing light the area was actually a little creepy and I found myself checking over my shoulder now and again to assure myself that no skeletal arms were reaching for me.

I paddled close to the northern shore, keeping tabs on my location using the traditional Algonquin method of counting campsites; three on the right, cross the channel and then turn left at the next campsite on the left where I'd turn west towards Parkside. Along the way I passed a family going quietly about the business of setting up on their steep campsite, their campfire sending up a thin column of grey-blue smoke.

The sun was just hovering above the horizon and the sky behind be was darkening quickly as I paddled out into Parkside Bay at last. I turned north and within a few minutes saw Gilbert, Keewaykeno and Quiet up around the campsite. I was also happy to see that LuvmyBonnet had managed to join up with them, not that I had any doubts, but you never know. I laughed off some good natured ribbing about how they had all but given up on for the night, assuming instead that I had checked into a hotel room in Huntsville overnight where they figured I'd be watching Netflix or something. I wasn't sorry to disappoint them.

Across the lake the sunset was starting to really get some colour, so before even setting up my hammock, I grabbed my camera and went over to take some pictures. Absolutely lovely! Like a boreal Santa I passed out the various items I had picked up in Huntsville. Owing to the cold weather coming in that weekend, Jiblets had asked me to pick him up a toque (I'd entreat our American friends to look it up), so while in Canadian Tire I looked over their limited hunting section and found one stood; literally. Last fall while scouting out a location for our upcoming winter hang on Niger Lake just west of Algonquin, I donned a brand new, obnoxiously bright, blaze-orange baseball cap; it was the middle of hunting season and it seemed like a sensible precaution. The problem was that I only had one hat and Jiblets razzed me for it. Well better late than never; Jiblets spent the rest of our weekend on Parkside perfectly safe from hunters sporting his own oh-so-visible bright, blaze orange toque.

We roasted the sausages I had brought in over the fire and enjoyed a very nice evening before finally heading off to bed. Owing to age and the absurdly long time it took me to finish this trip report, I'm going to try to recount some the events that stuck out for me. I hope that I have them in some semblance of order.

Living as I do under the glowing night sky of Toronto I had been looking forward to getting out into Algonquin not only for the canoeing but to experiment with a little astrophotography. I wasn't after anything terribly ambitious, just a simple image of the Milky Way, low on the horizon with a dark Algonquin lake in the foreground. Around 5 am Friday morning I reluctantly crawled out of my warm hammock, slipped on my shoes and wandered down to the fire pit. Looking up I was disappointed to see an overcast sky with only a small patch of stars above the island to the south. On the other hand, Parkside Bay was blanketed in a heavy fog. I fetched my camera and tripod, settled into my camp-chair and waited for the off chance that the sky would clear. And waited. And waited. Eventually a faint glow began to warm the eastern sky and I watched as the lake slowly came to life. The fog thinned enough for the far shore to gradually come into sight. Rolling out of the west channel banks of mist passed on behind the island. The only thing better would have been a hot cup of tea, but I think that even the commonplace act of snapping twigs for my Bushbuddy wood stove would have broken the spell; definitely an alcohol stove moment. Although I never did manage to get that shot of the Milky Way, it was a wonderful way to start a day.

The sun hadn't been long above the horizon when some of the other gents came down to the fire pit to get their breakfasts underway. It was nice knowing that we had a couple of days layover and nobody felt the need to rush anything.

76 Highboy and his daughter Laura showed up mid-morning paddling their kayaks to shore. Laura must be made of some pretty stern stuff because despite meeting us the year before on Ralph Bice, she still was willing to get out and endure a weekend hang with her dad's strange hammocking buddies Highboy was, as always, full of his usual good cheer. He grumbled a bit about portaging those kayaks and one of these days we might get him into a canoe, but I'm not holding my breath.

Hoolio and Kasuko paddled up as casual as can be as the rain began to come down. Kasuko and I go way back to our first Hammock Forums hang in Bon Echo and it's always great to see him. Hoolio landed and the first thing he asked after walking around the campsite was why we hadn't strung a tarp yet. Clearly our lack of ambition and unpreparedness for the changing weather left him less than impressed. He must have taken pity on we rag-tag bunch of slackers and dropped a massive 20' x 30' tarp onto the ground. We soon had it hauled up over the fire pit a good eight feet above the ground, one end secured to a huge pine by the lake and another on the side of the fire pit by the forest. Unfortunately I bent the carbineer holding Jiblets' gravity filter's out of shape when I used it as a tie off for the tarp's ridgeline. I never claimed to be the sharpest tool in the shed. Anyways, as is always the case, once the tarp was up, the fire pit became a lot more hospitable and most of the group moved under its shelter.

