Events after 1955 – Gene's Site

Pandemic

At the time of this writing, April, 2020, the world has been invaded by a virus, COVID-19. Except for obtaining essentials such as groceries, we are sequestered to our houses.

This virus was first discovered in China and thought to have mutated from a virus infecting bats. Now at a stage where it can infect and spread rapidly among humans, it causes flu-like symptoms, sometimes violent, sometimes death. It is too early to tell just how serious this thing is, but the outlook is not encouraging.

Because of the past history of these types of pandemics, people are quite scared and doing irrational things, such as panic-buying of food and other products. It is not unusual to go into a store and be faced with rows of empty shelves. This is reminiscent of World War II days (See previous post). However, the causes of the shortages are different. During WWII, products were not available because they were being used in the war effort. Now there is plenty of product but it is apparently being scarfed up and hoarded by people in panic mode as soon as it hits the shelves.

One such item is toilet paper. It is almost impossible to find even though it normally fills up long aisles of shelving. It is difficult to believe, but people are actually getting violent over toilet paper! (see the link at the end).

All schools and colleges are closed, as are factories, bars, and churches. People are encouraged to work from home if possible. Grocery stores, gas stations, and businesses deemed necessary remain open. Restaurants are open only for takeout orders – no sit down customers. People are advised to stay at least 6 feet apart. Hand washing is encouraged – hand shaking is not.

Face masks are commonly seen – some of them quite unusual and creative.

This guy was seen shopping in a Columbus area store

For weeks the federal government ignored this virus and expressed confidence that it would soon disappear, so very little was done in the way of preparation. Fortunately at the state level most governors saw the situation for what it was and formed an appropriate plan of action. Later as people started getting sick and dying, attitudes at the federal level changed somewhat, but we still get most of our leadership from the state house.

We have no idea how long this shut-down will last. It has the potential of causing huge economic problems since many people can no longer earn a living.

The previous serious influenza pandemic was the so-called Spanish Flu of 1918. This one infected an estimated 500 million victims (one-third of the earth’s population) and killed an estimated 50 million. Because of World War I and the mass deployment of soldiers, this virus rapidly spread throughout the world.

Spanish Flu was mistakenly thought to be caused by bacteria since viruses were unknown at the time. They were not discovered until the electron microscope was invented in 1931.

According to my mother who would have been 14 at the time, many people thought this was the end of the world. Wooden coffins lined the streets and were in short supply. Undertakers could not keep up with the deaths. Mass graves were not uncommon. People didn’t know how to fight this disease so various techniques were tried. Mom and her siblings were made to wear “asafidity bags” around their necks and inhale the putrid fumes. Rooms containing sick people had wet sheets hung over the doorway and on the windows to keep the disease from spreading.

I looked up “asifidity bag” and found that it was a small cloth bag with a drawstring top that previously held Bull Durham tobacco. It contained asafoetida and other aromatic herbs such as camphor and garlic. Asafoetida is a resinous gum obtained from the roots of the Ferula plant, a member of the fennel family. It is used in folk medicine and Indian cooking, has an extremely foul smell and is sometimes called “devil’s dung”. It was thought to repel influenza germs and evil spirits. Mom said that it smelled so foul that no one would get close enough to give you any germs. Dad said, “if you put one on the baby you could find it in the dark”.

Bull Durham Tobacco Bag

Tom Gregory sent me a copy of an article from the local Ravenna newspaper dated October 14, 1918:

Except for the date, this article could have been in last week’s paper. It appears that the way we deal with pandemics hasn’t changed much in the last 100 years.

Those of us over 70 remember a similar horror show. From about 1916 to 1955 we had the Polio scourge. Also known as Infantile Paralysis, this virus attacked mostly young people. A child would go to bed at night appearing to be perfectly healthy and the following morning wake up paralyzed. It attacked the nervous system – arms, legs, and other muscles would no longer function.

Some children ended up spending their lives in iron lungs. These were large, barrel-shaped devices that completely enclosed the body except for the head. Pressure was increased and decreased inside, causing the patient’s lungs to fill up and empty, thus doing the work of the paralyzed diaphragm.

Iron Lungs

Polio would appear each year around Memorial day and wreck havoc throughout the summer.

Parents were terrified. We were not allowed to visit our friends. Swimming was forbidden because Polio was thought to be spread in swimming pools. This situation occurred like clockwork every year until 1955 when a team of scientists led by Dr. Jonas Salk invented a vaccine that caused immunity to the virus.

One of my class mates was afflicted by Polio. He was absent from class for about 2 months and returned later on crutches with iron braces on his paralyzed leg. He later learned to walk unaided. In high school he was on the basketball team. His left leg was noticeably smaller than his right.

President Franklin Roosevelt was a victim of the Polio virus. He had iron braces on his legs and was in a wheel chair most of his life. He stood up when being photographed at speaking events – bracing himself on two hand rails. The press never photographed him sitting in a wheel chair. Because of this, most Americans, including me, were unaware of his affliction.

There have appeared several other viruses that had potential of causing a pandemic – Swine Flu, SARS, AIDS, to name a few. Although these killed many people they did not quite rise to the pandemic level we are now experiencing.

In spite of our so-called intelligence and advanced medical techniques, we still appear to be at the mercy of Darwin and the sub-microscopic bit of DNA called virus.

Here are more newspaper clippings from the 1918 pandemic.

See toilet paper fights here.

Alaska(2)

After 4 days of kayaking and camping in Harriman Fjord (see Alaska(1)) the boats arrived to take us back to Whittier.

Our van had arrived on the last train. We loaded our gear onto the top of the van and Mike, our guide, drove it onto the Alaska Ferry that was to take us to our next destination, Valdez.

Alaska Ferry in Whittier. Notice abandoned barracks in background

Valdez, a former gold rush town, is located on the eastern side of Prince William Sound and at the end of the Alaska pipeline. It is a commercial fishing port as well as a terminal for Alaska crude and other freight.

Friction from fast moving oil makes the pipe hot. The cooling fins are to keep the legs from melting the permafrost. The pipeline is elevated so that it doesn’t interfere with the migrating animals.

This was 1988, but the damage from the 1964 magnitude 9.2 earthquake was still visible in Valdez. There were several abandoned areas that looked as though the land had dropped 20 feet or more.

Thompson Pass near Valdez – the snowiest place in Alaska. One year the snowfall here was over 900 inches. The inverted “L’s” on the roadside are markers so the snowplows can find the road after a heavy snowfall.

We didn’t do much sightseeing in Valdez. We did buy a shower which set us back $3.00 apiece, and picked up some groceries. We set up our tents at a campsite on the outskirts of town. The next morning we hit the Denali Highway and headed north.

The Denali Highway was mostly gravel. It was, however, relatively smooth and wide, but traveling on this gravel at 70mph was pretty hard on tires and we had two flats along the way. Fortunately Mike had two spares. Later we found a tire repair shop that fixed the damaged tires.

After two days of driving and sightseeing we arrived at Denali National Park. This is quite a distance north of Whittier and we were no longer in an oceanic climate. Unlike the southern areas that we visited, the sky is actually blue here and the humidity is quite low. It never got dark during our stay and often became quite warm. The region is tundra and permafrost, nearly no trees. Low bushes and flowers abound.

Lynx Creek campground is located at the entrance of Denali Park and we set up camp there. From here we spent the next two days exploring the Park.

There is one road through the park and shuttle buses take visitors to the interior. We hopped on and off the buses and hiked at various places, being advised not to venture too far away from the road. We spent some time hiking around Wonder Lake, then picked up a bus to return to our campsite. The ride back took 5 hours. Part of the drive was through taiga (Russian for land of little sticks). This was tundra that could support only stunted conifers – none over 20 feet tall.

Taiga

Much wildlife was visible, including Dall sheep, caribou, grizzly, golden eagles, and small prairie dog- like mammals. Flowers of various shades abound on the tundra. Mt. Denali (named Mt. McKinley by Americans) was visible in the distance – crisp and clear. It was easily distinguished from the other mountains in that it was brilliant white while the others were green or grey. Mt. Denali is so large it creates it’s own climate and is often obscured by clouds. Because of this it is only visible about 30% of the time. We were quite lucky that the weather gods smiled down and allowed us to see this marvelous spectacle.

Denali (Mt. McKinley)

Just outside the park was a bar called the Lynx Creek Cafe. We stopped there one evening for a drink. The outdoor patio was full of adventurers of all ages – old ugly guys with beards, families, college girls with backpacks wearing shorts and hiking boots. Everyone was energized and excited. It was 2:00 AM and broad daylight, but nobody seemed to want to retire.

Lynx Creek Cafe

Chris was talking with two girls sitting at a picnic table, Mark and I were sitting at the bar. Chris invited us over to meet the girls. I said, “Ok, but don’t introduce me as your father, tell them I’m your brother”. He did, but during the conversation that followed, out of habit he repeatedly referred to me as “Dad”, so my cover was blown. The girls didn’t seem to mind and when they heard we had just bought a big jug of gin in Valdez they invited us to their tent to party further. Chris and I took them up on their invitation and Mark hit the sack.

When we arrived at their tent I broke out the gin and everyone had a drink. When the girls noticed that I put the cap back on the gin they objected, telling me I should throw away the cap because we would no longer need it. That convinced me that this crowd was too rough for us country boys and we immediately abandoned the scene. After all, that gin had to last through the remainder of our trip. These girls weren’t interested in our good looks and charming conversation, they just wanted our booze!

Hiking in Denali Park (Mt. Denali in background)

Moose in Denali Park

Sable Pass in Denali Park. Notice the nails along the bottom of the sign to prevent the grizzlies from gnawing.

Here is one reason the sign was necessary!

We spent 2 days camping by Denali Park, riding the shuttle bus, hiking, observing wildlife and generally enjoying the area. On the last night we attended a salmon bake, did some laundry, and packed our waterproof bags for the raft trip.

The following morning we drove to Talkeetna Airport where we met the guides from “Nova River Runners”, the outfit that was to take us on our rafting trip. They issued each of us rain suits and rubber boots. We had two bush planes available – one a Cessna, the other a silver-colored Piper Cub of 1940’s vintage. The Cessna was equipped with skis as well as wheels.

The Piper Cub was loaded with rafts, frames, oars, duffel, etc, and was flown by an elderly pilot that had a small white poodle as his copilot. He had been flying out of this airport since 1948 and was definitely much older than the average bush pilot.

It took several trips of about 1 hour each to get us and our gear to the top of Mt. Talkeetna, where we were to start our rafting experience.

On the plane ride to the top we flew over breathtaking scenery – mountains, taiga, muskeg, moose, caribou, and braided rivers the color of milk from rock ground up by the glaciers.

The Cessna pilot who flew the passengers must have been all of 17. On landing it looked to me as if he was going to put the plane down in the water, but he managed to land on a narrow sandbar in the middle of the river. Except for a narrow path down the center, this sandbar was covered by 10 to 20 foot high trees and brush. I didn’t realize how narrow the path was until I watched the plane taking off after leaving us on the sandbar. The wings of the plane brushed the branches on both sides. I suddenly realized why Alaskan bush pilots seldom get to be old men – our Piper Cub pilot was a rare exception.

We had almost as many guides as we had customers – Chuck and Ron from Nova Rafting, Mark, a soils expert for the state, Michelle, a biologist, and Jim, a husky native Inuit. We were treated like royalty. The guides cooked excellent meals, set up and cleaned the camps, assembled and steered the 3 rafts, etc. All we had to do was pitch our own tents, see to our personal gear, and help steer the rafts.

