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Peter Pond Trip

Report #2
Whitewater Clinic July 6-8
and lazy days July 9--13
Missinipe, Saskatchewan

Yikes! This is even longer than the last one. I toyed with writing different versions for different ones of you, leaving out most for each, but gave up. You can sort, skim, dump, or if you're looking for something to do at the moment you might want to read it. I'm having a great time.

Friday was sunny and hot even before eight. After my breakfast of hardboiled eggs and Crispy Treats, I took my stuff down to the office. Everything fit into the blue plastic watertight barrel (it has a ring which fastens the lid to the barrel; you tighten it by closing the fastener-clamp) except my sleeping pad (packed in a plastic bag inside its nylon bag) and my tent (no big problem if it gets wet). Our driver, a college-age kid, loaded us in the van, and we headed north full tilt up a bumpy dirt road pulling a whole bunch of canoes -- three for us and the rest to be left for some other folks renting them later that day. 'We' are two wonderful guys named Rob (tall, in his thirties) and Ron (a bit shorter and wider, nearing his big 5-0), who teach ecotourism to mostly first nations students at a community college in The Pas, Manitoba -- an important stop in fur-trade days; and Irene, I'm guessing in her forties, an English-as-second-language teacher from Vancouver (all three with much more whitewater experience than I); me; and our guide and instructor, Kevin Schultz. He's a dark, handsome, wiry guy who looked to be in his late twenties, so I was surprised when he said he's guided for Ric for nineteen years! With him was his dog, Taiga, who goes on all his trips with him. She's part Labrador Retriever, part German Shepherd, part Akita (a big Japanese hunting and mountain dog), and part wolf. She's tawny butterscotch blending into white underneath.

We crossed a bridge over roiling Otter Rapids, which was on the fur trader route and undoubtedly run by Peter Pond in his day. We put in at Devil Lake (one of hundreds through which the Churchill River flows -- it's really a maze of lakes and streams, some with whitewater and some not) and paddled across into a fair wind. Here we veered one passageway south of the usual furtrade route and portaged up past Mosquito Rapids -- which hotshots can run. We'll come back via lesser rapids, which we should be able to do after three days of lessons.

The portage was only a couple of hundred yards, and the barrel is easy to carry because it's in a backpack-type harness. Our 85-pound Old Town Tripper canoe? You guessed it -- Rob carried it for us. Canoe etiquette, it's called. Lots of our Vermont plants grow here -- black spruce, aspen, white birch, bunchberries and starflowers. Fireweed was just coming into bloom -- it's one of the many plants that fills in after a burn. It was great to have Rob along -- he knows a lot about the local flora and fauna. He showed me delicate little white flowers nodding two per stalk -- twinflower, named Linnaeus borealis -- because it was L's favorite. He also identified Swainson's Thrush by its song -- like a Veery's, but shorter and rising in pitch.

We ate bananas and apricots, then walked back to look at the plunging rapids. Kevin refreshed our memories about terminology and route-planning -- upstream V's start with a submerged rock (or a slightly submerged one, called a pillow since it makes a slick shallow hump on the surface) -- so you avoid the beginning point of the V but might want to use the eddy below it to stop and reconnoiter. The downstream V's show where the full current is flowing -- they're good to shoot down, unless the waves or haystacks after them look too big. I couldn't follow the rest of the conversation, but figured we'd learn the rest eventually. Back on the water, we moved on up a narrow passage into the wind, which was getting tricky. Finally we got to Barker Lake and could see our island destination across it. The wind was strong in our faces; there were plenty of whitecaps and no way to get there by hugging a shoreline. It seemed to take forever to go twenty feet. Kevin, solo in his canoe, wasn't sure he could make it in that wind, even with his dog and some extra gear holding the bow down a bit. Irene and I kept trucking over to a reedbed which offered some protection; then we all just muscled across, Kevin battling the wind behind us -- I could NEVER have done that crossing solo! He's an amazing paddler. When we got to the lee of Barker Island, we could see that no one else was there and we'd get our pick of campsites. Because we're on the Canadian (or Precambrian) shield, all the shorelines are big smooth rock slabs of varying slope. The southeast point of this island was a long, bare spine of rock; we landed near it on big sloping boulders with trails up to the campsite, which was shady and clear of underbrush. Some big logs served as seats around the fire circle, and beyond the packed dirt, the floor of the woods was spread with thick green moss. Kevin said there was an excellent tent site just over a rise to the north -- it was a tent-sized plateau of dense, springy moss and looked out over the water to distant wide rapids rushing into the lake (great white noise for sleeping, Jackie!). Beyond was a trail threading down into a fairyland forest carpeted in golden green. I happily plopped down my gear. I got out my binocs to see what the big white things were way over by the rapids. White pelicans!