Sometime late Friday morning another tandem canoe was seen heading our way. At first I couldn't make out who it was, what with the Bow bundled up against the weather and the Stern hidden by a wide brimmed hat, but as they got closer I realized, to my great surprise, that it was Tracy and Jayson! Early in the trip planning they'd said that they'd be in the Park on the same weekend, but that they had already booked a trip north of highway 60. Little did we know that they had changed their plans, but I was glad that they had. It felt like a long while since we had been canoeing in Algonquin together.

Over the course of the afternoon several other solo paddlers showed up. Keg and Bubba paddled in separately and made themselves at home and later as I was busying myself around camp I turned around and saw that we had another new arrival, Underserviced, who I had last seen in Valens the winter before. Everybody was settling in, hanging out and having a pretty good time, despite the wind and drizzle. The camp had grown from five to nine and the overflow had move to our second campsite just across the small bay to the south, no more and a hundred yards away.

As I was starting to think about dinner a thought suddenly occurred to me that made chuckle to myself. Let me explain: One of my favorite camp routines is the communal preparation and sharing of a hearty pot of soup. In my pack were all of the ingredients necessary for a delicious clam chowder; cream, baby clams, butter, potatoes, fresh cracked pepper and even crab meat. There was fire and of course an ample supply of water close at hand. The one thing I lacked, the one item that would bring the soup together was my big camp pot!

Knowing that we'd be tripping for the first half of the trip, I had asked Iguana if he could refrigerate the meats I needed for the weekend as well as carry in the pot over the Smoke/Ragged portage. I had to meet up with him in Toronto anyways because he was hoping to borrow my Hennessy hammock and a tarp for one of his group. It seemed like a sensible arrangement at the time, but now, with the rain coming down I was thinking that there was a distinct possibility that Iguana and company might have postponed paddling out that night, perhaps even cancelling the trip altogether. No Iguana meant no pot, and for some reason the idea of preparing several gallons of clam chowder on a grill full of single serving billy cans struck me as quite amusing.

So it was with no small amount of relief that we saw the next two canoes bearing Iguana and three thoroughly chilled ladies; Iguana's wife, his sister and his wife's sister-in-law. All were soaked and some shivering was going on. We got the fire going, got them under the tarp and put the pot on to boil for tea. It was actually the first (maybe last) canoe trip for a couple of them and despite the conditions, they were taking it well.

Now that Iguana had delivered the smoked ham hock I picked up from Toronto's St. Lawrence Market, it was a choice of chowder or French Canadian pea soup. Because the peas had gotten wet in the rain, I opted for the pea soup, pound for pound the simplest and most delicious backcountry soup ever devised. The meat was carved from the bone, chopped into large pieces and dumped, along with a couple chopped onions, into the pot along with dried (slightly damp) split-peas, thyme and of course salt and pepper. Put on a lid, stir occasionally and wait.

As evening was starting to come on, a lone paddler appeared on the lake and started paddling towards us. An uncertain "are you guys the Hammock Forums guys?" drifted across the water. We answered yes and pulled up to the shore. The gentleman was Steve, Ggreaves' friend, and he was bearing not only news of Ggreaves unfortunate absence, but the spare under quilt for one of Iguana's guests. Ggreaves had managed to throw out his back in Huntsville and wouldn't be able to make it in. It was unfortunate because he's a nice chap to have around and was really looking forward to this trip. Nonetheless, Steve fit in well and by the next evening was one of the guys.

The only real challenge of the day had to do with the sleeping arrangements for Iguana's sister. Unfortunately her top quit had gotten wet during the day's rain and to make matters worse, the tarp that I had lent her leaked. I felt terrible. Nonetheless, between borrowing a real tarp, an extra couple of down throws and my insulated jacket we did our best to get her squared away and comfortable.

Saturday dawned with the promise of a beautiful day. The skies had cleared and the sun was shining brightly. After a simple breakfast it was time to hang out my wet clothes and get to work repairing the cracked gunwale on my canoe. I carried Lipstick out into the sun and carefully surveyed the damage. Having replaced one of the gunwales and fiber glassed the hull a couple of years earlier, I wasn't daunted in the least. The inwale had a nice clean split a few inches away from the yoke that should fix up nicely. Easing off the stainless steel screws I applied a healthy dose of waterproof wood glue and clamped it all together with the c-clamp I bought in Huntsville. Heeding the advice of the armchair shipwrights in the group, I didn't apply too much pressure with the clamp, making sure not to squeeze out too much of the glue. In the end, I left the clamp on for the rest of the trip, only taking it off back in the parking lot as I was getting ready for the drive home.

