As I watched the small plane taxi away from the loading area, the rain streaked window made the image wavy. Silently I was glad this was an optical illusion caused by the rivulets of rain water running helter-skelter down the glass and that he real plane was strong and more than capable of delivering Steve and his family to Saskatoon. They had just concluded a two week vacation with me on my island retreat and now they were returning to LA. It had been such great time together; I really did not want it to end. But it was ended and I was alone with tears in my eyes, wondering if and when we would ever be able to do this trip again. The reality of the loneliness I was feeling is not something you think about when you are planning the summer calendar for Canada.  

     Steve was the first to commit to Canada this year. As usual, I know that Canada is where I will spend my summer but most people are too busy with their daily life to think seriously about next summer. Eventually though, like every year, as Spring arrives and Summer nears, the plan for the Canada summer emerges as the future details of peoples summers come into focus. But now as I stand watching the wavy plane speed down the runway, the clock ticks and the calendar progresses but the lonely, empty feeling remains.  

     Outside the LaRonge airport the rain seems to be coming down harder as I hurry, dodging rain puddles to get to my truck. Inside my truck, with the rain pouring down, I stare out of the windshield and know that it is indeed a very dreary day. Reality sets in and I survey the jumbled mess inside the truck and start inventorying the items there. Less than an hour ago there were 9 more travel bags and three more adult sized passengers in my truck, bulging it at the seams. Now there remained just the things that make up my “tripping” supplies. Upon arrival from my island in LaRonge yesterday we had grocery shopped for fresh supplies for my return to the island.. Those items had filled my large cooler as well as several small cardboard boxes. After dropping Steve and Sophia off at the Waterbase Motel, Amin and I drove to the Shell station to fill up the truck with gasoline and to refill two six gallon gas tanks for my outboard motors plus three LP tanks. With all the re-supply chores done yesterday, I was now ready for the 186 mile return trip to the WathamanRiver and my solo 12 days on the island.  

     As I drove from the airport my thoughts drifted back to all that had transpired over the last month or so. I thought of the 30HP Evinrude motor lying near dead in the back of my truck. What a saga that had been!! Back in the Spring of the year, Jim had delivered it to Boulder from Rod Ury in North Platte, who was lending it to me for the summer. Rod had acquired it from a widow whose husband had only used it a couple days back in 1989, then died and she wanted to get it out of her garage. I had taken it to Pat Odness, my Denver motor repair friend to get a new water pump impeller, likely now dry rotted from lack of use. I had not portaged it into my lake on the first trip this summer, since it seemed a bit heavy for Ken, my first trip partner, and me to handle. I wasn’t sure of Ken’s strength but I knew I would only marginally be able to handle the light end of the portage pole, so we left it in the back of my truck, covered with a tarp and miscellaneous ropes and boxes that were not going to the island. I didn’t want the motor to become a tempting reason for someone to break into my truck and steal it like they did with my new radio and tape player a few years ago.  

     Jim had portaged the motor when he came on my second trip to the island. Upon arriving at DancingLoonIsland, it was discovered that David’s duffle bag was missing, as was my camo jacket and a box of bread. David’s duffle bag may even have been left in North Platte, nobody was sure where it was. There was plenty of light for a quick round trip back to the landing with only Jim and me in the boat. We could make the 25 miles to the landing in about one hour. This seemed like the perfect time to test the new motor. Jim removed my trusty Johnson 30 HP motor and mounted the “new” motor from Rod. The 18 HP backup motor was removed from the boat and we substituted my Johnson 30 HP as the backup. Good thing we did too.  

     As we started toward the landing, the new motor sounded especially strong and a good feeling welled up in my countenance but then  the motor suddenly stalled. Instinctively I backed off the throttle and the motor roared to life again.   As I increased the throttle to about 95% full power, it would again start to stall. Shortly I found the exact spot where we got maximum speed before stalling and we made it to the landing in about 70 minutes.  

     We were relieved to find David’s duffle bag in Jim’s truck and the missing bread box was covered with my camo jacket, sitting along the portage trail. We marveled at how we all missed seeing it and concluded that camo must really work.  