We had lunch (peanut butter for me, thanks!), then had our first lessons just offshore from our campsite out of the wind. We would practice everything on stillwater today. So -- off the canoe seats and onto our knees in front of them -- on cushy knee pads glued onto the bottom of the canoe. After reviewing basic strokes: power, sweep, draw, crossbow draw, pry, and duffeck (Gail -- this is the much more powerful replacement of our old 'bow rudder' -- you lean way over with your top hand near your head (and its thumb in front) and you knife that blade in so the power face angles out from you -- very dramatic swerve, a pivot, really. I'd learned it first in a kayak.) Big discussion as to the relative merits of two kinds of 'J-stroke' (stern paddler uses this to veer back towards her paddle side after the power-part of her stroke has sent the canoe briefly toward the other side; it keeps the course straight.) The 'lake J' is what we learned at camp, Gail -- at the end of the power stroke, you turn the blade parallel to the canoe with the power face out, then pull it outward to correct your course. In the 'river J' you turn the power face in and hold it a bit to correct your course -- what we called the 'stern rudder.' Kevin says in current, only the river J will do. Irene disagreed; this conversation recurred fairly regularly throughout the weekend.

Then we did sideslipping drills: You put the canoes facing each other a few canoe-lengths apart. One bowman holds a paddle up as the other canoe powers straight towards them. At the last minute, the signaler leans the paddle to the left or the right, indicating you're to sideslip (parallel shift) past on that side using a pry and a draw. Very funny and fun! A couple of fishermen came by wondering if we were camped there. We were glad they hadn't gotten to it first!

I was tired. Kevin caught me yawning during the lesson. I told him it was my way of relaxing.

We pitched our tents, then had great tacos for dinner, cookies (pb and choc chip) for dessert. I tried to dissect these folks' ways of speaking -- they've got those pure long o's like people in Minnesota. They talk a little like you, Sally Sharp, but with lots more of a lilt, as do most of the folks here -- almost an Irish lilt. And their short a's as in 'jam' or 'camp' are purer and more open, though not as far as the a in 'father.' Lots of talk about society, the future of the world, native cultures. According to Ron and Rob, the Cree where they live continue to be generous to a fault. He had some guest lecturers traveling on a shoestring and asked the students to donate spare change; they gave HUGE amounts. Kevin says he wishes HE were Indian -- they have rights coming out their kazoobies. Especially re education -- I guess there are lots of programs for them, which seems only fair since it's not their fault they can't earn their livings their traditional ways any more. After awhile Ron got out his pennywhistle -- he's GOOD! I got out my recorder and we tried some duets. Nowhere near up to your standards, Grant! Turns out he's a fiddler -- whee! So we did fiddle tunes. We couldn't figure out the harmony for Ashokan Farewell (currently my favorite song), but have both pledged to learn same for when we meet up again. Lots of funny and ribald (we argued about the pronunciation thereof) stories. The guys blessed us with their cigar smoke, ostensibly to keep away the bugs. Jim T. -- you would have been right at home! About 10:30 the sun was pretty much down, the mosquitoes came bombing right through the smoke, and we went to bed. I read for awhile; at 11:30 there was still pink in the sky. The distant rapids lulled me to sleep.

The next morning we had bacon, Mexican omelettes, and flatbread (peanut butter and strawberry jam for me, of course!). I said I'd do the dishes, but then Rob started me on another flora lesson. Labrador tea grows all over there; he said that it's been used not just for tea but to put a head on beer. Reindeer moss (really a lichen) is common, tough gray dense stuff that looks like the trees and bushes in a model railroad setting -- which is in fact one thing it's used for. Old Man's Beard is a another grey-green lichen that grows on trees, sometimes covering them. The deep emerald spongy stuff on the ground is feather moss and the redder sphagnum moss, which was made into bandages in WWI -- it's not only absorbent, but contains a disinfectant. Indian mothers packed it around their infants in their cradleboards -- excellent diaper material, and recyclable! I've read that winter trapline tents of natives are wonderfully warm and sweet-smelling inside because of the boughs on the floor. Rob agreed; people at his school do winter studies in wall tents in the snow -- they're amazingly comfortable, and spread with fresh spruce boughs every few days -- but you have to know your black spruce from the white, because one of them (I forget which!) smells like urine. Yuck.

When we got back from the nature lesson, the dishes were done and it was time to head out. Kevin told us that today we'd be in current, still easy, to practice stuff. He said that whoever grabbed the gunwales (gunwales, the edges of the canoe) in a panic would be required to do the dishes that night.

