Mike was an outdoors man, comfortable with gun and rod. He was the human equivalent of a Swiss Army knife when it came to tents, campfires, cooking, and every form of woodcraft. For my part, I had only caught a trout in a fish farm. I had also only camped once, 20 years ago, in a big family tent on a campground with all the facilities. No need for Swiss Army knives there. Mike’s enthusiasm won out. So, here I was on the brink of adventures that I wasn’t even sure I wanted
Our first foray – just a fishing one – saw us an hour deep into Algonquin Park. Mike knew good Walleye spots and promised we’d be taking home supper. Heading into the woods, he nonchalantly pointed out some bear scat. He pronounced it old. Old or not, I started casting about as we walked on.
The fishing hole was at the bottom of a mini canyon. A sheer cliff opposite and loose scree to get down to smooth rocks edging our side – a challenging slide with an arm in a cast and a tackle box in the other. The river bent away out of sight upstream and downstream and water so clear and slow, you had to check that it was there at all. The fishing was lousy – just ubiquitous sun fish. Mostly I sat on the sun warmed rock, swallowed by the total silence, lost in the peace. Was this the way it had been in the beginning of all things, I wondered? No fish but the peace of that canyon stayed with me. It became my safe place in troubled times.
The next trip, to Lac La Pêche, turned Algonquin on its tranquil head.
Our party was Mike and son Matthew (14), me and Ben (12, an accomplished scout). We had borrowed a canoe and a tent for a two-day, one-night visit to La Pêche – a canoe-camping and fishing lake about an hour north of Ottawa in the Gatineau park. Home to muskie, pike, walleye and bass, the fishing would be good – even for me, according to Mike. I do enjoy fishing. I’m no earthly good, is all.
It was early Fall. Not too cool for sleeping and swimming but enough to discourage picnickers from making the long trip up and down the washboard rutted dirt road from the highway. Our campsite was set back on a wooded island about half an hour down the lake. Away from the water and sheltered from the wind, the tent sites were in among the trees. There was a bear pole and a fire pit. We unpacked the canoes, erected the tents, and had our sandwiches. We packed all edibles into a couple of impregnable coolers, and paddled off to find likely reed beds and rocky outcrops.
Ed Janzen2 years ago
Sounds about like Susan, my wife. Remarkable but she had more patience than I. I graduated to water skiing as soon as possible.
E
Susan2 years ago
Loved it, David. So funny, but also thought-provoking, probably because I know the area and can imagine it all so well. Fishing and camping aren’t for me, either, I have to say.
Susan