It took us 4 days of rafting down the Talkeetna river to get to the bottom of the mountain. We started in a valley filled with glacial outwash. The river here was swift with many channels that criss-crossed in a braided pattern. We floated for several hours and set up camp on the river’s edge.

There were many large bear tracks here. Just in case we had bear trouble, one guide carried a 12 gauge shotgun loaded with buckshot and slugs, another had a .44 magnum revolver. Normally these grizzly bears will avoid humans if possible. The trouble usually occurs when you come upon one in the bush and startle it. When walking through the brush we would sing and holler things like “Here bear “ and make lots of noise. Some campers tie sleigh bells to their shoes to announce their presence to the bears. The standing joke in Alaska is that when a bear dies and the contents of his stomach are examined, large numbers of sleigh bells are often found!

The river was a mixture of flat peaceful water and terrifying rapids, 20 miles of which went through a canyon with steep cliffs on both sides, preventing us from going anywhere but straight ahead. On one particular difficult rapid we tied our rafts and scouted the rapids from the top of a cliff – about 60 feet above the water.This part of the rapids is known as the “Toilet Bowl” and the river is squeezed between two cliffs, and makes a right turn into a flat place with an eddy. From there it makes a sharp left and shoots through a rocky place called the “Sluice Box”.

The guides decided how they were going to negotiate these rapids and we piled back into the rafts. Our guide had Big Jim the Inuit and me sit on the right side of the raft. He told us to back-paddle as hard as we could on his command. When the command came I tried to back-paddle but the water was so swift I could not move my paddle. It felt as if I had stuck it into concrete. Big Jim tried to back-paddle and bent his aluminum paddle into a 90 degree angle.

We ended up in the middle of the gorge with water roaring past us on one side. More paddling put us back into the current again and we entered the Sluice Box.

Everyone safely through, we set out down the remaining 14 miles of white water in the canyon. We camped by a gold prospector’s shack. The prospector was gone and we made use of his outhouse.

The milky color of the water is due to rock ground up by the glaciers

Michelle was taking a swim in the river and I decided to join her. I got in as far as my ankles and the pain from the cold glacial water was so intense that I popped right back out. I have previously swum in cold water in the Boundary Waters, Quetico, and even Antartica, but I have never experienced anything as painful as this. Those “Alaska wimmin” are really tough!

Chuck, one of our guides, had bought a Casio waterproof watch just before the trip. The first day into the trip the watch stopped running.

Now what do you think a normal person would do if they had bought a watch and it quit running after the first day? Take it back to the store and ask for a replacement or refund, right? Not these guys. They propped the watch up on a rock, threw stones at it, and took bets on who could break it first. They entertained themselves for over an hour playing this game. I marveled at the relaxed attitude these guys had and how it differed from that of most people I knew in the lower 48.

The next morning we negotiated the final 5 hours of river, dismantled and deflated the rafts, boarded the van and returned to Anchorage (a 3 hour drive) and the Inlet Inn, where we had previously roomed.

At this time of year Anchorage never gets dark although the sun does set. At dusk the sun sets in the west, then for the next few hours the sunset slowly moves along the horizon from west to north to east where it is now a sunrise!

It was our final day with Mike, the guide from Camp Alaska Tours, and he offered to treat us to a beer at “The Great Alaska Bush Company”. This wild frontier-type bar had topless and bottomless dancers. Nancy declined the invitation but the rest of us accepted. After all, who in his right mind would pass up free beer?

When we arrived, there was a girl dancing on the back bar. She was definitely making some fancy moves. I wanted to give her a tip, but she didn’t have any pockets in which to stash the money!

We walked around the city that evening and had dinner at a bar frequented by native Inuit people.

There were two lovers sitting in a booth. Mark wondered if they were going to kiss or rub noses!

We also stopped at the Bush Pilot’s Museum. The bush pilot’s hall of fame had no members over 33 years old. We noticed that even though Anchorage was the largest city in Alaska, it had no buildings over two stories high.

The following morning Mark, Chris and I rented a car and drove 250 miles to Homer, where we planned to do some halibut fishing. We set up our tents in a campground on a hill overlooking the town. The scenery was stunning. Homer is both a fishing and farming village and is unique for its “spit” – a narrow 5 mile stretch of land that juts out into Kachemak Bay. The water in the bay had a purple cast with a large mountain rising straight out of the water on the far side. On the spit were marinas, fish canneries, and campsites for the cannery workers.

The “Spit” in Homer Alaska

We had booked a day long trip on the “Debbie Joann”, a charter fishing boat out of Portland, Oregon. We sailed about 15 miles out to sea with 8 fishermen and 4 crew. The farther we went the rougher the sea became. The captain said that it may be too rough for us to fish and offered to turn back. We finally decided to stay out for a half day at half price.

The rollers were 8 – 10 feet high and the boat was rocking at a pretty good pace. I started fishing and my rod tip would sometimes touch the water. I was feeling fine and not a bit ill, when without any warning I suddenly lost my breakfast. I was still not feeling sick and didn’t know why that happened. Five or so minutes later I knew exactly why it happened. I became so sick that I would have had to get better before I could die!

That was quite a shock to me. I had crossed the Pacific twice on troop ships in water much rougher than this and didn’t get sick. It may have been the frequency of the waves which was much quicker, or it could have been my age or physical condition – who knows. Anyhow, I could no longer fish. Mark was in a similar condition as were over half the people on board. Chris didn’t get sick and pulled in halibut one after another.

One half hour after getting off the boat I was feeling fine. The captain filleted our fish – we had about 20 pounds of fillets. We kept two for supper and took the rest to a cannery to be vacuum packed and frozen so we could take them home.

Halibut

For our final adventure we drove to Morgan’s Landing on the Kenai River to do some salmon fishing. Many people think that if you go to Alaska to fish you will have the place to yourself with no crowding. That may be true if you fly into some remote spot with no road access, but along the Kenai when the salmon are running the fishermen are elbow-to-elbow, and the banks are so crowded you have to fight to get to the river. If you lose your place you may never get it back.

The Kenai was quite swift and milky from the glacial till. The salmon were so thick it looked as if we could walk across the river on their backs. I don’t understand how they could see our bait in that milky water and I believe many were snagged by the hook as they swam by.

We didn’t have any luck that day except that Chris caught one large salmon. Trouble is – it had already been filleted – and it was still wiggling! I know the reader will not believe this and I can’t find a picture to prove it. I can hardly believe it myself but I have two credible witnesses who swear that this event occurred.

When we flew out of Anchorage on August 1st it was already getting dark at night – a sign that Alaska was getting ready for a long dark winter and it was time for us to leave.

More photos HERE

Alaska(1)

A camping trip to Alaska has always been my idea of the ultimate adventure. I had been considering this trip for several years but not many of my friends were willing to commit to the cost, risk, or time. Eventually my brother, Mark, and my oldest son, Chris, became interested so we scheduled it for June, 1988.

On trips to the Boundary Waters or Quetico, getting lost means that you may spend a few extra days in the wilderness, but chances are that eventually you would find your way out or someone will rescue you. If you get lost in Alaska the archeologists will probably find your bones centuries later. Also the grizzly bears up there have a different agenda than the black bears we dealt with in the BW. The other factor to consider is the tides. If you do any kayaking and don’t know how to read tide tables your body could wind up in Tokyo bay or some other far-away place. Because of these factors we thought it prudent to hire a guide.

We searched the ads and found an outfitter called “Camp Alaska Tours”. This company furnished a guide with a van and would take a group of up to 8 persons. They would sub-contract other outfitters and tailor-make a trip with activities that interest the group. Among the things that interested us were sea kayaking and rafting. We also wanted to do some salmon and halibut fishing along with exploring some glaciers and towns. We hired Camp Alaska as our main outfitter. They in turn hired other outfitters and guides for the sea kayaking and rafting.

We decided to fly to Seattle and take the Alaska Ferry to Juneau through the inside passage. We would spend a day in Juneau, then fly to Anchorage and be picked up by Camp Alaska Tours to continue our adventure.

On arriving in Seattle we were met by our cousin John Paulus who offered to keep us at his home and show us around the area. John lives in the suburbs with his wife, Gay. He is a retired engineer from Boeing, skier, kayaker, and amateur herpetologist. He spends his retirement visiting schools in the area lecturing and showing live snakes to the kids.

John and Gay Paulus – June 1988

John gave us a tour of the area showing us the salmon fish ladders and other points of interest.

Fish Ladder on the Columbia River, Seattle

After spending two days with John and Gay we headed to the ferry port for our ride through the inside passage.

Alaska Ferry

The Alaska ferry takes passengers, vehicles, and supplies from the lower 48 up to Alaska and the Aleutians. Passengers can book cabins or sleep wherever they can find room – a stairwell, deck, or hallway. We booked a cabin with 3 bunks to use during the 3 day trip from Seattle to Juneau.

There were many loaded semi-trailers on board to be hooked onto tractors when they arrived at their destination. Also aboard were many interesting people – adventurers, tourists, college students, business men. Many of the college kids had summer jobs in fish canneries or on fishing trawlers. They had put up tents on the rear deck forming a kind of “tent city”.

“Tent City”

We even met a condom designer from Cincinnati. Mark tried to pick his brain for “engineering advice”.

The scenery in the passage is wild and fascinating. Along with barges carrying grain, bales of hay, cement blocks, coal, and other supplies, are glaciers, bald eagles, orca whales, and other wildlife rarely seen in the lower 48.

Barges on the Inside Passage

The ferry stops at some of the small villages along the inside passage. The climate here is oceanic so it rains almost constantly. The rain forests have trees that look as if they have hair growing on their trunks. Many of the school playgrounds have a roof to keep the rain away.

We disembarked at Ketchikan and were able to tour the town on foot since it is small and doesn’t go far inland. It is interesting for its totem poles.

Ketchikan Ferry Dock

Totem Poles in Ketchikan

There were some buildings built out over the water on stilts that were said to be houses of prostitution during the Alaska gold rush. One wag pointed out that this is where both fish and fishermen spawned in the same place!

We stopped at Wrangell for an hour to unload passengers and supplies, also at Petersburg where a large number of college students disembarked to work in salmon canneries. These villages along the shore were very picturesque although somewhat primitive by lower 48 standards.

Ferry Dock at Petersburg

After 3 days in the passage we arrived in Juneau and disembarked.

Juneau is cradled between the Pacific shore, a large mountain, and the Mendenhall Glacier. Along with being the state capital it is a fishing village with docks for a large fleet of boats and fishing trawlers. To serve the many cruise ships that stop are tourist shops, restaurants, bars, and nightlife. Everything appears to go uphill from the ocean. It reminded me of an “old west” version of San Francisco.

We rented a car, toured the town and visited the Mendenhall Glacier. We could drive 15 miles or so – blocked in by the sea and the mountains.

Juneau Alaska

Two Gunslingers In Front of the Red Dog

Mendenhall Glacier – Juneau, Alaska

Don’t try this at home!

We happened to be in Juneau on July 4, 1988, so we were privileged to see their independence day parade. It consisted of the usual trappings – fire trucks, boy scouts, small floats, kids on bicycles, dogs, etc. I was struck by the fact that we were in the capital of the largest state in the union and its 4th of July parade was smaller than the one in Randolph, the small Ohio town where I was raised.

After spending the day in Juneau we boarded our flight to Anchorage.