As we set out in our boats and I thought over the moves we'd learned, I felt confused and incompetent. Really. I screwed up fairly badly by taking the wrong course upstream and having to waste a lot of energy. I was so confused I couldn't even remember what we had actually done, much less what we should have done. We headed north to an inflowing stream (not much faster than the Pammet, Molly!) where we practiced front ferries -- you point your canoe upriver, angle it towards the far bank, tilt it downstream, and paddle -- the current washing against the bottom of your canoe pushes you across the river as easy as pie. The whole point of open-canoe river paddling is to use the current, never fight it. 'Motion, angle, tilt!' have to work together to get you where you want to go without filling up with water or capsizing. Then we practiced peeling out of eddies -- you're sitting calmly in the backwater of a rock or point, aimed upstream, and you power out of the upstream end of the eddy into the main current, which sweeps your bow downstream. You can keep going that way or you can turn the other way (S-curve) into an eddy by the opposite shore, swishing around smartly and coming to a stop in the backwater, always keeping the canoe tilted away from the current so the oncoming water can't get over the edge and dump you. It's neat, and dance-like.

Kevin demonstrated solo, dipping and tilting and turning, reaching far out for dramatic duffecks, never rushed, under total control. Then the guys would give it a try, we'd discuss their success (or occasional lack of it), and then we 'girls' would try. Kevin is a terrific teacher, quick with the whistles and bravos and thumbs up, always telling you what you did right (Maura and Leslie, you'd love him!). If he has to make a criticism, he always prefaces it with 'Not to be mean, but...' Then we'd do it again (his 'again' and his 'against' both have long a's in the second syllable).

I felt less anxious when paddling bow, since by this time I could even do a passabe duffeck, which now we all called doofus. Besides, I had no decisions to make, just had to follow Irene's directions. But even that had problems. She'd tell me to draw or pry, I'd do it, and she would say 'Good!' Then she'd say 'Good!' again, more insistently. She told me later that she finally realized that I thought 'Good' meant 'You're doing fine; keep doing what you're doing.' But she really meant 'Good enough. You can stop now. We're where we should be. Resume regular paddling.' So instead of saying 'Good' she started saying 'No more.' Of course, with the rushing of the water, all I heard was 'More!' Finally she just said 'STOP!' when I'd done whatever it was long enough. I'm sure I should be learning to judge such things on my own pretty soon.

The hardest part for me was remembering quickly which strokes to use (depending on whether you're in the bow with your paddle toward or away from the turn, or in the stern with your paddle toward or away from the turn. I understood where the canoe was supposed to go, and what the tilt should be at each point, but I was pretty much mushing around by instinct (and inventing new strokes) to make it do so. Takes practice. Plenty of times when I was in the stern, I'd feel pretty vague about what I was supposed to do, and even after the deed was done I knew it was right only when I heard that whistle and saw Kevin's thumbs up and his white teeth gleaming.

We ate lunch on the little island next to our practice stream. Such variety -- salami, cheese, bagels, pita bread, bananas, oranges, and of course peanut butter, jam, honey, and more cookies. There were great energy bars homemade by Heidi, the meal-packer back at Ric's, whom I hadn't yet met. It was another gorgeous day, blue sky, scattered high cumulus clouds, and a good breeze which sometimes added challenge to our practice turns.

Then it was time to practice rescues with the throw-bag, a weighted cylindrical nylon bag about a foot long and 4' in diameter. You push loops of line in, hold the end with enough slack to allow you to swing it underhand, and launch it towards the victim in the water. While we practiced throws, Taiga would leap into the river and retrieve the bag. Obsessed with this game, she whined and nipped at the bag in ecstatic anticipation of each toss. Then it was time to swim. The guys went first, each 'rescuing' the other partner as he came floating down the current in prescribed rapid-swimming form -- on his back in fetal position, feet up in front so they won't get caught by rocks, in which case the current would flatten the swimmer underwater. The rescuer yells the person's name, then 'Rope!' and then throws it a bit downstream of the person; then sits, sort of 'belaying' the rope but not winding it around his hand, in case something goes wrong; and another person, if available, stands by to help. The 'victim' still holding his paddle -- you never let go of your paddle -- grabs the rope, pulls it across his body, and gets pulled backwards to the rescuer, still keeping his feet at the surface. It was fun. I remembered getting rope-help both times I capsized my kayak going down the drop at the end of the Nantahala (North Carolina) run -- the first time being backwards!

Then we headed farther upstream to work on back ferries: like the front ferry, it's an easy way to cross even a stiff current, but in the back ferry your canoe is pointing downstream and you're back-paddling. Now, though, most of the steering will be done by the person in the bow, who does a sort of reverse J-stroke and/or sweep to keep the boat at the optimal angle which, along with the proper tilt, will get the current to slip the boat right across to the other side. All these maneuvers will be used in whitewater to avoid obstacles and other terrors like souse-holes.

I asked Kevin what is known of paddling techniques used by the voyageurs. He said it was a good question. I've got to remember to ask Ric and to look back in the writings of some of them. I don't think Peter Pond's narrative has anything at all about how to manage in whitewater, but I should look back to be sure.