     On the return trip to the island at mile 7, the motor stalled again and I thought I had crept the throttle beyond the critical stall point. After backing off the throttle, the engine came alive again but it stalled at about 30% of power;. After testing this condition several times I concluded that the motor had a serious problem since it never got beyond 30% full power and we needed to swap it out with our spare trusty Johnson motor.  

     The motor weighs 135 poundsand I can no longer lift it.   We happened to be in a stretch of the lake where it narrows down to a river and we had to row only 20 yards to reach shallow water. It is not advisable to change a motor in deep water, it is just too risky, so we pulled up into the reed filled shoreline where Jim swapped the motors and I was again reminded of the deteriorating nature of my body. At the end of Jim’s stay on the island, he portaged the motor back to my truck.  

     After the convoy fiasco of getting back to LaRonge, connecting up with Betty and saying goodbye to Jim’s, Betty and I took the dead 30 HP along with the 10 HP Johnston that was not pumping water to a marina for repair. The NAPA auto parts manager had recommended these folks, so it was off to EaglePointMarina. They estimated $400, perhaps more, plus up to 10 days to get parts. After 50 years of dealing with repair folks, I can usually identify the rip-off ones and these guys were your classic rip-offs. I declined and returned to my truck wondering if I really looked as stupid as those folks must have thought I was.  

     The filling station owner recommended another repair shop where I inquired about the 10 HP repair. While they were a Yamaha dealer, they did handle all brands and took the time to check their big thick cross reference books and actually found the required impeller for my motor in their stock room. They thought they would be able to have it done that afternoon for $75 if that was the only problem. These people seemed genuine, so I inquired about my 30 HP Evinrude.  

     After describing the symptoms, they too thought it was something in the carburetion, so it might be repairable for $175 or 2 shop hours plus parts. That seemed reasonable, so I followed their directions and drove around to their fenced-in back lot and to unload the two motors. As the young mechanic lifted the 30 HP motor from my truck again I was reminded of my growing lose of strength. Later that day we picked up the repaired 10HP. They had replaced the impeller although the problem was more that the water intake was plugged with sand. I had suspected this might be the problem, since the motor had been left in the down position on the back of the 14’Lund the night of a big rain storm and a high NW wind. Water had splashed over the transom and filled the boat while it was tied up at the beach. Obviously it had also pushed sand into the water intake plugging it up and hence no cooling water was flowing through the motor. It was a good thing Jim had noticed this when he later went to use the 14’Lund. I was mad at myself for not following up on my hunch and fixed this problem myself.  

     There seemed to be a very good chance that the 30HP motor would be fixed and I could pick it up in two weeks when I returned Betty the LaRongeAirport on July 21 for her 10:45 AM departure and to pick up Steve’s family at 6:45 PM to start their trip.  

     Betty and I had a terrific two weeks together on the island and had left there the morning of July 20, getting to LaRonge about 4 PM that same day. There is no way to reasonably leave the island and catch a morning flight from LaRonge on the same day. With only two people in the boat, pulling the 14’Lund to have capacity for Steve’s return to the island, it takes about two hours to traverse the lake. Allowing two hours to hide emergency gear, gasoline, batteries, tarps, oars, etc. at the landing plus portaging gear to the truck, 15 minutes for the 4-wheel trail plus 4 to 5 hours of driving time for the 186 mile trip to LaRonge, you end up spending the whole day getting to LaRonge.  

     We had a very civilized dinner at Kostas, the most upscale restaurant in LaRonge and then tried a new motel at the Waterfront with a lovely view of the float plane operation that was busy loading float planes with fishing parties flying north to the many lodges in the area. Early the next morning we went to pick up the 30 HP motor. Betty walked over to check out the nearby Laundromat while I dealt with the repair folks. There was good news. The problem was a broken fuel intake valve reed assembly, initially breaking off a small portion that caused the stalling at 95%, then breaking off more, causing the stall at 30%. This was really good news because they were able to find an actual dead body (broken part) that fit all the symptoms. They had replaced the assembly with a used one they had in their “bone pile” and I was satisfied with the $250 repair charge.  

