Every group of people who spend a week or more together without the normal distractions of the modern world develops a rudimentary version of a new society - a society that observes rituals and prescribes meaning to objects otherwise not commented on. So it was with the world that Peter, Sarka, Joe, Keith and I inhabited for nine days on the Pukaskwa Coast this summer. The barometer of how well we were doing? Well, we'll get to that.
It was the trip that almost wasn't - never have I been involved with planning a trip that has had an inauspicious a beginning as this one. We lost several would-be participants to injuries, we got confused about dates and some of us had to do some 11th hour rearranging to make it work, we started for Hattie Cove in the worst rainstorm of the summer this far, and our shuttle van started spewing transmission fluid just as we got to Heron Bay. Despite all of this, we managed to make it to Hattie Cove by mid-afternoon, and it wasn't even raining there.
Our kayak trip began in much the same way every kayak trip begins - you stand there, looking at a veritable mountain of gear and you wonder what it is that you could cull. A hiking acquaintance of mine told me about the tiny whisk she packs that she can then sanctimoniously toss before she does the final packing at the trailhead, thus feeling that she did a last-minute lightening of the load. My version of this? I punctured one of the precious cans of beer while loading, so I shared it with my fellow adventurers before our backcountry orientation - and felt all smug that my load was lighter than I had planned.
So, boats stuffed, we headed off for our planned destination - a site at the mouth of the White River. It wasn't raining, the waves weren't huge and we had following seas to boot, and we only paddled for an hour. This hour was, however, long enough to learn the first life-lesson of the trip: it may contain Kevlar, it may have been expensive, it may make you look cool in the skateboarder sense, but that doesn't mean it's waterproof. Keith discovered that his sprayskirt came with a particularly nifty feature: an automatic cooling function for his bum. Rather than allow a paddler to become overheated (or pleasantly warm, for that matter), his brand spankin' new sprayskirt ensured a constant stream of resfreshing four degree water trickling down the small of his back to his butt. The status of Keith's bum took on important meaning to us. The Bumfort scale of comfort factors in roughness of seas, length of paddling, ambient temperature and paddler clothing.
The site on the White (south side, closest site to Lake Superior) is a nice site - for a river site. It has all the amenities you can hope for: outhouse, bear box, fire pit with log benches, several good tent pads. But, as Keith noted, though it was a good river site, it could have been on any river anywhere. Except, of course, that it was located 5 km downstream from some really cool falls with an even cooler suspension bridge over them.
As soon as we set up (in a hurry, because it started to rain - just enough rain to piss you off, not to make anything seriously wet, Peter observed) we hopped back into our boats and made our way upstream until we connected with the hiking trail. Despite some particularly hungry bugs and a wet and slippery trail, we charged through the bush and onto the suspension bridge.
Okay, truth be told, we didn't do much charging once we had to trust our lives to two rusty cables - we mostly timidly inched our way across the swaying contraption, stopping every wobbly step to take yet another picture of the churning water far below us. After we exhausted the photo opportunities, we wandered back down the trail (I stopped to check out the hiking trail campsites in this area) and then Keith and I spent a few minutes playing in the rapids below Chingawinigum Falls. Keith did so because he's a really good paddler with a playful boat, I did it because I have a plastic boat and thus don't need much skill to play in rocky waters.
Fortunately for us, the sun that tentatively poked its face out while we were at the falls had pushed the rain away, and back at the site we didn't need to hang a tarp to make our various dinners in relative dryness. Keith's bum? Dry. Probably happy, due to dryness, though perhaps it was as bugged by the mosquitos as I was. I know I was glad that I'd brought my bug shirt. We didn't linger past sunset (but then, sunset is close to 10 p.m.) but crawled into our tents once we'd done the usual camp chores. Our adventure had begun!
Nice though the river site was, I have an on-going love affair with the big lake itself. So I didn't waste much time looking back when we loaded up our boats and headed for the open water at 8 a.m. the next morning. Superior was in a particularly benign mood, and we had light winds, bright sunshine and warm temperatures for our saunter down the coast. It was calm enough that I landed on an exposed cobble beach when I needed a pit stop - and, more remarkably, Sarka and Keith - who were both in glass boats - did the same.
Our first real break came quickly - we stopped at the Willow River for a brief paddle upstream to look at the little supsension bridge and then to sit in the sun and eat some snacks. Keith's bum was now very wet, not only does the expensive sprayskirt come with an automatic icy trickle feature but the seat in the Gulfstream was equipped with the puddle maintenance feature of no drainhole.
Wet butt or no, this was a gorgeous day to paddle a stunning stretch of coast. There are a number of islands offering protection from the west south of Shot Watch Cove. We didn't need protection today, but I opted for the interior channels all the same. See why?
Lunch was in Cave Harbour. There was a cold wind, but in the shelter of some trees in a protected harbour, Keith's wet bum became a dry happy bum during our hour long break.
During this lunch break, I became a bit obsessed with my new plants book, and took it upon myself to learn some more plants (Sarka shares this obsession, and though she is way ahead of me, consulted the book as often as I did). To the left we have speckled alder, bunchberry, evening primrose and cinquefoil.
Cave Harbour rated high on the Bumfort scale of comfort - but, reluctantly, we left and paddled on toward Oiseau Bay. I had seen pictures of this one, so I knew that we were in for another white sand beach. I'm not a big fan of sand camping, but I was definitely outvoted on this on this trip, so I was prepared for a week of constant exfoliating. There is enough sand in Oiseau Bay to make pumice stones obsolete.
Despite the cold wind, it was a warm day - and we eagerly demolished the beers that Peter pulled out of his boat once we made camp. We weren't on a developed site - though there plenty of these here - but at the southern end of the beach. This is the only part of this beach that is not carved up by the river - the rest of the beach is either waterlogged, or separated from the mainland by three or so feet of water.