Mainly because of its ease of access, Parkside Bay is a very popular destination in Algonquin. Unfortunately the forest around our campsites was picked fairly clean of firewood. If we wanted a large fire tonight, we'd need to head further back into the woods. So that's just what I did. It's good practice to let someone know roughly where you'll be when you venture away from camp, so after checking out with Keewaykeno, I grabbed my axe and set off along the broad trail that rose up though the pines along the low hill behind camp. I passed hammocks set up on either side and the thunder box that sat off to the side near the top of the hill. Past that point the trail quickly narrowed until I was up over the hill and into the rolling forest behind.

After a little bushwhacking I came across a couple of nice fallen trees, dead but suspended above the ground. I started limbing the top end and eventually carried a long pole and an armful of branches back to camp. I asked for a bit of help to process the tree and turned to head back. Before long almost everyone was busy lending a hand either cutting wood or carrying it back. It was quite a sight. There were a couple of dead standing trees in the area, but they looked a little too large and hazardous to tackle. Jayson found a nice tree a little further back and within an hour or two we had managed to pull back a very respectable amount of firewood, easily enough to keep the fire blazing all night. Once again, a hearty thank-you to all of the team.

Around midday a gentleman paddled up to our site and introduced himself. Going by the name of Selkirk on the Forums, the young fellow hailed from Saskatchewan. A friend of Firesong of A Little Shop of Hammocks fame, he had decided to drop by to join us on his way to the Maritimes. Selkirk was a pleasure to talk to and spent much of his time chatting and carving a sewing needle container. He showed me one he had finished, a carved wooden tube and cap, the details on which were amazing. Very cool.

Saturday had turned into a glorious day and everyone was out and about, lounging in the sun, doing camp chores or paddling out on the water. Two of the ladies accompanying Iguana had gone for a paddle around the bay and both Bubba and Quiet had taken to their canoes and disappeared to different ends of the lake. Quiet showed up a little while later with a nice bass. Up by the fire pit people were sitting around basking in the sun and chatting amongst themselves. I love these EGL hangs because on days like this when there's so much of absolutely nothing going on, there's never a dull moment.

We didn't see much of Iguana & Company on Saturday. Protected by a web of tarps and guy lines that Iguana had spun for them in the rain the day before, all had managed to survive the night without incident. By the time Jayson and I wandered over Saturday morning, their damp clothes and sleeping bags were drying in the sun. As the first canoe trip for a couple of them, they were taking in the camping experience to the fullest, lighting their own fires, cooking their own meals and doing the dozens of camp chores in good cheer. Although they were missed around the campfire, no one begrudged them their fun.

Earlier on, LuvmyBonnet had done a little fishing from shore and must have caught half a dozen small bass in as many casts. There had been a little discussion on whether Parkside Bay held any trout, as often the two species are at odds with each other. True the shoreline we were camping on was fairly shallow, more suited to bass than trout, but Parkside was part of the much larger Ragged Lake system and both Jeff's map and my own experience confirmed that there should definitely be trout in these waters. As if to illustrate the point, a number of canoes had been trolling below the low hills along the western side of the lake. It stood to reason that if there was deep water in Parkside Bay, it would be nestled under those hills and that somewhere deep in the cold murky water would lurk the Mackinaw, the Salvelinus Namaycush, the Algonquin lake trout. There was only one way to find out. I checked on my canoe and found that the glue had set and the gunwale had come together perfectly. A little sanding and a little varnish and it would be as good as new. I tightened the clamp and carried Lipstick down to the water, went back up to get my life jacket, fishing pole, tackle box and camera bag and launched.

The first few weeks after the spring ice-out is my favorite time to go fishing for trout. After a long winter, the lake is uniformly cold from top to bottom and trout range throughout its depths. The winds are able to create currents that reach down and circulate the lake waters and their nutrients from top to bottom, a process known as the spring turnover. I've paddled though sections of lakes undergoing this process and is like paddling through a massive algae bloom. The lake also often takes on a strong, fishy smell. As the season progresses, the surface waters are warmed by the sun and in so doing become a little less dense than the colder water of the depths. As this continues, less and less mixing occurs between the top and bottom layers until, like oil floating on water, they stop mixing altogether. The spring turnover has finished and the result is essentially two distinct lakes, the warmer, top layer that extends down roughly for metres and the colder depths. The boundary between the two, or the thermocline, generally marks the upper limit of trout in the lake. If you want to connect with trout, you have to be below that point. Anyone diving deep into our larger lakes in the summer knows this effect, has been chilled by freezing cold water that waits not too far below the surface. In the autumn the surface water gradually cools until once again the waters are the same temperature and the cycle repeats itself.