     The manager said he would meet me at the rear of their building, in the fenced off yard to load the motor. I drove through the open gate and went around the truck to rearrange the jumbled mess of tripping gear to make room for the 30HP. Suddenly, without warning, I heard this terrible growling of the “junk yard watch dog” and before I could turn to face my attacker, he had latched onto my hip with his fangs. Instinctively, I jumped away from the dog and kicked my free leg at the critter. He had not been able to get a good hold of my hip, partially because it was flat and larger than his open mouth and partly because of the multiple layers of cloth on my pocketed Dickeys. He immediately retreated and I hobbled into the back doorway, hollering to no one in particular but to anyone in earshot that I had been attacked by their blankety-blank dog. The manager had been delayed walking through the shop to the back door. That had left me alone with the “junk yard dog”, a rather large German Shepard. Apologies were given and accepted repeatedly and I quickly determined that my skin was not punctured, only bruised. How do you measure the fear factor?  

     Anyway, I had a live motor now and after delivering Betty to the airport and waiting an extra hour for delays, Betty was off. I finished running errands all day long and returned to the airport at 5:30 PM for Steve’s arrival at 6:45 PM. His plane was one hour late, so I kept reading my book. In the same windowed waiting room where I had just watched Steve’s “wavy plane” depart, there was a young Indian girl waiting to catch her plane to the Indian Reserve at Wollaston Lake. She offered me a piece of chicken from her basket of Kentucky Fried Chicken in typical Indian sharing generosity but I declined. We talked a bit about the Reserve and I asked if the plans for a road to the Reserve had gone beyond the talking stage.  

     Several years earlier, Joe Roberts had suggested that the new road was being planned to run along the south shore of my lake and thus ruin the remote nature of its location. I had not been sure if Joe was serious or just “pulling my chain”. It did bother me enough that next winter I check the internet and make several phone calls to the Saskatchewan Highway Engineering Department to get their input on the new road. Their response was that indeed, a new road was planned, had been planned for many years. There was no money available and not even the precise route determined and “No” it probably would branch off CanAm Highway #102, north of the Wathaman, not south of it, but it was premature to say anything for sure.  

     On my first trip to the island this year, Ken kept hearing big equipment noise off to the north, especially early in the still mornings. Of course I could not hear this but neither could any of my subsequent guests. It was quite surprising when my chicken eating conversationalist said they had started to build the road at the reserve and were working their way toward highway #102. She indicated that work was also started at highway #102, well north of me, around the Gieke River, pushing NE to hookup with the road coming SW out of the Reserve. Wow, this seemed to vindicate Ken’s sharp ears, and if true, would eliminate the only known threat to the remote character of my lake. I will have to make further inquiries and perhaps find a time to travel north to the GiekeRiver to see the work for myself.  

     Weeks later I asked Scott Robinson, manager of the Robinson Trading Company in LaRonge, what he knew of this new road. He had heard nothing! I told him what I had heard from the Wollaston Reserve girl but mis-spoke about the GiekeRiver and substituted the WaddyRiver. This made no sense to Scott and finally I realized my error and corrected the river to the Gieke. This was OK with Scott but he had heard nothing of this at all and seriously doubted the validity of the story. Considering that a major part of his business is supplying all kinds of food and material by plane to the Northern Arctic, including Wollaston Lake, certainly he would know about a road that would kill a chunk of his expediting business. Scott gave me the name and phone number of the highway department that would know the real story.  