That’s an image of a native Inuit on the tail (I thought it was Johnny Cash!)

Arriving at the Inlet Inn hotel we met Mike, our guide from Camp Alaska. Mark and Chris had both brought 44 Magnum revolvers along as grizzly bear protection but Mike talked them into leaving these in the hotel safe to be picked up at the end of our trip, pointing out that the guns were not needed since each guide would carry one.

The next morning we met the 3 other members of our tour, Bob, Nancy, and Glen. We packed our gear into Mike’s van and headed for Portage, about an hour drive. After visiting Portage Glacier, we boarded the train for Whittier where we were to start our kayaking trip into Prince William Sound.

Kayakers, fishermen, and other adventurers boarding the train to Whittier

Whittier is a very small town on Prince William Sound, It consisted of a few houses, trailers, old buildings, restaurant in an old house trailer, an abandoned Army barracks, and a marina to service the fishing fleet. The town taxi service was a kid driving an old Pontiac convertible. The only way into Whittier was by sea or train. Except for the marina, this place looked like the back doors of hell!

Whittier, Alaska

Whittier Marina

We entered the restaurant trailer for lunch. At the same time one of the fisherman brought in a bushel basket full of fresh large shrimp straight from one of the trawlers. They looked so good that we all ordered shrimp, and they were every bit as good as they looked. Remember, this was 1988, a year before the Exxon Valdez accident that dumped a tanker-load of oil into the sound.

We now had with us Bob Hakenen from the Hugh Glass Backpacking Company who was to be our kayaking guide. Bob furnished us with Klepper kayaks which come in canvas bags as a bundle of sticks and rubberized cover. For safety reasons it is unlawful in Alaska to carry kayaks or canoes lashed to the pontoons of a plane as we did in Canada or lower US. Chances are if these broke loose the plane would probably go down somewhere unreachable, so the only kayaks available were those that could be dis-assembled and carried inside a bush plane.

We loaded a large dory and smaller motor boat with the kayaks in canvas bags along with our gear, then headed out into Prince William Sound. After about two hours we were dropped off on a beach of glacial outwash close to the mouth of a fjord with a large glacier at the far end. We unloaded our stuff and the boats departed, leaving us alone in the fjord, telling us they would be back in 4 days to pick us up.

Abandoned!

After erecting our tents and assembling the Kleppers, we gathered firewood, and “Bob the guide” cooked a meal. For bear protection the cooking area was placed 50 yards from the tents. There were no trees on which to hoist the food to protect it from bears. Bob buried it in a shallow hole and kept the site clean and smell-free, hoping the bears wouldn’t find it.

Put stick X into hole Y

Our campsite in Harriman Fjord

After being on the camp site for only a small time we discovered something that would nag us for the next 4 days. We had been dropped off right in the middle of a tern rookery. The baby tern chicks were scampering around on the ground while their parents were giving us grief by diving at us from above. We could barely move without being attacked. These guys would dive at our heads and let out a loud squawk. We learned to hang a pan or other object on a branch and hold it over our heads as we walked to keep the little buggers from parting our hair.

Arctic Tern

Gene fights off terns with a roll of toilet paper

Another strange thing – it always seemed to be thundering – but it never rained. On further observation we noticed that we could see 10 glaciers from our campsite. The thunder was caused by the glaciers calving and the sound was echoing off of the surrounding cliffs. The glaciers were so far away that the noise from the calving arrived later than the visible event, so we could never see it by tracing the noise.

At 11PM we turned in. It was still broad daylight!

When kayaking, each person took along his/her sleeping bag and used it as a back cushion. In case a person falls into the water, putting him in the bag would keep him from getting hypothermia on the way back to camp.

Paddling in the fjord was a unique experience. Our kayaks were often surrounded by small icebergs that were slowly melting. Because they had been formed under pressure small air bubbles were trapped inside, and they popped and sizzled as they melted giving the impression that we were paddling around in a very large pool of gin and tonic! Our guide told us that people from Japan were buying this ice to put in drinks because they liked the popping noise it made as it melted.

Otters playing among small icebergs in the fjord

Harriman Fjord was surrounded by mountains which had many hanging glaciers. With the thunder, unbelievable scenery, glaciers and the fizz from the icebergs, paddling around in there was an experience difficult to describe.

Hanging Glacier in Harriman Fjord

At the far end of the fjord was Harriman Glacier, the “big daddy” that had formed the fjord. We decided to paddle up to this glacier to give it a closer look – a trip that appeared to be about a half-hour paddle. After paddling two hours, it seemed that we were not getting any closer. The distances are so vast that it fools the mind. After more paddling we came within one quarter mile of the glacier. Our guide warned us not to go closer, because if it calved, the wave from the chunk falling into the fjord would swamp the kayaks.

Harriman Glacier

Getting closer!

Calving

One time when exiting our kayak I forgot to button the pocket that contained my camera, and it fell into the water. The water in the fjord is a mixture of salt water from the ocean and fresh water from the glaciers, so is not healthy for the interior of an electronic device. On getting back to camp I set the camera on top of my duffel bag to dry and it started taking pictures by itself non-stop. After about one half hour it stopped – never to work again.

So here I was on the trip of a lifetime surrounded by unbelievable scenery without a camera. Mark had an extra camera with him, so he took pity on me and loaned me his.

On several occasions a large catamaran called the “Klondike” would visit the fjord. The tourists on board were leaning over the rail taking OUR pictures! We wanted to “moon” them but Nancy vetoed the idea.

After 4 days of paddling in this breath-taking environment, we disassembled the kayaks, said goodbye to Harriman Fjord, boarded the motor boats, and headed back to Whittier to move on to our next adventure.

To be continued.

More pictures HERE

Grabby Things

Last week I had a 7AM dental appointment. Just as I was getting ready to leave I was bothered by a tickle in my nose. The nose hairs had become too long and were tickling my nostrils every time I took a breath. No problem – I have this battery-powered rotary trimmer gizmo that will trim nose hairs and keep them under control.

So I placed the trimmer in the left nostril and fired ‘er up. It immediately grabbed onto a bunch of hairs and stalled. No matter what I did I could not get the damn thing restarted.

So there I was with this thing hanging out of my nose, holding on by the hair, and me being almost late. I didn’t want to show up for my appointment looking like some refugee from the Star Wars bar with this extra appendage hanging from my nose, so I wiggled, tore, shed some tears and cajoled the device into letting go of my nose fuzz, barely making the appointment in time.

It appears that every time I think I am “king of the hill” something humbling like this happens to bring me back down to earth.

Brother Mark tells a similar story. He and his wife Jody were performing at a folk music dance. One of the performers was a man with a big bushy mustache who was playing a chromatic harmonica. For those who never saw this type of harmonica, it has a sliding mouthpiece with a button on the side that allows the player to access the sharps and flats. The man was going to town on “Turkey in the Straw” when his mustache got caught in the slide.

So there he stood with the harmonica hanging from his face just like I was with the nose hair thing. But this was even worse – It happened to a performer in front of a crowd. It took several minutes of painful tear – producing pulls and jerks to get the thing off of his face. Mark said that the guy was in pain and shame for the remainder of the evening.

I recall a similar incident that happened many years ago when Mark was about 3 years old. He and his cousin Jim had just been given a bath and were running around the house naked. They were playing with one of those toy frogs with a mouse-trap like spring that was set by pressing it into some tar-like substance on the bottom. When set this caused the frog to jump at an unpredictable time. On one occasion the frog jumped up, grabbed Jim by his thingy, and hung on for dear life. Much weeping, wailing, and caterwauling followed as the offending amphibian was removed.

The frog was banned from further jumping unless the spectators were wearing clothes.

Speaking of nose-hair, I was watching the evening news last week when they presented the latest fashion fad – nose lashes! The girls are taking false eyelashes, rolling them around a pencil, and fastening them in their noses! I kid you not!

Holy Nose Fuzz Batman! I think I’ve lived too long!

Nose Lashes – Did you ever have a nose wink at you?

Quetico Fly-In

The city of Ely Minnesota is the gateway to the western part of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. It is a charming little town with the usual restaurants, stores, and shops, along with several wilderness outfitters. We used one of these, “Voyageurs North Outfitters”, to furnish canoes and supplies for our wilderness trips.

On one occasion owner John suggested that we might consider a fly-in trip into Quetico, the premier wilderness canoe area of Ontario, and if this was of interest to us, he could make it happen. This definitely was of interest to us, so over the following winter we arranged to make the canoe trip of a lifetime, a fly-in into Quetico.

The planes used were DeHavilland Beavers – beautiful large single-engine monoplanes equipped with floats. These were flown by two somewhat reckless young French Canadian pilots from Quebec who were truck drivers in the winter. They were to fly us and our equipment to Clay Lake, just north of Quetico. All we had to do was paddle through the wilderness and use map and compass to find our way back to Ely, a distance of about 70 miles.

DeHavilland Beavers

My brother Mark wrote an account of this trip in great detail. With his permission I have posted it here.

Following is Mark’s article and some of the pictures taken on this trip. Enjoy.

THE 1987 QUETICO EXPEDITION
by Mark Roliff

Herein is contained the
PETRIFIED TRUTH
regarding the Boundarians’ trip to Quetico
in July 1987
and various
PHILOSOPHICAL OBSERVATIONS
made in the wilds of Southern Ontario.

The purists in the wilderness canoe trip fraternity look on a bush plane with abject disgust. They paddle their Kevlar canoes with carbon fiber laminate paddles, protect their food with bags made of petrochemicals, sleep in vinyl impregnated nylon tents and yet they have the temerity to point at the lowly bush plane and yell, “FIE! It’s an unsightly, high-tech, noise-pollution generator!” Well, get your form-fitted silicone ear plugs ready, boys, ’cause we’re going North the noisy way this time.

Saturday, 11-Jul-87

It was 9:30 PM and I was headed for the rendezvous at Gene’s
house. I was a couple of miles from home when the right side of my
brain knocked on the left side and said,
“You left something at home, Mark.”
“Yeah, Hal, I left a whole hell of a lot of stuff at home.”
“But this is something you wanted to take along on the trip.”
“Nay, nay. I made a list, checked it a blue-billion times, and
checked it again when I loaded the car. Everything’s here.”
“But you are taking a few things that are not on the list. What
about the leather boot laces, and the extra plastic bags, and…”
“Ok, Hal, tell me what it is, and I’ll go back and get it.”
“I don’t know what it is, Mark, but you are going to be really
torqued when you need it and don’t have it.”
“Well either tell me what it is or SHADDAP! If it’s important,
somebody else will have thought of it and brought it. Unimportant
stuff I can do without.”
“But…”
“DRY UP!”
This happens every time I leave on one of these trips. The little guy
is a real pessimist. I wonder how he got that way.

