Woodland Caribou Park - Good Land for Canoe TravelersThe Story of a Solo Canoe Trip Through
Ontario's Woodland Caribou Provincial Park
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As I leave my island campsite on Mexican Hat
Lake, I point the canoe to the south and hug the
shoreline as I make my way to the west. A mosaic of
moss clings to the shore, a multicolored blanket that
softens the harsh rock underneath. Here and there wild
rice pokes up a few stalks in patches of shallow
water. There's a strip of red ribbon in the middle
of Mexican Hat that seems to mark a trail into Burnt Rock
Lake. I don't see it marked on the canoe route map -
perhaps it's only a winter trail.
The wind is
blowing as I round a point of land just before the 325
meter portage out of the Lake. As I get closer to the
shore I spot a falls ahead, partly obscured by a rock
peninsula. Now the sound of rushing water drifts in
on the wind. Soon my canoe is beached at the rocky
campsite and I'm climbing stiffly up to the flat spot on
top. This is the first campsite I've seen that
shows any sign of wear. The falls rushes down on the
southern shore and spills into a channel that flows
between the shore and the campsite. Having learned a
lesson last year, I generally don't like to camp near a
falls where I can't hear very well, but I have to admit
that I'd make an exception for this place. The view
is fantastic and the fishing must be pretty good too.
I quickly paddle
across the channel, pull the canoe well up on the land
and load up my pack. The walk is beautiful and I slow
down on my trip back to the canoe.
At the top of the falls there's a serene little bay. Flat, horizontal rocks leave this space open and sunny this morning. A small rapids swirls through the forest to my left as I walk on a carpet of intensely green moss. The sound of rushing water fades away as the path gently descends into the forest. A small branch of current crosses the path and I listen to the water gurgling in the deep crack below my feet.
Now the sound of rushing water gets louder and louder. I hear a deep "clunk" as some heavy rock shifts and bangs into the earth under the fast water. The path opens and I walk out into the cavalcade of water and foam and mist.
After bringing the canoe up to the top of the falls, I find a narrow spot and jump over to the other side of the stream. Another path appears and leads me into quiet forest along the western shore. Here there's a smaller first falls that spills into a pond. The path ends here, at a secluded quiet landing. I sit for a while, enjoying this tranquil shore above the avalanche of water below.
If this falls
were near a road there would be a parking lot, cinder
path, guard rail and concession stand. Here in
Woodland Caribou, there's only a solitary canoe traveler,
energized after walking the uphill portage, exhilarated
by the beauty of the rushing water, and at peace as he
sits beside the quiet pond.
Later that day as I'm entering Lunch Lake I pass another falls. This one is more odd than beautiful, and I take a close look after bringing up the canoe. Water rushes in at the top then falls into a large, deep crack. I hop across the crack and get closer. Inside there are a few logs, boulders and a dead fish. I look down at the stream below and see only gently flowing water appear from under the rock. It takes a few minutes to go back on the trail and find a way down the hill to the base of the falls. There's no foam, no rushing water, hardly a ripple as the water flows out.
I stop on another well used island campsite on Lunch Lake and pull in a few pickerel for supper. The camping is easy here, pine needles cover the ground and a path leads all around the shore of the island. It reminds me of another "perfect" campsite that I used years ago on Kawnipi lake in Quetico Park. That island was destroyed in the Bird Lake fire, but this one is green and alive. I'm very tired now. I fell asleep at six and slept until almost eight. Now it's nine and the loons are starting their evening call. I have about six portages left to do tomorrow.
Early the next
morning, I launch my canoe into quiet, misty water and
paddle slowly towards the eastern shore. The trip back to
Leano is beautiful and easy. Idyllic portages snake
through mature forest and the narrow lakes keep the west
wind from bothering my canoe.
As I draw close to the Bunny Lake portage I suddenly see a canoe ahead of me. Soon I'm talking to Mark Frey, a pilot for Keeper Airlines in Red Lake. It's been a busy summer for pilots and Mark had to take some time off from flying. He's the first person I've seen since I left Steve and Anita just before Eagle Lake. I ask Mark about the gravel road that leads north to Red Lake and explain that I'm driving my son's Toyota while he's in Japan teaching English. Mark tells me that he had no trouble - he made the trip in his father's Nissan Sentra. His father is teaching English too, but he's in Russia! Mark tells me that although he lives in Balmertown, this is only his second trip into the park.
Within a few
hours my canoe is loaded on my son's car just as a light
rain starts to fall. The rain softens the gravel,
making for a less bone jarring trip back to Ear Falls. As
I lumber along at fifty kilometers per hour, a pickup
truck draws near. It could be a truck for a logging
company, or perhaps someone that maintains the
roads. The old, bearded driver waves to me as we
pass. For some reason this small gesture makes me feel
welcome to be back. I'm not quick enough to wave
back, but I smile and start to enjoy the long trip home.
Copyright 2000 by James A. Hegyi http://www.canoestories.com/wcp20.htm