     At breakfast, the morning Steve, Sophia and Amin were leaving, we ran into a younger Indian man from Brabant. Sophia had noticed him drunk the night before and now he was eating breakfast with some other folks in the booth next to us. Upon leaving the restaurant we ran into him again and he typically initiated some conversation by asking where we were from. Eventually I asked him about the alleged construction of this new road and he said he had heard of the plans but they called for leaving highway #102 at Johnston River, not the Gieke and they had not started it yet but would be starting this Fall. This story made the most sense geographically and certainly my thoughts of taking an extra two hours round trip from the WathamanRiver to confirm the story seemed more plausible.. With the Wollaston Indian Reserve being 57 miles north of DancingLoonIsland, it may still be possible for Ken to have heard road construction perhaps 30 or 40 miles southwest of the Reserve. Perhaps there was some construction at the JohnstonRiver intersection that is 27 miles from DancingLoonIsland The folks at the fishing camp there would surely know the accurate story?? Maybe I should spend the time to drive north to find out what the real story is??  

     After picking up Steve, Sophia and Amin at the airport, we had gone to Costas for a meal and then drove north to Brabant. It was late and quite dark. A smoky fog had settled over most of the road and visibility was terrible. Next morning we got to the WathamanRiver in good time and portaged our gear as usual.. Steve and Amin portaged the 135 lb Evinrude to the waiting boats.  

     Several days later Amin, who is a strapping high school football player, moved the 18 HP backup motor from the 16’ Lund, took off the 30 HP Johnston, making it the backup and mounted the 30HP Evenrude for a test run. I took it out front of the dock and made a couple wide circles, the motor operated flawlessly. My tenacity was paying off!. Next day, Steve and I would motor to the “Honey-Hole” for some walleyes and a longer test of the Evenrude.  

     Next morning we were off to the “Honey-Hole” in high sprits. Less than one half mile from the dock, the motor stalled. Oh shit!! Maybe the gas line was loose. I reset the gas line at the motor and tank and pumped the bulb on the gas hose. Throttling up the motor stalled at 40%. After repeating this process a couple times, I concluded that the $250 repair charge this motor was a big waste of time and effort. All that portaging in and out, swapping motors back and forth, all wasted effort, how discouraging it was. So much for tenacity!!!  

     We crippled back to the pier and Amin removed the 30 HP Evenrude and put it in the 14”Lund for returning to the truck. The 18HP spare was stored under the pavilion as I had decided to use the 10HP Johnston as the backup motor. It would be much easier for me to handle alone at the landing and back into the boat by myself when I returned to the island for my solo stay after Steve’s have left.  

     All these thoughts flashed through my mind as I left the airport in a downpour of rain. It was only three miles back to the repair shop and since my plans for going north were still not solidified, I decided to go back to the repair shop to see if they would negotiate some refund to their dog bitten, unhappy customer. In typical Canadian north style, the shop was open but only a female accountant was there, so that was just another wasted effort regarding that motor.  

     Heading north, the rain was steady and showing no signs of letting up. I was thankful for the first 12 miles of black top but I was concerned about what all this rain would do to the gravel road. This has happened before, so I was not surprised to see hoe the excellent gravel road we traveled south on yesterday was magically transformed into a pot holed mess today. This would impact my plans. Now I should plan on at least an extra hour of driving, perhaps, depending on the rain.  

     By nature and practice I do not like not having a specific plan in mind and all the options in front of me start swirling around in my mind. How long would the portage take me as the only portager, that was the real question. Could I even do it alone? Again I had to accept, even as I hated to, my growing lack of strength.  

     Let’s see, the two six gallon cans of gasoline would be the worse, but the three full LP tanks weighing 40 lb each would be close behind. The cooler is very awkward, but by removing two gallons of milk, and carrying them on an extra trip, I should be able to manage the cooler. I could always resort to skidding it along but I hoped that I wouldn’t have to resort to such a shameful tactic. I would wear rubber boots for the portaging, then change into chest waders after all the gear was portaged. The chest waders are far too hot for portaging but would be necessary to move the boat the 40 yards down the shoreline from where I had hidden it and my boating supplies rather than leave them in the boat I had hidden these supplies up the shoreline rather than taking them to the truck. Not only did it save needed room in the truck but now a day later, if they have not been stolen, I will not have to portage them from the truck to the shore and that is really a good thing.  