The thought of pessimism made me recall the party we had in the
middle of winter. It was the annual affair where we veterans of
several trips to the Boundary Waters of Northern Minnesota congregate
to view pictures of the last trip and plan the next one. We had just
decided to try a fly-in trip and were counting those who wanted to
join up.
“You in with us, Jim?”
“Welll I dunno. Looks a bit dicey to me. Do you guys have one of
those new survival radios? You know, the kind where you raise the
antenna and throw a switch and the rescue helicopter comes in a couple
of hours.”
“Nope. Don’t think so. Anybody? Uh-uh. Hey, Jim. This isn’t a
polar expedition.”
“Yeah, but what if somebody breaks a leg or has a coronary or
something?”
“If you break your leg, we splint it and schlepp your butt out of
there. You get a coronary, an’ you die. Where do you want us to spread
your ashes?”
Unbelieving stare.
“Hey, Dave. If you are on the trip and peg out on us, where do
you want your ashes to go?”
“Umm. Phantom Lake, just South of the East portage. How about
you, ChrisS?”
“Sprinkle me at the cliff edge above Little Crab. It is really
pretty from up there. Pour a bottle of beer on top; that would be
nice. Mind you, if it’s a light beer, I’ll haunt you for the rest of
your very short life. Gene?”
“I can see you guys have a lousy eye for scenery. Don’t know the
first thing about it. Me, I want my ashes stuffed inside a ladies’
riding saddle. It…”
“C’mon, damnit. I’m being serious,” says Jim.

At the end of the trip I would remember this conversation again
and the laughter would sound a little hollow.

I arrived at Gene’s place at 10:00. The rest of the guys began
to straggle in a bit later. By 11:00 we had loaded our gear aboard
Dave’s van and had left for Parma to collect Irene, the only female we
could find with enough gumption to go with us. By midnight, everybody
was aboard and we headed West. The members of the group were, ChrisR,
ChrisS, Dave, Gene, Irene, and Mark.

Sunday, 12-Jul-87

Everybody took a turn driving. This made light work of the trip.
When not driving, we either slept or “cracked wise”. Dave warned us to
lay off the Polish jokes, as Irene hails from Poland and can’t seem to
get the humor in them. This kept the fun-meter’s needle off the peg
until ChrisS hit on the idea of substituting the words, “Kent State girl”
for “Stosh” in the jokes. That pegged the meter again and all were
content (except for Irene).

Monday, 13-Jul-87

We arrived in Ely, Minnesota between 3:00 and 4:00 pm. The
outfitter confirmed our flight reservations for 10:00 am. the
following day and rented us three canoes, two #3 Duluth packs, a four-
man tent and a leech motel.* In downtown Ely we ate at the Cranberry Restaurant. Knowing this was going to be my second-last civilized meal for the next ten days, I ordered a steak, salad, french fries and a Molson. I thoroughly enjoyed every bite. Then I realized how decadent that was and enjoyed it even more.

That night, we camped in the public campground on Fall Lake. This
allowed us to test the rented tent, load the Duluth packs with food,
and shake down the rest of the gear. The campground was nearly
deserted; a strange turn of events for this time of the year. The
reason for this was discovered later; all the flush toilets were down
for repairs, leaving only the “hole-in-one” variety. After the next
ten days in the wilderness, these facilities would look lavish indeed.

*An insulated box for live fish bait

Tuesday, 14-Jul-87

This morning we ate at “Our Mom’s Restaurant” in Ely. Our Mom’s is
an old frame house with a lot of tables and chairs in the living and
dining rooms. The cash register is in the hall and the rest room is in
the hall closet. There is no sign on the rest room; you just know,
without knowing how you know, that that is where Our Mom would put the
crapper — out there opposite the cash register. Our Mom’s is strictly
a breakfast joint. Ham and eggs and flapjacks are the belly timber she
provides in hot, delicious quantity. The specialty of the house is a
large hot cinnamon roll, carameled or frosted, your choice.

The outfitter had a van topped with three new 17 ft. Grumman
canoes waiting for us. We selected paddles and life vests, loaded some
live bait, and headed for the lake on the outskirts of town. The bush
planes (two De Havilland Beavers) were already moored at the lake side
dock. The pilots were talking to the U.S. Customs agent. One of the
pilots was overheard to say, “I really do have a pilot’s license, but
it is in the wallet that I lost.” When Gene heard that, he wanted to
go home. The pilots spent about an hour trying to tie the canoes to
the pontoon struts. It appeared that they had never done this before.
The outfitter’s lackey had to show them how to make the ropes tight
enough with a slip knot and a half-hitch. Gene saw this and wanted to
go home again.

The Pilots

The canoes were lashed to the pontoons

By 11:30 we were ready to depart. Gene, ChrisR and ChrisS boarded
the orange plane. This plane had two canoes tied to the struts and
carried the lightest baggage. Dave, Irene, and I boarded the yellow
plane which carried one canoe and the heavy stuff. I was amazed at how
quickly the plane left the water. The pilot pushed the throttle
forward about a third of the way, adjusted the propeller pitch, looked
out the window, pulled back on the stick, and we roared up into the
sky. Then he fiddled with the fuel mixture and some thumb wheels on
the ceiling and began to study his map. Our destination was the
Canadian Customs Station at Cache Bay. The ride was noisy and the
plane behaved as if it wanted to fly sideways. I think the single
canoe roped to the port struts made the plane yaw a little.

We landed at Cache Bay and the pilots moored both planes to the
customs station’s dock. Gene walked up to the customs office to
answer the obligatory questions. I followed him a few minutes later,
thinking that everybody was going to be grilled. I wanted to get it
over with. An old man in a uniform was sitting at a desk, asking Gene
a series of loaded questions and trying to look intimidating.

Colonel Chop-Sausage: “Did you bring any liquor?”

Gene: “Yes.”

Colonel Chop-Sausage: “How much?”

Gene: “Thirty ounces apiece.” (forty ounces is the limit.)

Colonel Chop-Sausage: “Did you bring any beer?” (meaning, “Do you have
any cans?” -forbidden fruit in Quetico)

Gene: “No beer.”

Colonel Chop-Sausage: “Did you bring any wine?” (meaning, “Do you have
any bottles?” -also verboten)

Gene: “No wine.”

That was it. Having been shriven and sanctified, we were free to
camp in Quetico, but we could not yet fish. In order to fish, one’s wallet must be purified. If you start with a pure wallet (one untainted by filthy lucre) it won’t answer. You must start with a purse defiled by large quantities of the oil of Saint John Goldbeard and have it made clean again by an official anointed for that purpose. Moreover, the Anointed One does not reside at the customs outpost. We had to get back into the planes and taxi a quarter mile to a fishing lodge where the rites of purification are performed.

The dock at the lodge had room to moor only one plane. Our pilot
taxied out into the bay, cut the engine, and we drifted while the
other party bought fishing licenses. As they were climbing back into
their plane, the other pilot yelled out to us,”I want to fly on ahead. Do you think you can find the lake?” Our pilot looked at his map for a minute and shouted back, “Uh, yeah…I think so.”
This time, I wanted to go home.

The other plane buzzed down the bay and took off. Our pilot
started the engine, began a wide, sweeping turn to the right, and
studied his map some more. I noticed that we were turning toward a
canoe with two women in it. They looked at us with vacuous grins. They
had quit paddling.
“Gee, Alice! Look at the pretty yellow airplane.”
“Yeah, Gertrude, I wonder if that propeller will cut us into fish
bait.”
“Let’s wait here and find out.”

I slapped the pilot’s shoulder and pointed. He made a cut to the left and missed the canoe. He said, “Thanks, I didn’t even see them.”
The women continued grinning. I wanted to go home.

We purchased our fishing licenses at the lodge and took off
again. Our air speed was 110 mph. and we flew at an altitude of 1500
ft.

As the plane circled Clay Lake, I could see the Greenwood River.
It is the lake’s outlet and was the first stretch of water to be
traversed on our trek back to civilization. It looked like a real
bummer; shallow and meandering, with trees fallen across the channel.
It was no wider than a small creek.

The Greenwood River

The pilot landed the plane on the water and we unloaded from the
pontoons. There was no dock on the edge of this lake. I boarded a
canoe with ChrisS. ChrisS and I would be canoe partners for the whole trip.

Unloading in the middle of the lake was a real balancing act

The plane taxied down the lake and took off. The pilot circled
the lake below the tree line. Suddenly, he topped the trees to the
west and, gunning the engine, buzzed us, wagging the wings in
farewell.

The earth shuddered, then all was silent

We were alone in the wilderness, approximately sixty miles from
civilization. The only way out was a chain of lakes, rivers and
portages. We were certainly in a wild place, but it didn’t look
menacing. That could definitely be changed by an injury, a badly holed
canoe, or by a bear grabbing our food. I was determined to keep a
sharp eye on the maps and not do anything stupid.

I told the rest of the group what I had seen of the lake’s outlet
from the air. A decision had to be made whether to camp on the lake
shore or try to reach the camp at the rapids halfway down the Wawiag
River. The outfitter told us to camp at the lake if we arrived after
2:30. It was 2:30. We decided to “scout” the Greenwood River for a
short distance and then make the decision to return or press on.
The Greenwood was narrow and meandered through a large swamp.
Some of the curves were so sharp and the creek so narrow that we had
difficulty maneuvering the canoe through them. The water was very
shallow and we had to stop often and get out of the canoes and pull
them through mud and over sand bars and deadfalls. The outfitter
mentioned a “few pullovers”; he must have seen this territory when the
water was higher. After an hour of paddling and dragging those canoes
through the mud and deer flies, nobody wanted to return to the lake.
Thus, our “scouting” expedition turned into the actual start of our Quetico canoe trip.

Each canoe took a turn in the lead position so each pair of
paddlers could get “first squint” at the wildlife encountered on the
shores. The changes were usually made when traffic piled up at a
deadfall. Once, when Gene and ChrisR were in the lead, they rounded a
bend and came face to face with a moose. The creature was standing in
the stream eating water plants (moose moss?). It looked at the two
canoe jockeys and walked up the bank toward the tall weeds. By the
time I arrived on the scene, all that was visible was Bullwinkle’s
arse disappearing into the brush.

After several miles of this paddle-and-drag locomotion we finally
arrived at the Greenwood’s junction with the Wawiag River. The Wawiag
is about thirty feet wide and is deep and black. Its banks are so
regular, the river reminded me of a canal. We stopped at the junction
and took time out for a good squint at the map. The river had no
visible current at this place, and a wrong turn here would have put us
“up the Wawiag” for sure.
Everyone agreed it was time for a snack so we passed around bags
of gorp and jerky. Irene gnawed off a bite of jerky and said,

“You make all the jerky, Mark?”
“Yup.”
“This looks different from what we tried last night. Kinda black.
Different recipe?”
“Uh…oh, yeah. Different recipe.”
She shifted the food to her cheek and said with exaggerated
patience, “Alright. What is it?”
“Bambi.”
“Huh?”
“Venison. White-tailed deer. ChrisR shot it last fall.”
“Oooh,” she wailed, then took a couple of tentative chews and
said, “Hey! Bambi is GOOD!”

This river meanders its way through a swamp toward Lake Kawnipi.
The banks were regularly dotted with beaver lodges whose inhabitants
slapped the water in alarm as we paddled into sight. Once, when we
stopped to rest, I spotted a graceful plant growing in the mud. It
had feathery leaves and white flowers growing in umbels, quite similar
to a wild carrot. Dave produced a field guide for plants and
identified the plant as water hemlock, possibly the most poisonous
herb in the northern hemisphere. Once the identification was made, we
found it growing all along the river banks.

Rounding a bend in the stream, we came upon two moose browsing on
the bank. The bull immediately walked into the brush. The cow watched
us for a while and walked off into the weeds as we drifted near.
We decided that we could not make our objective (the portage at
the rapids) before nightfall, so we looked around for a possible
campsite. The first feasible place lay on a bit of high ground where
Mack Creek joins the river from the south. Here it was necessary to
kneel in the bow of the canoe and chop a path through dead brush and
floating branches to the shore. The site was a jumble of fallen and
rotting, moss-covered trees. Most of the ground was uneven and
unsuitable for pitching tents. We spent about a half hour
reconnoitering and found suitable places for the tents, a place for a
campfire, trees for bear ropes, etc.

