Before you read anything else in this entry, you must click on the picture of Sam at left. Those white specks? Snow. No photoshop here. Snow, in May.
A few weeks ago, I was all proud of being hardcore when Melissa and I went camping on the Snakes and there was snow. But that was early April, people! And the point of that trip was to be on the Bay right after ice out! Where is the glory in being in Algonquin in May, even before bug season? Where is the hardship you could get credit for? Exactly. It's Algonquin. It's May. You're thinking your grandmother could do it. I know!
The thing is, it's been so stunningly beautiful and warm. I'd been wearing sandals. There were beers on patios. Thus, it's a good thing that our taxes still provide weather forecasting, because otherwise I might have packed a sundress and a straw hat, instead of all the layers of expedition weight fleece I own - not to mention a warm toque, and big fuzzy gloves, and my -30 sleeping bag. I do not like to be cold. So I felt a wee bit foolish when I got to the Opeongo access point and it was bright sunny and warm. I debated leaving the pogies in my car and just taking the neoprene gloves. I wondered if Sam would make fun of my gigantic clothing bag. But I was too lazy to repack, and shoved everything into the boat - plus the somewhat too big but totally cuddly hoodie I bought on clearance at the Opeongo store.
So, off we paddled, with all our warm layers, in the bright sunshine. That lasted about five minutes, then it clouded over. But we were warm, the winds were on the calm side, all was good. By the time we got to the beginning of Opeongo's East Arm, I wondered if it would rain - and was thus all in favour of setting up on the first suitable site we saw (good tarping trees, nice flat spots, two firepits so can pick the more sheltered one, good beach for landing and parking - what's not to like?). As soon as we got our tents up, we settled on the lower (more sheltered) firepit and started the epic tarp hanging. It wouldn't be epic if Sam knew the bottom of his lean-to tarp from the top, or if he 
only changed his mind once. Or even twice. But hey, we had three whole days, and not a lot of other stuff to do, so if some big Swiss guy wants to make you do a dance with a tarp saying "this way", "no, this way", "sorry, guys, it's this way" while grinning and wondering how long we'll put up with it, that's ok. Not to be outdone, I devised the most complicated food bag hanging system ever: I looped my one rope over the chosen branch, and made six bights, on which I clipped six carabiners, and got the six of us to thread our ropes. Then, up goes the whole rig, and you can do your own rope as you please - do it yourself bear pole. It was complicated. It had to be lowered four times (Elaine's food went plummeting along with her rope, the ropes got tangled, the ropes got tangled again, Elaine's rope blew out altogether). Take that, you tarp dictator Sam...
Food rope rigging and advanced tarpology only take so much time, though, and none of us was too keen on getting back into the boats (I am stil feeling smug about the dry paddling clothes thing, though - no wet nasty neoprene for me!). Hart proposed a walk. Dave must have had an idea of what sort of walk Hart likes, because he said he'd stay back at his tent. The rest of us grabbed our jackets and trooped off into the bush after Hart. He soon turned off his hearing aid to silence the complaints, I think. Ok, I'm being an ass - it was actually a pretty cool-oh bushwhack. I loved it. Except for the part where we had to bushwhack up a completely pointless hill - I think it was the part where I bitched that there better be a view at the top if I was going to work this hard that made Hart turn off the hearing aid! He claimed that it was easier walking on high. We pretended to 
believe him. It of course wasn't, though we did see some neat evidence of lightning strikes before climbing over big piles of deadfall to get down the other side. Our goal was an old homestead, its inhabitant having been killed by a bear. We whacked. We complained. We had fun. We didn't find it. We did find the dead guy's grave, and explored around what we thought was a large radius from there, but no homestead. Hart had been there 25 years earlier and felt confident he'd recognize it. But no luck. Eventually, we gave up, and went back to whacking the bush. This time I followed Sam, who avoided the hill but instead 
had us clinging to the side of the slope. I felt drunk, I was so off balance (Hart and Elaine went back over Mount Pointless, and Elaine started fearing that Hart was leading her off into the wilderness). We got back to camp. Having felt drunk without any alcohol, I decided this was as good time to rectify the blood alcohol situation and poured myself a drink. The rest followed suit. Hart became a firemaking wonder, and it was a nice evening. I was glad I brought the big puffy bag.
In the morning, it was cold. And gloomy. And windy. I declared that I would have a busy day of sitting by the fire (which Hart already had nicely stoked by the time I crawled out of my sleeping bag). Somebody proposed hiking, sombebody else suggested that going back into the woods for more firewood qualified as a hike. We all took turns doing this, and working with the saw - it got body temperature up. We watched the fire, and then the rain, and then the snow, and discussed our reasons for kayak-camping. Every single reason stated was about the after-camping: Sarka enjoys washing her hands with warm water at gas stations on the way home, Sam lusts after his ice cream cone, 
I miss my bed, and so on. We invoked the ghost of that really wet really cold early season McCrae Lake trip that Sarka, Sam and I did once upon a time - primarily to remind ourselves, other trips are colder and wetter and we were miserable then, *this* is *much* better. And it was, you know.
I make it sound so sucky, but it totally wasn't - I'm just making up for the convenient "I'm deaf, I can't hear you complain" excuse... Because, as you could probably guess, by noon - even though it hadn't really cleared up - we 
were sick fo the tarp sitting, and decided to paddle. This was when we discovered that our bushwack the day before did not take us much more than 1 km from camp - and it took us hours! And then we paddled to the far end of the East Arm, where there is a "cart track". We did not know what a cart track is in Algonquin lingo, and discovered (by asking the guys hanging out there) that it is a looooong portage (like, 8 km long) that is sufficiently well-maintained that you can strap a cart under one end of 
your boat and wheel it on down. I don't know why you would want to take your boat on a walk this long (they say the fishing is worth it in Lake Laveille, but I'll have to take their word for it). We walked part of it without our boats. Then we walked back. Then we paddled some more, and it was sunny. It was a great day after all. And the fire was warm, the drinks were fine (I had multiple-malt scotch in my hot chocolate. You get multiple malt by 
repeatedly topping up your scotch flask, but never with the same bottle. I suspect Sam has been developing that particular multiple malt for years...) I did not regret coming. The company was good.
Of course, it was still cold the next morning. And there was headwind. And I'd foolishly packed the pogies. Thus, I decided to ruthlessly take advantage of Sam's responsible trip leader position and for once in my life get to the take-out before he did, because he stayed with the group. 
That alone would really make the trip worth it, come to think of it. I know, I know, Sam will put me in my place on the next trip, to the Western Islands, and that trip will feature a long crossing and I will be lucky if I see his paddle flashes in the distance.
Whatever. I have a GPS.