     I finally decided to plan on two hours for portaging and retrieving the hidden gear and boat. Allowing an hour to traverse the lake, it looked like an Estimated Time of Arrival (ETA in Navy lingo) of 7PM. Adding 1 ½ hours fore a round trip to Johnston River plus some fudge factor for unknowns and it was getting pretty late for what looked like a rainy boat ride.  

     So I rolled the numbers around my mind as I continued north in the steady rain and a sloppy road. Perhaps I would end up sleeping that night in the truck at the landing. While that is not particularly comfortable, it might be the wisest course of action, give the rain a chance to stop and put a bunch of spare time and sunlight into my plan. It was not like I HAD to get to the island this night. After all, I will be there alone for 12 days before I return to the landing to0 pick up the Nieburs. I’ll just have to wait and see how thing unfold.  

     Maybe I will find the DeCooks from Aurora, Colorado home in their Airstream trailer parked at DickensLake, where they camp for the summer. I have wanted to talk with them but my attempts to contact them in Colorado last winter were unsuccessful. Driving across the Churchill RiverBridge at kilometer sign 86 the view did not lift my spirits any. With a clear view down the river and across OtterLake, the far shore was lost in a wall of rain and fog. If my lake looks like that I probably will not get to the island this night.  

     AT kilometer sign 100 I rounded the curve and there was the DickensLake sign. I slowed and parked in front of the Airstream, with no dry walking spots available. I quickly danced through the shallowest looking puddles and as I approached the steps to the trailer, the door swung open and a smiling Paula DeCook invited me in. She ushered me to a seat across from her husband, Jody. We all shook hands and greeted each other. I told them about my concern about their late arrival that summer and how happy I was that they finally did show up at their usual spot. They explained their delay and we chatted about camping in the North. I knew they had a problem getting water from the lake, up to their trailer. Last year when I stopped by their Grandson was toting five gallon cans of water up from the lake and from experience I could appreciate what a problem it would be for them when their Grandson was not there to do all the toting. In my attempts to get water up top my storage tank, I had first purchased a 3 HP Honda pump but it proved to be just a hair too small to handle the 78 foot lift required. That pump would do a splendid job for their situation where I estimated they needed perhaps only 20 feet of lift. My 3 HP pump was wasting away in my barn so I offered it to them to try. They were not really interested so I dropped the subject.  

     They related to me some of their earlier canoe trips, all very impressive. They had been down the Wathaman, through Greenbush, into ReillyLake and then north on Reindeer Lake on rivers unfamiliar to me into Wollaston Lake. Another trip was up Reindeer Lake, up the CochraneRiver and eventually to the SealRiver and down it into Hudson’s Bay, then south to Churchill. They even saw polar bears when on the SealRiver. From Churchill they took the train south to the Churchill River and then made it back to their starting point. These folks are obviously on the same wavelength as me and I find myself quite attracted to them.  

     Wow, I must get more details of these trips, how exciting, they have accomplished what I have only dreamed of doing!  

     Paula fed us fresh corn bread she was baking and topped that with jam made from a local Pin berry that I was not familiar with. No matter, how good it was!! It was with great regret that I left their warm hospitality to resume my trip north. Paula insisted that I take along a quart zip-lock bag of freshly picked blue berries. It was difficult to leave their cozy spot and the cribbage tournament I had interrupted (Paula was winning at that point). Only after I left did it occur to me that I should have invited them to come visit my island for a few days, what grand company they would make. Given the downpour of rain, the short notice, they probably would have declines but I wished I had made the offer.  

     The clock was ticking and I still did not know for sure where I would spend the night. At kilometer sign 176 I pulled into Brabant to make reservations for Jay and Ruth on August 16. Last night, when I called Betty, I confirmed their plans and gave her the Brabant telephone number so they too could verify the plans. I asked that they leave Cabin #5 open for a possible late arrival and indicated that the Nieburs would be calling. In addition, I made reservations for the night of August 24 in cabin #5 and that the door be left unlocked for a possible late arrival. If history holds true, we will have a very hard time getting off the island, portaged, boats and motors hidden and down the road 78 miles to Brabant by closing time of 10PM. On paper, it never seems difficult but in reality it is most difficult, usually worsened by bad weather and certainly Jay’s and my deteriorating strength take a significant toll of extra time. This year Ruth will be here to help and that will be a huge help.  