“Hey, up there! Hey!”
I was interrupted by the little demon who lives in my medulla.
He’s in charge of the housekeeping chores. He inflates the lungs,
pumps the heart, makes the kidneys distill, things like that. He has
the mentality and disposition of a lizard. His name is Grinulf.
“Yeah, Grinulf, what is it?”
I’m cold, I’m hungry and my shoulders are tired. Do something
about it. Today, dammit. Today!”
“I’m going for dry shoes and socks now, Grinulf. You’ll have to
wait for hot food until we light a fire. How about some gorp in the
meantime?”
“Bag the gorp! I’m tired of chewing jerky and grinding gorp. And
just look at this place. Am I going to sleep here? The ground is
covered with moose marbles!”
“Moose marbles are softer than roots and rocks. Besides, remember
Italy, back in 1970 when we camped in the field covered with liquid
pig manure? Count your blessings.”
“I can’t count that high!”

I have to parry Gene’s backhanded witticisms, mug for Dave’s
camera, and endure ChrisS’s disgusting puns. Now my lizard is making
sarcastic cracks. Why did I join this itinerant asylum, anyway?

Gene and I put up the bear ropes while the others pitched tents
and gathered firewood. Supper was Ramen noodles, fruit, and hot
chocolate laced with rum. By 10:30 it was bag time and we turned in,
tired and muddy, on the banks of the wild, silent Wawiag.

Wednesday, 15-Jul-87

I unarsed the tent at about 8:00 am. My head was a bit stuffy and
my throat was a little sore. I probably inhaled a snootful of pollen
and breathed against a tonsil all night. That would do it.
It was time to light a breakfast fire. The others awoke, poking
tousled heads from their tents as I broke sticks and raised general
bedlam in camp. (The first one up generally doesn’t cut the lay-abeds
any slack.) Breakfast was a cup of hot chocolate mixed with a double
handful of granola. If you let this mixture stand a little while, it
thickens up and the flavors mingle better. It is a lot more
interesting than plain “old roats”. During breakfast, Irene and ChrisR
casually mentioned that their throats were sore also. Nobody felt
sick, however, so we ignored the discomfort and pressed on.
We broke camp, sponged the mud out of the canoes, and continued
down the river. In our travels that day we paddled into the territory
of a family of river otters. They hissed and barked at us while Dave
and ChrisS took their pictures. The ruffed grouse were extremely tame in this area. One pair allowed us to approach them to within four feet.

A 2.5 hour paddle brought us to the rapids. Here was a twenty rod
portage with a campsite at each end. Camp was made at the downstream
end of the portage. Gene and I filtered water while ChrisR and Dave
fished the pools and eddies in the rapids. The fishermen had good
luck; there would be northern pike and walleye for supper.
The fried fish were eaten with beef stroganoff which the cook
extended with extra noodles. Everyone agreed that camping doesn’t get
any better than this. In the evening, cocktails were made with Wyler’s
wild cherry drink laced with rum. This mixture would taste better if
it didn’t remind the drinker of watered-down cough medicine.
At bag-time, the sound of water pouring over the rocks put us to
sleep in short order.

ChrisR and Dave with walleyes and northerns

Thursday, 16-Jul-87

I crawled out of the tent in the morning and zipped the door
shut. When I stood up, the world turned upside down about four times
before I could get back on the ground again. The sore throat was
worse. Time for a war council.
“Hey, Grinulf!”
“Yo.”
“What’s wrong with the gyroscope’s roll gimbals this morning?”
“It’s that case of throat-rodents you’ve come down with. They
have gummed up the inertial platform. It takes more time to spin it up
in the morning.”
“Did you turn out the boys in white yet?”
“Yeah, yesterday already.”
“What’s your assessment, Grinulf? Is somebody going to have to
carry me out of here?”
“Nay, nay. That beer gut you so industriously built up last
winter gives me a lot of reserve. Just don’t make an Olympic event out
of this thing, and we’ll make it with bells on.”
“Give ‘er hell, Grinulf.”
“Keep our butt out of drafts!”

Dave was already up, bustling around the camp. He had the fire
going and was cooking a panful of scrambled eggs. I heard some
wallowing noises coming from up the trail where ChrisS had pitched his
bivy tent. The tent was undulating and bulging as if there was a big
caterpillar inside getting ready to pupate. He could save himself all
that cussing and dratting if he would just dress outside.

We ate the eggs with toasted English muffins and hot chocolate.
Powdered eggs always taste better in the woods than anyplace else.
Maybe Dave has a special recipe. I’m going to watch how he prepares
them next time. After we each had “washed our dish”, we broke camp and paddled the last stretch of the river. ChrisR caught a three pound smallmouth bass near the mouth of a large bay. The wind was kicking up whitecaps on Kawa Bay as we exited the mouth of the river. A three hundred yard paddle through very rough water brought us to a campsite on the North end of the bay. The wind continued all afternoon.

I have never seen fishing like this. The fish are large and
stupid; they seem to bite on anything. Dave and ChrisR could catch
supper for six in about fifteen minutes. (Usually they need a half
hour.)

Naturally, there was a fish fry that evening. Freeze dried
lasagna and tea topped off the bill of fare. For cocktails, we mixed
some of Dave’s Peppermint Schnapps with the wild cherry slosh. This
tasted even more like cough syrup.

That evening, two moose walked out into the shallow bay to the
North of the camp and began to feed. Dave and ChriS took some telephoto
pictures of them and then launched a canoe to try for some close-ups.
The moose heard the first bump of the canoe on the rocks and lit out,
water and mud flying from their hooves as they ran for the shore. They
had vanished into the brush before the canoe was even afloat.

We wanted to continue our journey the next morning. A wake up
call was left with Gene for 5:00 am., thinking the wind would abate
in the early morning. (You might know that some twit would bring an
alarm clock to the wilderness.)

Friday, 17-Jul-87

At 5:00 am. we awoke to the insectile chirp of Gene’s watch.
Gene took one look at the lake and crawled back into his bag. We were
wind bound. It was blowing straight down the length of the bay, right
into our teeth. A thunderstorm blew in after breakfast. The wind
abated after the storm. We took the opportunity and made a break for
it.

Our route took us down the length of Kawa Bay and into the main
body of Lake Kawnipi. We made a short stop at the North shore of the
lake to look at an Indian pictograph. The drawing was found in a
sheltered nook in the granite, about eight feet above the water. It
was red on a brown background and very faded. I could barely make out
a representation of three men in a canoe.

There were two islands with campsites at the North end of McVicar
Bay. The first island we checked was occupied. We paddled by a large
rock upon which perched a mob of little girls dressed in bathing suits
and life jackets. They were cannon-balling into the water, trying to
decide who could squeal the loudest. Egad! I could just envision them,
each with a five million candle-power flashlight, ripping and tearing
through the woods at night, giggling and riding saplings to the
ground. The second island was deserted. Luckily, the best campsite was
out of earshot from our neighbors. Gene and ChrisR caught more fish
for our supper; mostly pike and walleye. Gene, however, brought back
a four to five pound smallmouth bass. He turned it loose after a
photography session. The fish were cleaned on the rocky point of the
island. The scraps were left to the gulls, who cleaned up the place in
short order.

At supper time a large pan of lentils pilaf complimented the fish
fillets. Gene thought some of his gin might tame the wild cherry
mixer. We tried it. I got mine down, but just barely. On previous
trips the portages improved our moral fibre; this year the drinks
would do it. An inquest was held to find out who bought all that wild
cherry mix, but “Brer Fox, he lay low and didn’t say nuthin’.”

Saturday, 18-Jul-87

The wind changed 180 degrees during the night. In the morning it
was blowing out of the Northeast. The sky was heavily overcast and it
rained fitfully throughout the day. Dave and ChrisR went fishing before
breakfast. They brought back a stringer loaded with pike and walleye.
Most of the fish were turned loose after the obligatory photo session.

I watched Dave fry the fish for brunch. His culinary engineering
secrets are secrets no longer. He just gets the best ratio of bugs and
bark in the food when he cooks. I kept dark about this discovery. I
bided my time. The next batch of hoppin’ john would be unbelievable.
The day was spent exploring the island and “gathering wool”
around camp. I took a couple of naps; Grinulf needed a free hand in
the war with the “throat-rodents”.
Supper was freeze dried macaroni and cheese.

Sunday, 19-Jul-87

We broke camp early and set out to the South, down McVicar Bay.
The sky was overcast and we had frequent rain squalls; sometimes heavy
rain, sometimes a thick mist. An easy 20 rod portage took us to a
small pond. From there an easy 36 rod portage put us in Anubis Lake.
Anubis was breathtaking. Thick streamers of white mist slowly
swirled through the trees and coalesced over the water. The piney tang
in the air and the thin rain sprizzling on the surface of the water
reminded me of a giant gin and tonic in a Jules Verne dream. I reached
for my camera and then thought, “No, I’m not going to share. This one
is for me.”

The 64 rod portage from Anubis to Bird Lake began at a long,
sloping, lichen-covered rock. The wet lichens made the rock very
slippery and treacherous, especially for a man with a canoe on his
back. The rest of the portage was covered with jumbled, slippery rock,
making for extremely dicey footing. It rained like an idiot the whole
time we were on the portage. Everything became damp in spite of all
our rain gear and “waterproof” bags.

Bird looked much like Anubis but the mist was thinner and the
rain at times fell very hard. Sometimes it splashed so high the
surface of the lake became indistinct and we seemed to paddle (and
bail) across a cloud. The cameras stayed in their bags here too.
We crossed Bird to the West of the island at the South end of the
lake. This was a mistake because the river parallel to the portage had
silted up the bay on that side. The water was three inches deep in
places. We paddled through the silt, each stroke making six inches of
headway and leaving a stinking pile of mud on the surface of the
water. Getting stuck in that mess would make a dynamite subject for a
victorian nightmare. The eighty rod portage from Bird Lake was a path
through sharp, slippery rocks. Again, we made the carry in a downpour.
The rest of the day’s trek consisted of an easy paddle up the
Agnes River, ending at a nice camp on an island at the North end of
Agnes Lake. By the time the camp chores were done, it was supper time.

Supper was meant to feature beef stroganoff. However, the beef
stroganoff proved rancid and inedible. A bowl of Ramen noodles was the
highly unsatisfying substitute. The company which made the stroganoff
goes to the top of the black list!

The sky began to clear toward evening. By nightfall the heavens
were empty of clouds and shining with stars. Happy-hour brought more
wild cherry slosh and topped off my day’s already brimming allotment
of moral fibre. We sat on logs around the fire, sipping our cocktails, swapping lies, and easing our “boundary buns” as best we might. Irene borrowed my flashlight for a return to the overturned canoe which served as a bar. She replenished her drink and handed the flashlight back to me.
We missed connection and the light fell on the ground and went out.
Drat! The filament probably broke. I went to my pack for a spare bulb;
the bulbs weren’t there. They weren’t in my floating pouch either.
“Hal, did I leave the spare bulbs behind?”
“I tried to warn you when we left home, Mark.”
“Thanks a lump. You were a big help.”
“Its not my function to be explicit in such matters.”
“Don’t give me the ‘its not my job’ routine, Hal. Now we are
going to be groping around in the dark for the rest of the trip.”
“You said someone else would bring really important things.”
“Your memory is explicit enough now, Hal.”
I mooched a spare bulb from Gene.