As a cold water fish, it's in these depths that our trout thrive and unlike the spring, if you want to have the pleasure of lightly floured trout frying in a pan, you have to fish deep. With that in mind I reached into my little tackle box and pulled out my trusty gold/orange quarter ounce Cleo, a heavy spoon that has been deadly in the Park. About a metre above the Cleo I squeezed on a big split shot to help get a little more depth. About halfway across the lake I called out to a couple of gents who were trolling the area and asked if they knew anything about the lake. They said that their friends in the nearby canoe had a depth finder and that, as I suspected, the main basin of the lake was about up on the western shore and that it was about sixty feet deep. Giving them my thanks and keeping my distance, I cast my lure far behind my canoe, left the bail open and started paddling again, watching the fluorocarbon line spool off my reel as I went. When enough had spooled out, I closed my bail and set the rod against the small peg I wedged into my scuppered inwales for that purpose.

As luck would have it, it wasn't long before the tip of my rod took a deep bend. I quickly picked up my pole and gave a good pull or two to set the hook. I wondered if I had perhaps hit bottom but a persistent tugging made it dispelled that idea.. FISH ON!!! Before long a nice laker came into sight, my lure firmly set in the corner of its sharp toothed mouth. Without a net I took my time to tire the fish out, being sure not to give it any slack or allow it to roll on the line. I've lost too many fish at the side of the canoe to take anything for granted. When the time was right I reached down, gripped it firmly behind the head and lifted it out of the water. The perfect size for the pan, she was easily sixteen, eighteen or even twenty inches long. With a quiet word of thanks I dropped the fish into the canoe, threw my line back out and started back towards camp. Down by the canoes I filleted the trout into two lovely pieces. Bubba was just paddling up as I finished and he kindly took the fish carcass and let it sink well offshore. We would feast on chowder and fresh trout.

The fire pit was rearranged into more of an open crescent to better warm the crowd. We set up a few stones off to the side to support, somewhat precariously, a small side grill where we could rest the main pot away from the main fire, raking in coals as required to maintain the heat as required. Bacon and onions were sautéed. Although I had picked up some double smoked bacon in Toronto, LuvmyBonnet had also packed in an absolutely lovely piece of heavily smoked bacon wrapped in burlap. Unsliced, it was the definition and bush bacon and made a delicious addition to the soup.

Once the soup was ready it was time to fry up the fish. Jayson and Tracy had brought in a couple of packages of FishCrisp and a large package of frozen cod. Once all of the fish was cut into small pieces, we fried it up to a perfect golden brown and shared it all around. The light pink fleshed lake trout had a wonderful gamey, lake flavour that contrasted with the delicate flavour of the cod. Amazingly there was even a small take-out packet of malt vinegar that we dripped sparingly on our fish. Although a little greasy, there's little better than fresh fried fish and chowda. Next trip we'll definitely be having a traditional English-style fish & chips shore lunch. Bringing in the frozen fish was a stroke of genius! Thanks J&T!

The rest of the evening was spent enjoying a fantastic fire. With no lack of firewood, we built up a wide bed of coals that warmed the whole area and unlike the night before, there wasn't a drop of rain. Simply wonderful. One by one people excused themselves and turned in one last time. Tucked warmly away between my quilts I fell asleep as soon as my head hit my pillow.

Sunday dawned and throughout camp there was a quiet bustle as one person after another began breaking camp. Tarps were taken down, quilts were stuffed back into their bags and gradually the little village evaporated. I always find the last day of any hang a little melancholy. The responsibilities of the family, work or school begin to creep to the front of mind. One by one, canoes and kayaks pushed away from shore and disappeared around the bend. Some of the finest people I've known, I've met through the EGL, but we'd see them again sometime soon.

In hindsight, I think I need to return to Dividing Lake for a couple of days and spend some time exploring the lake and the old growth forest that's hidden there.

[LuvmyBonnet]

Wow! Thanks for such an impressive trip report Chard. It was a great time as usual. Thanks

[KeeWayKeno]

Great write-up Chard, makes it seem like yesterday. I'm sure this'll be reread many times over the coming long winter evenings. Sorry your astral photography didn't work out.

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[Bubba]

I particularly enjoyed reading about some of your past experiences. Makes me think of my own (distant) experiences in the park.

[LazyBee]

Thanks for that wonderfully detailed trip report. It has to be one the best written reports I think I've ever read on the forums, I just wish I was along to share in the fun as well!