     All of these arrangements were made with the little fat lady who has almost a 100% record of screwing up my simple request in the past, so as I leave the store with the rain still pouring down, my spirits were less than exuberant. At kilometer sign 194 where the road splits of to Southend, the sky seemed to lighten ever so little and the rain appeared to slacken a bit. Or was this just my mind playing wishful thinking with itself?   The kilometer  road signs reset to zero here for some reason. The Wathaman river is 2 miles further than the 100 kilometer sign, so I still had 62 miles of gravel road left. 

     During Jim’s visit, I had told him of the new pain in my left leg. He immediately said he thought it might be the sciatic nerve but we did not discuss it in any depth. I really hate to acknowledge all these new symptoms. When Sophia was here with Steve, I asked her about these symptoms and she too thought it was the sciatic nerve and was quite critical of the Kaiser doctor for not offering some pain relief other than physical therapy.

     After arriving back in LaRonge on Friday afternoon (yesterday), we drove to the only drug store in town and Sophia attempted to get a prescription filled for some Prednisone. She discovered that her MD license in California was no good in Canada, even though the druggist validated it via his computer. Not to be thwarted by a mere formality, she explained the situation to the young Chinese druggist and perhaps in the euphoria of us being the last customer of the week and in anticipation of a terrific weekend and confronted with the compelling smile of Sophia, he filled a small vile with 12-5 mg pills as a gift and smiled. We all thanked him and I left the store wondering if this windfall of generosity was the result of my looking so pathetic, or was it Sophia’s charm or just late Friday afternoon madness.

   During dinner at Kostas that evening, Sophia pondered how to best deploy the new prize of drugs. In her own way, she thought out loud, in a jumble of trying to explain how the drug works but simultaneously assessing an aggressive approach versus a timid approach. Finally she decided on a timid approach. Of taking 5mg and wait for any negative reaction. After establishing that I was not allergic to the medication, I ended up taking 20 mg that night and in the morning at breakfast she decided I should take another 20 mg, then taper off on the next three days with 10mg, 5mg and 5 mg.

     Now as I pass the 50 kilometer marker north of the “Y”, the sky continues to show signs of getting brighter with more cloud definition and the rain being reduced to a light sprinkle. The prospects for the portage were improving steadily and I could not help but wonder if the prednisone was sufficient to help get me through the portage. I was feeling no pain so it was easy to be hopeful and by deciding not to spend time on an exploratory drive to JohnsonRiver, I was set to attempt getting myself to DancingLoonIsland this night.

     The road was quite good now, obviously it had not been exposed to the hard rain south of here and by kilometer marker 90, even the sprinkling had stopped and long low slivers of bright silver clouds hung close to the horizon. My spirits were so high that I missed the turnoff to my 4-wheel track and finally realized this at the WathamanRiver bridge. A quick turn around and drive back to the turnoff got me to where I normally engage the truck into 4 wheel-low drive with the transmission in first gear. I started down the track at 4:25 and .7 miles later arrived at the portage at 4:40 PM. It was a normal trip, drier than yesterday’s trip out and with such a light load the truck never “hit bottom.”

     The swarm of kamicazi flies (black flies) outside my side window convinced me to change into portaging clothes while sitting behind the steering wheel. It is very awkward but I was not about to give those devils a clean shot at my bare skin. It just didn’t seem prudent to open the door until I was properly clothed, netted and sprayed.

     While emptying out the back of the truck, I was taking a mental inventory of every single item to be portaged and challenging the absolute necessity of needing the item during my next 11 solo days on the island. This proved a fruitful exercise and I decided to leave one six gallon gas can in the truck along with one full LP tank. Everything else needed to be portaged. My “must-go” supplies included one six gallon gas can , 2 full LP tanks, one full 5 day cooler, one back pack that included my “landing bag”, sleeping bag plus other clothing and “stuff”, one box of dry food, one box with 2 loafs of bread, my rain suit bag, one 5 gallon bucket containing my GPS, camera, satellite phone, water and snacks plus another duffle bag to carry miscellaneous small items like two cycle oil, measuring container, funnel etc. How appalling it is to be so worried about such a paltry load. Twenty years ago I could haul it all in 15 minutes with hardly breaking a sweat and now I am sweating just thinking about it.