Monday, 20-Jul-87

We slept late in the morning. I planned to make a batch of
hoppin’ john for the evening meal. The beans would have to soak while
we were on the move. I poured the beans into a plastic garbage bag,
added a gallon of lake water, tied the bag shut, and stashed the whole
works in one of the Duluth packs.
By the time the chores were done and the canoes loaded, the wind
was blowing at a pretty good clip from the SSW. We slanted our course
toward the shelter of the western shore. In the open, the waves were a
foot high; sometimes higher. The bows of the canoe slammed into the
waves, sending sheets of spray flying to either side. Halfway down the
lake, we cut across to the Eastern branch and found a camp on the West
shore. Here the lake had high granite cliffs and bluffs on both sides.
Our camp lay at the bottom of one of these bluffs.

Our camp on Lake Agnes

It was time to fix supper. I put the washed beans in a deep pan,
added a half box of rice, a packet of freeze dried beef, and a handful
of cut up Slim-Jims. A gallon of water and onto the fire she goes. At
the boil, I put in some salt, pepper, dried celery, and (is Dave
watching?) walked away while Mother Nature added the bugs and bark.
The crew liked it. At least they ate it and said they liked it.
At happy hour someone found a packet of lemonade mix. With rum,
gin, or peppermint schnapps, it made the end of a perfect day.

Tuesday, 21-Jul-87

Mid-morning found us on the move again. After paddling a few
miles South, we stopped at Louisa Falls where Lake Louisa empties into
Lake Agnes. The waterfall is about a hundred feet high and splashes
its way down a steep rock slope. Halfway down the slope the water
pours into a natural oval “bathtub” eroded into the rock. It is a
beautiful place with broad vistas of green forest and blue water. The
woods was crawling with groups of boys and their guides.
One of the guides approached me and asked what kind of pipe
tobacco I was smoking. He said he was going to take up pipe smoking in
order to enhance his image as a guide. Gene almost burned out a
bearing, trying not to laugh. He managed it, but today he’s a broken
man. I don’t get no respect.

Lake Agnes

The second guide described the next two portages we would
encounter: the 140 rod “Bastard” and the 193 rod “Bitch”.
The “Bastard” began at the South end of Lake Agnes. It was a
middling long portage strewn with rocks. A short paddle after
“Bastard” brought us to the “Bitch”.
“Bitch” was similar to “Bastard”, in that it was rocky. However,
it had a few extra attractions, namely extra length, hills, and muddy
places. This carry put us on the North shore of Sunday Lake.
A three mile paddle down Sunday Lake brought us to the Singing
Brook portage. This portage was a ten rod carry along the brook
through which Sunday Lake empties into Burke Lake. We stopped there to
filter some water. Nearly everyone was nursing his last pint, and
getting pretty parched doing it.

The next portage was on the other side of Burke Lake, a 1.5 mile
paddle from Singing Brook. While paddling by an island in Burke Lake,
we saw a man standing on a high rock overlooking the water. He waved
and said, “Hi!” Irene waved back and asked, “Got any cold pop?” The guy
would not dignify that question with a reply.

The twenty eight rod portage at the South end of Burke Lake took
us to Bayley Bay. This was an easy carry along a level sand and gravel
path. We camped on Bayley Bay at a campsite to the left (East) of the
portage. The bay had a wide sand beach and was very shallow. Fifty
yards from shore, the water was only waist deep.

Bayley Bay

Dave and Irene pitched their tent on the beach. The rest of the
tents were erected under the trees, nearer the fire ring and bear
ropes. The previous campers had left the makings for a fire in the
rock fire ring. Twigs and birch bark were all arranged, ready for a
light. I had to take it all out of there so I could rearrange the
rocks to fit our fire grate. We always tidy up our campsite, and
usually leave some fire wood behind, but tinder and kindling ready to
light is a nice touch.

Supper was Rice-a-Roni and Ramen Noodles. Another packet of
lemonade mix surfaced from the depths of the food pack, making happy
hour an unalloyed pleasure. There was another advantage to this place;
after a week of sitting on logs, stumps, rocks, and aluminum canoe
seats, here we had some nice soft sand to park our “boundary buns” in.
Small pleasures after a long day. The gang sat around the fire,
drinking tepid lemonade laced with various and sundry “ardent spirits”
and brailling down the day’s yield of moral fibre. With this
persistent sore throat, I felt I was getting more than my share. It
was time for an accounting.

“Hey, Grinulf, old snake!”
“Yeah, what is it now?”
“I want a status report. These throat-rodents are beginning to
annoy me. And I spell “ANNOY” with capital letters!”
“The leukocytes had trouble figuring the combination there for a
while. Now they are playing catch-up. It’s gonna take time.”
“They’d better get the lead out, Grinulf. In eight hours I’m
gonna have a nice gargle with some 151 proof rum.”
Happy hour is the only time I can call Grinulf on the carpet and
get away with it.

Later that night the wind kicked up and a rain storm blew in. The
waves made such racket on the beach, I thought Dave and Irene might be
washed out into the bay. Gene went out in the night to make sure the
canoes were beached above the surf.

Wednesday, 22-Jul-87

For breakfast we ate “old roats” cooked in hot chocolate. By that
time the supply of sumptuous viands was running low.
The wind on the bay was moderate, but there was so much fetch to
the South that there was a high swell running. At the outset I
arranged with ChrisS to help steer if the wind caught the canoe and
threatened to broach it. We steered quartering into the West wind,
aiming for the lee of a large island. I gave the tiller to Hal. He has
parallel inputs and dual ported processors which make vector analysis
much easier when protractors and dividers are not available.
The sky was overcast and threatening rain again. A large bird was
soaring over the forest, moving back and forth in the blustery wind.
Was it a buzzard or an eagle?
“Steer, ChrisS!”

ChrisS, where did you get that awful-looking hat?

The canoe was almost broadside to the waves. ChrisS dug in his
paddle and pried the bow back into the wind.
“What’s going on, Hal? What happened?”
“I’m mortified, Mark. I was watching the eagle and the canoe got
away from me.”
“Pay attention! If ChrisS had not been on his toes, you would be
watching pike right now! Hey, Grinulf.”
“Yo.”
“Turn off the adrenalin spigot before this paddle breaks in
half.”
“Ok, but you guys are wasting your time watching grouse and
eagles. Let’s stalk a more worthwile bird, like a Rosy-Breasted
Mattress Thrasher.”
Jeez, Louise! My lizard is making ribald puns now. I’ve been
paddling a canoe with ChrisS too long.

We paddled through Bayley Bay and South through Birch Lake to
Prairie Portage. This twenty rod portage follows the river where
Sucker Lake empties into Birch. We took time to fill our canteens and
water bag at the Canadian Customs office at the North end of the
portage.

Sucker Lake is the northernmost lake in a long chain. Newfound
Lake is in the center of the chain and Moose Lake is on the South end.
Motor boats are allowed on these lakes and a canoe towing service
plies the water between Moose Lake and Prairie Portage. The tow boats
were large aluminum punts with canoe racks on top.

No tow for us. We are paddlin’, portagin’, pike-eatin’, bad-
weather lovin’, hard arsed denizens of the Boreal Forest! We paddle
the creeks and stare down moose! We dilute our rum with cough syrup! A
tow boat? FIE! Its an unsightly, high-tech, noise polluting mechanical
contrivance so far beneath our dignity that it’s driver must think a
snake’s arse looks like the North Star.

Looks like she got the hat back!

Halfway down Newfound Lake we made our last wilderness camp. Here
was the first Forest Service fire grate and latrine we had seen on the
whole trip. Supper was Ramen noodles (the hors d’oeuvre) with macaroni
and cheese for the main course. Cocktail hour featured rum with wild
cherry slosh.
The sky was overcast with a dull glow of lightning in the west.
We sat around the fire, telling lies and enduring ChrisS’s unspeakably
bad puns until 11:30. The lightning was now closer, bringing with it
the distant mutter of thunder. We prepared for a wet night and turned
in.

I awoke to a hell of a crash. The lightning was nearly
continuous. The strikes were so close we could hear the “click” of the
leader about a half-second before the lightning struck: Snick…BAM!
The thunder claps made the walls of the tent quiver. Rain began to
splash in through the tent’s screen door. ChrisR and I closed the storm
flap. Even in the closed tent, a flashlight’s beam was washed out by
the lightning. Later, I awoke to a continuous and nearly deafening
uproar. Click..spup-snick WHAM BABAM! The bottom of the tent was
floating in the center so that when I pushed down on the floor, waves
radiated outward. ChrisR and I looked at the storm flap we had closed
earlier and water was squirting through the zipper in little streams.
Would we drown before we were electrocuted, or afterward? It is at a
time like this that you begin to think:
“We camped at the bottom of a cliff. Not the place to be in an
electrical storm. Pitched the tent under a tree. We are sleeping on
top of all those nice conductive roots…in a tent with an aluminum
frame. Oooooh wellll.”

I put some plastic bags under the foot of my sleeping bag and
went back to sleep. That was, by far, the most violent storm I had
ever been in.

Thursday, 23-Jul-87

There were five inches of water in the canoes that morning. The
level of the lake was up. Breakfast again brought “old roats” cooked in hot chocolate.

Irene helped Dave dismantle their tent. She found that a mob of
night crawlers had taken shelter under the ground cloth. She delivered
herself of an explosion of opinion; she was “grossed out”.
“Yeah, Irene, think of all those slimy annelids wriggling around
in the mud, less than an inch from you all night.”
(More heartfelt and prolonged expressions of revulsion.)
“Think of it, Irene. Every time you rolled over, you probably
squashed about fifty of ’em.”
(More vehement and fervent exclamations of disgust.)
“Yup. They were probably squirming around under there all night,
mixing their nacreous exudations into the churning ooze, their nitrous
breath welling through the tent floor to poison your dreams with
‘fungeous abnormalities too hideous for the grave’s holding.'”
Irene tumbled to our little game. She gave us an old-fashioned
look and shut up.

The gear was loaded and the canoes were launched for the last
time. Our journey ended at La Tourell’s Landing and Tow Service on the
shore of Moose Lake. Gene called the outfitter to come and pick us
up.

While we waited, an ambulance came and took away a man and his
son. They had been struck by lightning on Ensign Lake the night
before. The man’s brother and nephew were sleeping in the same tent
and were killed. We watched as the Forest Service bush planes taxied
down the lake to retrieve the bodies.

The outfitter’s lackey drove in with a van. He opened a cooler
full of beer and soft drinks for us. Beer! Tall, cool long-necks! Back
in Ely a hot shower was waiting for us.

So ends the saga of the 1987 Quetico Expedition; a tale of ten
days in the boreal wilderness, during which six friends shared camps
and canoes, fair weather and foul, dangers and pleasures. In length,
the trek measured 1.9 miles by portage and 62 miles over water.
We six still get together in the middle of winter to look at the
pictures and remember the miles of paddle-and-drag travel through mud,
dead falls, mosquitos, and deer flies on the Greenwood River, the
hours of paddling through the swamp and its teeming wildlife on the
Wawiag River, the joy of camping and fishing on the wild solitude of
Lake Kawnipi, the eery fogs and eldritch mists of Anubis and Bird
Lakes, and the exhilaration of heavy weather on the vastness of Lake
Agnes. We recollect portages in the rain and humid heat and laugh at
the japes traded with fellow campers. And then the six of us plan
another trip: a trip that is a little longer and just a bit more
challenging in the stony woods and wide water of Quetico.