     The six gallon gas tank was obviously the toughest, so I started with it. The path was in average condition, very much better than I had envisioned with it being exposed to all the rain we had further south. Difficulty in raising my feet as high as normal caused me to catch an occasional root and I was stumbling along like a drunk. I was glad no one was there to see me struggle this way. Writing about it even makes me tear up about my lost strength. After setting the can down several times and then swinging it forward from spot to spot several places and finally reached the water. Pain was now up to a 6 and any hope of a good portage were gone. I rested.

     The cooler seemed the next toughest, so I worked on that next, removing 2 gallons of milk, I got across the portage with 3 or 4 stops. At waters edge I sat on the cooler to catch my breath. Silently I spoke “Sophia, we did not get enough pills, I sure do appreciate your “college try” and the prospects of a later fix are most encouraging but now the pain is up to 7.5.”

     The first LP tank was not too bad. I carried it a ways then did the lift, swing forward and drop from spot to spot method. It was slow but I was moving it down the trail. With the second tank I was able to lift it onto the back of my neck and walking stooped over I made it non-stop across the portage. Guess I should have done the first one this way. The back pack was relatively easy after I wrestled it into position. I even carried the bread box and orange 5 gallon bucket on the same trip. Now the end was in sight and I could taste success. Before the last trip I checked over the truck to make sure I had everything and that the dead motor was well covered. I drove the truck 40 yards to my usual parking spot. It occurred to me that covering the motor so carefully was probably not necessary since the sides and back of my truck were quite covered with mud, so seeing into my truck from the sides or rear was impossible. With the last back pack on my shoulders and my rain gear bag in my hand I marched down the portage as I felt like I was jogging around the track after setting a new quarter mile track record. How pathetic is that?

     Nary had a drop of rain fallen the whole time. The sky continued to lighten and there was but a light wind coming across the bay, all very encouraging signs, but there was still a lot to be done before I would be on my way across the lake. The rocks near the shore precluded loading the boat from the shore To do this would load the boat down enough to ground it on the rocks so the boat had to be moved away from the shore about 15 feet before loading it, even with my light load. This is when I changed into my chest waders for retrieving the boat and shuttling things from shore to boat. While loading the boat I was attempting to get everything in its final resting spot but still leave room for the items that yesterday had been hidden further down the shoreline.

     After loading all the portaged gear I wadded alongside the boat towing it to my hiding spot. There is a natural small harbor tucked away in the heavily brushed shoreline where I sometimes pull the 14’Lund up to the shore but still have a couple feet of water under the boat. This allows me to leave the big 135 pound 30HP motor attached to the boat, tilted up. There are so many bushes here that the boat is completely hidden from all views except from out in the water. I figure anyone coming from the lake is not much of a threat for stealing a boat and so far it has proven a safe place for hiding the boat for short periods of time. This is where I had hidden my gear yesterday. The heaviest item was the 10 HP spare motor. Now I am really happy we swapped out the much heavier 18HP motor for the 10. It wasn’t pretty but I managed to tumble or roll the 10HP motor into the boat. It was not what you would call lifting. You need some weight in the front of a boat when only one person in the boat. Today, by necessity, that one person is near the back of the boat running the motor so some heavy weight is needed as a counterbalance in the front in order to keep the bow from pointing too much in the air. The 10 HP motor was my front end counterbalance. It was joined in front by a 5 gallon can of “contingency” gasoline. The emergency tent and emergency food/cook kit in a 5 gallon bucket were put in the middle. The depth finder went to the back seat as did one of the auto batteries. The anchor for the 14’Lund was loaded amidships along with the bow saw, hatchet, 4 oars, tow rope, tiller extension arm, 3 tarps, and a small bag of ropes that were all retrieved and stored in the boat.   After getting the boat clear of the shore and bushes I crawled in and gave a big sigh of relief, no more lifting until I get to the island! My chest waders were removed and replaced with my knee high rubber boots. My light long sleeved shirt I used for bug protection and my t-shirt are soaking wet from sweat and needed to be replaced with a dry sweatshirt and camo insulated jacket. I have learned the hard way, if you cross the lake with wet clothes on, you are going to do some serious freezing.

     Removing my motor lock key from my truck key ring, I attempted to remove the lock. With the motor tipped in the up position, it presses down on the lock so the key will not turn the release nut. Ops! I forgot to lower the motor. In order to lower the motor (by tipping it down), you must first tip it up a bit more to un do a spring loaded latch, then it can be lowered all the way. But tipping it up causes it to crunch down onto the lock itself even harder, so that something might be getting bent or broken in the process. Having done this a dozen times or so, it always works ok, with nothing getting broken, but I always cringe when doing it. AHHH! Success, the motor is now down, no broken parts and the key is turning the lock albeit requiring considerable torque. I don’t even like to think about shearing off the key in the lock. Fortunately, as usual, the lock did eventually come off and as soon as I connect the motor and depth finder to the battery, I’ll be underway.

     At 7 PM my GPS shows a speed of 23 MPH and an ETA at the island shortly after 8 PM. Fantastic!!   Traversing the lake at this speed is such a delight. The trip out yesterday with Steve’s family was 3 hours and 15 minutes. Now I am going to cover that same distance in a little over an hour. I must not let my euphoria lull me into carelessness in my navigation. Ever since I started traversing the lake back in 1991, I have been careful to always stay in a very narrow corridor, one that has been verified clear of any submerged rocks. At this high speed however, one goof could really be a lot of trouble, so I concentrated extra hard in keeping on track. Even with this extra care, I found myself running way too close to the snag at mile 8. Obviously I had managed to get outside my usual track and at this speed the depth finder does not work, so I immediately slowed almost to a stop and made an abrupt course change to get back on my track. I was lucky, no rocks.

     Halfway to the island I stopped to cover my lap with my rain coat, the wet waste band of my trousers was attracting too much cold. The first sight of my island is around a point and two miles away. It never looked better but I have learned not to celebrate prematurely. In those last two miles motors have crapped out from contaminated fuel. My motor once failed there for a faulty safety switch and another time it wouldn’t start after changing out an empty gas can because the starter solenoid was stuck. Other times Mother Nature has changed the calm water into dangerous white caps, more than a few times and it always seems to happen in those last couple miles. So until you slip into my little harbor it is best just to enjoy the sight but keep quiet. The wind did momentarily pick up as Mother Nature seemed to be reminding me that she was still in control of things but it just as quickly passed and calmed down again in a couple minutes.

     After a perfect landing made much easier by my new portable dock arrangement, I was home just like the GPS had predicted at 8:05 PM. That was good news, the bad news was that the boat had to be unloaded. It is so pathetic that this even warrants mentioning but for me it was a significant challenge after such a long day.

     Items like food and the cooler that must go to the cabin were staged on the beach awaiting me to retrieve my trusty wheel barrow. The two gas cans were carried to the saw pavilion covered storage area (10 yards). The pain of portaging had subsided to a 3 during the boat trip but after a couple short hauls with the gas, I was back up to 7. I moved the LP tanks to the pavilion storage area using the lift, swing and drop method, leaving a trail of circle imprints in the sand. They looked a bit like elephant tracks. One way or another I got the boat emptied and the gear stowed under cover at the saw pavilion.

     Then it was one trip to the cabin with my back pack and return to the beach with the wheel barrow. I loaded the cooler, box of food, rain gear, and box of bread and started up the trail. A twelve year old boy could have made the trip non-stop. It seemed that every rock and root was pushing against me.     

  See next photo for end of story.

spa

Jay displays his abs at the “Welcome” sign.  Not too bad for a Grandpa!!!