Grinulf says we are crazy.

Wilderness Canoe Trips

During the years 1984 – 1994 my friends and I made several trips to different parts of the Boundary Waters and Quetico.

Quetico Provincial Park is just north of the US-Canada border and adjacent to the Boundary Waters. It consists of over 1800 square miles of lakes, rock cliffs, waterfalls, virgin pine and spruce forests. It is larger than the BW and much less traveled – a canoe camper’s paradise. A permit from the Canadian government is needed to enter. There are no designated campsites in the park. There are no latrines, so a person must dig a “cat hole” with a stick and cover it up when the mission is completed. This may seem rather awkward and uncomfortable to someone accustomed to indoor plumbing, but after a couple of days it becomes routine. As in the Boundary Waters, glass bottles or cans are not permitted, and everything brought in must be carried out.

After gaining some experience canoe camping and carrying way too much stuff, we learned to travel light and cut down on weight and volume. This was especially important if we intended to do a lot of portaging. We no longer brought whole eggs, fresh meat and vegetables – instead taking dried foods like beans, macaroni, Ramen noodles, beef jerky, etc. One thing these canoe areas have is plenty of water – it didn’t make much sense to carry in fresh food and vegetables. Instead we brought dried food and prepared it with the fresh water from these beautiful wilderness lakes. Although the fishing was usually excellent, depending on it to provide food could be disastrous due to its unpredictability.

Today we feast…tomorrow, who knows?

(These walleyes had a bronze color from the tannin in the water)

Most campers drink directly from the lake. We were a little more cautious and usually boiled or filtered our drinking water. For mixed drinks we brought gin or rum in plastic bottles along with powdered Kool-aid or limeade for mix. Firewood was plentiful so we didn’t need an elaborate stove. A small one-burner camp stove was nice to heat water for a quick coffee or tea or in case of wet weather. Duluth packs were better than tall hiking packs with aluminum frames because they sit low in the canoe.

You have to hold your mouth right to chop wood!

We learned to avoid campsites that are close to civilization where bears are accustomed to eating food from dumpsters. We also stayed away from sites with trash from bear raids, because we knew those guys would surely be back.

On moving days we tried to leave as early as possible, but only after a good breakfast. We didn’t stop for lunch, but each person carried a plastic bag filled with “gorp”, a mixture of raisins, nuts, M&M’s, etc. This high energy-protein mixture was enough to get us through the paddling and portaging part of the day. We covered 10-20 miles per day depending on the number of portages, weather, and the physical ability of the people on the trip. Sometimes we came to a place so beautiful that we just had to stop there and camp.

At about 4PM we would try to find a campsite and begin setting up. This was easier during daylight and before everyone was tired and whacked-out. Two persons would gather wood, start a fire and boil some water. Each person would fill his/her cup with Ramen noodles and hot water. This would give us enough energy to set up the tents and make camp. The person who was in charge of the evening meal would start cooking. Others would fish, swim, read, explore, or just loaf. Then we would dine together in style. After dark we would sit around the fire drinking the spiked limeade, listen to the loons and other night sounds, view the Aurora Borealis, tell of the day’s experiences and our great achievements of the past, then collapse into our tents for the night. The following day we would do it all over again.

Dave making breakfast

We brought along a French chef

Mark opens the bar

Navigating with a map and compass was a necessary skill since there were no satellites or GPS in those ancient times. Most difficult for me was to estimate distance traveled. This was needed to determine our position on the map. Many places look the same out there, and distances can be very deceiving in the wilderness.

There were many paths and portages. These had been used for years by Indians, French fur trappers and other explorers. They varied from a few yards to over a mile in length. The surfaces varied from wide, flat, and dry to narrow, steep, rocky, muddy, and full of holes and puddles. I once stepped into what I thought was a puddle and went immediately up to my hips in quicksand. I didn’t sink any deeper but I had a canoe on my shoulders and couldn’t get out. I threw the canoe off to the side but I still couldn’t budge. Big Dave Heisler walked up beside me, put his arm around my waist and gave me a huge yank. I heard my knees crack as the suction from the sand tried to keep my legs from escaping, but I finally popped out. There were no permanent injuries but I felt at least a foot taller for a long time after that.

The portages were marked on our maps, but sometimes incorrectly. I once walked up a path that was marked as a portage only to have it peter out after a half mile. I had a canoe on my shoulders and I knew I was in trouble when I heard the branches squeaking louder and louder against the sides of the canoe as the path became narrower. The only thing I could do was find a place wide enough to turn around and retrace my steps.

Mosquitoes could be quite a nuisance. The most effective defense we found was 100 percent Deet (we called it “Quetico Cologne”). These pests could be bad in the woods during the evening. They normally didn’t bother us on the lake on a sunny or windy day. We didn’t encounter black flies since we normally traveled in late July and August.

On some trips we started paddling in the U.S. and crossed the border into Canada by canoe. There would be a customs station there and we never had trouble with these guys. On one occasion, however, we decided to drive to International Falls, MN, and cross the border there. Due to the many paper mills in town, that place smelled worse than a skunk with halitosis. Just over the border we drove through a large Indian reservation. I have been in over 50 countries around the world and I can truthfully say I have never seen worse poverty and squalor than in this place.

Upon driving up to the customs station we were in for some excitement. A mean-looking customs officer with a very bad attitude was standing there with some guys that appeared to be new trainees. As soon as I heard the tone of his voice and saw the look in his eye, I could tell that this pompous loudmouth had decided to use this van full of hippies (us) to train his rookies, and was going to shake us down no matter what we said or did.

The conversation went something like this:

Officer: “Where ya headed?”

Dave (who was driving): “Quetico canoe and camping area”.

Officer: “Wacha gonna do in there?”

Dave: “Canoe and camp”.

I’m thinking: (“What the hell did you think we were going to do in there, have a bicycle race?”)

The Boundary Waters

When I was a young boy my father taught me many things about plants, animals, nature, and how to live in the woods. As a result I became interested in wildlife and camping. I was fascinated by the stories I read about the adventures of the Voyagers – the French Canadian fur trappers who canoed the northern lakes and rivers during the 17th and 18th centuries when beaver furs were in demand. I thought I would like to try living in the wild, canoeing the wilderness, navigating with map and compass the way the Voyagers did.

After living in tents furnished by the U.S. government for a couple of years I somehow lost interest in wilderness camping, but many years later upon hearing about the canoe areas in Northern Minnesota and Ontario, my interest was revived. I thought this may be a nice way to spend a couple of weeks in the summer, get away from the noise, and perhaps gain a new appreciation for the conveniences we have as modern people.

After doing some research and having winter meetings, seven of us decided to give it a try in the summer of 1984 . We picked Sawbill Lake in the Boundary Waters canoe area to have our first wilderness adventure. This lake is just north of Tofte, Minnesota, a town of about 250 people.

The boundary Waters is a wilderness area in the Superior National Forest of Northern Minnesota reserved by the U.S. government for camping and canoeing. It is on the southern edge of the Canadian border just north of Lake Superior, consists of about one million acres of lakes and virgin forest, and is covered with old Indian and Voyager trails. There are over 1100 lakes and hundreds of miles of streams and trails. It is as close to pristine wilderness as can be found in the continental U.S. For the most part no motorized vehicles are allowed in, and planes are forbidden to fly over. An entry permit is needed, and the number of people allowed to enter is limited. There are designated camping areas provided by the U.S. forest service, each with a fire grate and wooden box with an appropriate-sized hole in the top to serve as a latrine. No tin cans or glass bottles are allowed. Anything taken in must be carried back out.

There is also a canoe camping area in Canada just north of the U.S. border, Quetico Provincial Park. It is even larger and more primitive than the Boundary Waters. No designated camping areas or latrines are provided.

Armed with provisions, maps, compasses, entry permits, and after finding an outfitter who provided canoes, seven determined campers headed for Tofte, a 22 hour drive from our homes in Ohio. Besides me, there was my brother Mark and my son Chris, Dave Chlysta and his nephew Donnie, Eileen Kutinsky and her sister Vivian.

We arrived at a public campground at the south end of Sawbill Lake where we left our cars, slept overnight, and took a final shower before embarking on our big adventure.

While showering I overheard a couple of campers who had just come in from Sawbill talking about having trouble with bears. I didn’t give it much thought at the time. I knew that bears were in there but I had some knowledge about how to protect against them. I knew that we had to hang our food with ropes between two trees, so high that bears didn’t believe they could get to it. If they believed they could get it, they would! I also knew that unlike grizzly bears, black bears generally do not attack humans.

Being inexperienced at canoe camping we went overboard in our choices of things to bring. We worried more about comfort than weight (mistake number one). It should have been the opposite, since everything needs to be carried on a portage-including the canoes. We brought a cooler, camp stove, whole eggs, potatoes, steaks, hot dogs, and other things we thought we might need to live in the wilds for a week. My brother even brought a small wooden keg full of 151 proof Ronrico rum to help keep us warm during those chilly nights, and I brought a practice guitar so I could keep my “pickin’ fingers” limber.

So off we went into the boonies with our stuff loaded into 4 canoes. We must have looked like the Oakies headed for California in “The Grapes of Wrath”. After 5 or so miles of paddling we found an empty campsite. It was the closest one to the public campground and first one we encountered. We set our camp up there (mistake number two). After unloading our stuff and setting up tents, we decided to use this site as a base camp and take day trips for fishing and exploring.

Mark, Chris

Eileen, Donnie, Dave

Chris, Eileen, Vivian

Eileen peeling potatoes and Mark giving advice

Gene making breakfast

We noticed that there was some amount of paper and trash strewn around, a sure sign that bears had visited the previous occupants. We didn’t let that discourage us (mistake number three). After all, we didn’t see any bears. They were gone.

That night they were back!

Fortunately we had strung our food up and the bears couldn’t get it. They just pussy-footed around the camp for awhile and then left. Black bears are not normally aggressive, but they will trash the place looking for food when the occupants are away or asleep. We always hoisted the food and left the tents open when leaving the camp so the bears wouldn’t tear them open while trying to get in (Bears seem to have trouble with zippers).

Dave putting up bear ropes

Checking to see if the Duluth pack was high enough to be bear-proof

If the bears do get the food and you are many days from a grocery store and civilization, it will definitely add stress to the trip!

We had to hoist the heavy cooler full of eggs, steaks, and other food into the trees, and the rum had to go up. After all, we didn’t want a bunch of rummed-up bears staggering around the camp making nuisances of themselves !

That was too much for our ropes. One night a rope broke and the cooler came swinging down, banging against a tree with a loud thud. I heard Eileen exclaim as she poked her head out of her tent, “Well, that’s probably it for the eggs”.

It was.

We limited our activities to Sawbill Lake except for a couple of instances when we portaged into nearby lakes and rivers, always returning to our original camp at night.

Portaging to Ada Lake

Ada Lake was crawling with Northern Pike

About 50 yards across the lake was a large island with a campsite in view of ours. I noticed that a couple had set up camp there. One afternoon we heard a blood-curdling scream coming from their camp. Dave and I ran over to the water’s edge and saw a girl running back and forth waving her arms and screaming. We jumped into a canoe and headed over, having no idea what we would find. The hysterical girl told us that a big black bear had run away with the couple’s Duluth pack-in it was their food, passports, and other supplies.

“Eet vas beeg and black and vent dat vay”, she said with a European accent, and pointed to a path in the woods.

I immediately ran in the direction she was pointing. I wanted to recover the pack before too much damage was done, but was not thinking of what I would do if I encountered the bear. After about 200 feet of running I spotted a very large black bear, perhaps 400 pounds, ripping up a Duluth pack on the ground. He looked up from the pack and turned his gaze menacingly toward me.

I wasn’t sure whether to run, wait for Dave, or say my prayers. I bravely (stupidly?) took a step toward the bear and he took a step backward, so I knew I had him. I ran after the bear, he abandoned the pack and I chased him into the woods. He obviously didn’t know how scared I was.

Upon surveying the damage to the pack, we found some well-mauled food wrappers, a toothpaste tube-the only thing left was the lid part, a squeeze Parkay bottle that was licked clean, but looking as if it had been run through a shredder, and various other torn-up articles. The bear must have had no intention of doing any foreign travel since the 2 passports were there, undamaged and intact.

The girl, Marja, was a stewardess for KLM Royal Dutch Airlines. She had a lay-over at Duluth Airport, so she decided to take advantage of this time to do some wilderness camping with her boyfriend, Roger, who was definitely not a camper. They had hoisted their pack up into a tree and decided to take a nap. They didn’t get the pack far enough away from the trunk, so the bear just shinnied up the trunk and grabbed it.

They were so un-nerved by the bear incident that they asked to stay with us (also the bear had eaten their food). We agreed and they turned out to be delightful company.

Roger and Marja

Not much left of the Squeeze Parkay

Every night we were visited by bears looking for food, but we somehow managed to keep it away from them.

After a week or so of camping we came back to the public campground to shower and return the canoes.We then headed for the closest restaurant for some real food and a beer. Then came the long ride back to Ohio in our cars with their comfortable soft seats and means of locomotion that required no paddling.

While at the public campground we found the cause of our bear problem. This place was crawling with bears at night, raiding dumpsters, banging the lids, jumping on car hoods, and generally making nuisances of themselves. They were no longer afraid of humans and looked to them for easy food. Our camp had been too close to this “bear factory”. On subsequent trips we made sure that we camped several miles from public camp grounds and other forms of civilization.

On arriving home I enjoyed not having to hoist the food I bought from Kroger’s up into a tree, but merely placing it in the fridge. I didn’t have to set up my tent every night in the rain, spend hours gathering and cutting firewood, or fighting with hoards of mosquitoes. I had a nice soft sofa and didn’t get “boundary buns” from sitting on a rock. I could turn on the shower and hot water would come out. I was living large!

I once again appreciated civilization and the conveniences it offered, but after several months of “living large” I missed the Boundary Waters and knew that I would someday return.

More pictures HERE

Rhine-Mosel River Cruise

Thanks to luck, good fortune, and the Wright Brothers, I have had the privilege of being able to travel to many countries around the world. In the ’50s the US government sent me to the Far East (see previous posts). Later I traveled with People-to-People as a chaperone for students who traveled as student ambassadors. I also traveled to many places on my own dime. All in all, I have been in over 55 countries and all 7 continents. The people I have met and the resulting experiences have enriched my life beyond all expectations.

My latest trip was in July – a cruise on the Rhine and Mosel rivers through 6 countries in Western Europe. There I visited parts of Switzerland, France, Germany, Luxembourg , Netherlands, and Belgium. I was particularly interested in the Alsace region of France (formerly Germany), and areas in Germany around Baden-Baden and Darmstadt since my family and many of my former Randolph neighbors emigrated from there. I also looked forward to visiting Luxembourg since two of my uncles fought there in The Battle of the Bulge during World War II.

Along the banks of these rivers are fertile farm lands, vineyards, forests, small villages, cathedrals, and medieval castles.

Below is a link to a YouTube presentation (29 minutes) consisting of some photos and videos taken during this trip.

Rhine-Mosel Video

Harvest Gold Live

With the exception of drummers, the turnover of Harvest Gold Band members was quite small. During the 10 years I was a member, Patti, our lead singer, left the band and was replaced by Cheryl. Everyone else stayed except the drummers, and we had 6 of those during the 10 years. I don’t know what we did to drummers, but we kept loosing them.

Gerry Gibb , our bass player- vocalist – front man, had been with the band since its inception (1971). Besides being an accomplished musician, Jerry was a natural comedian – funny man – “Robin Williams type” on and off the stage. He could change the words to a song on the fly, and no one knew what he was going to say or do next. He and Buddy made a natural comedy team and the audience responded well. It made things very exciting and we had a blast during every show.

When Jerry left the band in 1990 it was quite a let-down, and we had some difficulty adjusting to the change. It was easy to find another bass player, but someone with Jerry’s kind of personality was very rare indeed. Also, to add to this loss, it was becoming more and more difficult to find gigs. The club owners no longer wanted to pay for a complete band, but instead were hiring DJ’s to spin records, or solo musicians with electronic effects. In light of all these events we decided to “hang it up” at the end of 1991.

I recently found an old VHS tape recording of our band playing at a camp ground somewhere in Western Ohio. I don’t recall the name of the place or its exact location. The video was stamped with the date May 21, 1991. The tape is not of the highest quality but I digitized it as best I could and put it on YouTube. It will give the reader an example of our music during the last year of the band’s existence. These videos can be accessed by the following links:

Harvest Gold Live(2)

Harvest Gold Live(3)

The Harvest Gold Band

The Harvest Gold Band (HGB) was the premiere country band in the North Coast area during the 70s and 80s. In 1981 their steel guitar player decided to take a job with a band in Nashville, so they needed to find a replacement.

One night Buddy James and some other HGB members came to a bar where I was playing. After listening for an hour or so they said that they liked what they heard and asked if I would be interested in joining their band. I indicated that I would after I had finished my commitment with the current band, which would take two weeks. Two months went by and I didn’t hear from the Harvest Gold people. I had all but given up on them when one night Buddy and Patti showed up at a bar where I was playing, apologized for not contacting me, and offered me the job with HGB.

I had no idea why it took so long for them to call me back. I found out later that when they heard I was a school teacher they thought I would be way too “straight” to fit into the Harvest Gold culture. I realize now that in order to have a successful band, besides having good musicians you need compatible personalities. Harvest Gold was obviously aware of this since the band lasted over 20 years. Being in a band is somewhat like being in a marriage except more people are involved, making it even more complicated.

So I started my new career as a member of HGB. Buddy gave me some cassette tapes of their music and I went to work. We got together every Tuesday night in Buddy’s basement to rehearse for the following weekend show. I had been accustomed to playing in “pick-up” bands and it really felt good to be in a band that actually practiced together!

My first gig with the band was a four night stint at Bronco’s Night Club on route 14 south of Ravenna – Thursday thru Sunday night. We did this once every month. This was a fun place to play, the customers were friendly, the food was good, and I had a ball!

The Harvest Gold musicians were fun to be with. We had a good time on and off the stage, the audience could sense that we enjoyed each other, and it was reflected in our music. We genuinely liked each other (most of the time!). I can see why the band stayed together so long.

We had a bus that once belonged to the band “Judas Priest”. It was well equipped with furniture, sleeping facilities, generator, TV, air conditioning, etc. We each had our own bunk and since Buddy was the owner and band leader, he took the “executive suite” in the rear. Buddy did most of the driving, so while on the road the other members could practice, read, loaf, sleep, whatever. For fuel and maintenance the bus took part of our pay as an equal member of the band.

Since we were a weekend band and all the members had weekday jobs, this did not interfere with my teaching. We usually played one or two shows per week, maybe Saturday night and/or Sunday afternoon. On long weekends we would get on the bus Friday afternoon, head for our first gig, and were back home by Sunday night or early Monday morning. I do remember on one occasion standing in Buddy’s driveway on a Monday at 6AM just after getting off of the bus, when my alarm-watch went off telling me it was time to get up (I WAS up!). I was still able to make it to school on time.

Being on stage with a good band surrounded by fun people gave me a real high, but trying to look happy three or four nights in a row when I was tired could be difficult. I didn’t see any drug use in our group except for an occasional caffeine pill, but I can see why many show people become users.

The types of gigs we had were varied. We played the “animal clubs” (Eagles, Elks, Moose, etc.), night clubs, resorts, camp grounds, shows, theaters, dances, weddings, etc.

We even played for a Jim Traficant political rally in Youngstown, OH!

Some of our more interesting jobs were as “warm-up” band for the big country acts, quite often at the Ponderosa Park camp grounds in Salem, Ohio. We opened for almost every big name country band of the time, including Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Charlie Daniels, Alabama, Oak Ridge boys, Reba McIntyre, to name a few.

It was quite revealing to see how each of these acts operated. For example, Waylon’s outfit came in with 3 huge semi-truck loads of stuff. His body guards were the Hells Angels, and they roared in on their Harleys in a big cloud of smoke, dust, and noise. In contrast, Charlie Pride came in quietly in a Chevy van pulling a trailer, and used our mics and amps. Boxcar Willie did something similar. Some, such as the Oak Ridge Boys, were very friendly and mingled with the crowd, while others would slink in surrounded by a barrier of body guards.

Some of the ex-stars were booked without a band and we would get the job of backing them. I remember one big-name singer in particular who previously had several number one hits but now was on his way down. He was booked at Stambaugh Auditorium in Youngstown and we were hired to back him. His agent sent cassette tapes of his music for us to learn. I reverse-engineered every one of those songs down to the last note and we rehearsed until we could play every song in our sleep. When we did a warm-up with the singer before the show, he tried to impress us with his importance by loudly swearing that we were doing his songs all wrong. He was especially hard on our young drummer. Buddy finally told him that if he didn’t lighten up he would be doing the show without a band. He eventually settled down, we put on a very successful show together and everyone left as friends.

We opened for one well-known singer five times. The first time he was a relative unknown on his way up, and was the most gracious person on the planet. But as his fame increased he kept getting more and more obnoxious. The last time we worked together he was now a world-wide star and was absolutely unbearable! Even his band members couldn’t stand him and would come over to hang out in our bus during their breaks.

It is easy to criticize him for acting this way, but one has to remember that when a person becomes that famous, everyone wants a piece of him. This guy could not even buy a burger at McDonalds without getting stared at or pestered. Some people are unable to handle this.

Another interesting thing I observed was the way that some of these guys treated their band members. Most of the side-men made “peanuts” compared to the head man. If one complained or asked for a raise he would be replaced by a musician every bit as good who would take minimum union wage just to be seen on stage with the big star. I finally realized that there is a musician in almost every small town just as good or better than any one in Nashville. The woods is full of talented musicians. Only a very few make it big financially – most of the others struggle.

If you want to be a professional musician, my advice is to have a strong back-up plan. Music is a fantastic hobby, but you had better have another skill to rely on in case the myth explodes.

One star who treated his band members exceptionally well was Conway Twitty. He bought each one a house close to his and they all lived together as a small community.

The Harvest Gold Band played its last gig on New Years Eve, 1991-92. It was becoming difficult to book a 6-piece band in the financial climate of the time. Resorts and clubs were beginning to book “one-piece bands” consisting of a singer-guitar player with a computer, drum machine, looper pedal, and harmonizer. With this equipment, one person can sound like a whole group at a fraction of the cost.

On YouTube I have put together a video and slide show of the Harvest Gold Band. It is accompanied by our music recorded live at Bronco’s in 1984, and is about 16 minutes long. Here is the link:

The Harvest Gold Band

Enjoy!

Gene