We were getting tired and I was glad to head home -- meaning Barker's Island. We had vegetable-rice soup, tortellini with tomato sauce and cheese, and popcorn. More music -- this time I added my noseflute to the mix. Elliot and Zach and Billy, you'll be proud that I offered a rousing instrumental version of the Elmer Fudd Hawewooyah Chowus. It got really buggy, but Ron said after about a half hour they'd thin out again, so I put my mosquito veil over my hat. Which made it hard to play either the recorder or the nose flute. We told lots of stories of where we've been and what we've done. Ron has played about every instrument there is -- sax, piano, string bass. Rob told a lot about his kids, and Rob and Ron told us about their other canoeing adventures.

Kevin does a lot of back-country telemark skiing (was a ski instructor at Whistler for some time) and snowshoeing and hockey and hiking and tennis AND ... would you believe! ... he's a golfer. An avid sports fan, too. He's got a wife named Christa and a little girl who is two and a half; they live in Prince Albert. He only sees them once a month or so in the summer. In the winter he hitches Taiga to a sled and the little girl rides around in fine style. Irene told us that about 25 years ago she worked a few hours north of here as the only white person on the crew of a fishing camp. She dated a Cree guy there, and learned later that he'd died falling through ice on a snowmobile. I told some story they just loved; Kevin said I should write it up. I can't remember now what it was, and neither can he. They loved the Paradise Ranch stories about Fuzzy, who lost his teeth to a buffalo kick, and what'shername, who ran off with him to Steamboat Springs after being fired for taking him free malts from the pool bar. And of course, Helen, I told about the bear outside our tent in the Quetico, and how you wanted to take his PICTURE instead of trying to scare him away, and how he climbed the trunk of our food-pack tree, bent down the branch to make the pack swing, and leapt from the trunk to the pack, bringing the whole thing down. The guys all had bear stories, too, but none as good as that one!

Finally to bed. Enough of feeding the bugs.

Sunday I woke dreaming an awful dream. For some reason I'd agreed to teach at Hartford Middle School instead of the Richmond School -- and it's supposed to be a good one. But before even starting the day there I was disconsolate, missing you especially, Maura, and I dissolved in tears -- and that's when I woke up feeling weird. (Betsey -- did I dream that because David will be teaching there?

When I went down to the still, sunny point for my morning ablutions, I met Kevin coming back. He suggested I'd enjoy swim. So I did -- but slid faster than I intended down the submerged, gently-sloping flat rock slick with mossy stuff. The water and the scenery were lovely, but I didn't swim much -- kept remembering the five-inch-long yellow-and-black leech Ron had shown me yesterday nearby as it undulated along beside the shore. I was alarmed to find how hard it was to slither back up the slippery slope! Quick check: no leeches. And nobody had made off with my clothes!

After yummy pancakes, syrup, and canned peaches, Irene and I packed up our gear (the guys were staying out for a couple of days of camp leadership lessons), ready to pick it up on the way back to Ric's. It was another glorious day of hot hot sun, so we globbed on the sunscreen and headed upstream again past yesterday's practice points. I kept thinking of the voyageurs churning hundreds of miles upriver with those 25' canoes, 8 men in each, with a couple of tons of stuff. It boggles my mind!

We could hear our whitewater destination, 'Surf City,' before we saw it. We tied our canoes and clambered up the boulders to have a look. Egads! Its difficulty level seemed more than a notch above yesterday's merely swift current. A lot of water was pouring between our boulders and the other side's rock wall, forming two surging downstream V's, each piling up in a series of breaking stationary waves at the bottom. Kevin said the run was totally safe, that we would ship some water but would be unlikely to swamp, that if we did there were no submerged rocks and nothing but the peaceful lake below to float into. We lined our canoes up the rapids (each paddling partner holding a line from each end of the canoe; you sort of coax and wiggle the critter up the current as you climb along the rocks above it). The guys went down first to demonstrate. They sailed down the nearer V, through the waves, and curved around nicely into the eddy below us with maybe 4 inches of water in their boat. Kevin said they did well, but would have collected less water if they'd gone more slowly. Ah....that's the point! With open boats (unlike kayaks, which are easier since the waves pour off of them and their paddler-wrapping sprayskirts), you descend SLOWLY, bopping around on the tops of the waves, using your paddles to brace by pushing down on the water far out to the side -- they work like outriggers. NOW I get it. So down we went with me in the bow with nothing to do but follow Irene's directions. Yahoo! It was lovely! It's like sailing a curled leaf! But we did ship some water -- and as Irene had warned me, it made the canoe mucho unstable since there were no packs to keep it from sloshing wildly back and forth. I get it; that's why Kevin had told us to be wiggly-hipped when barging through the waves. Irene says it's much easier with a loaded boat -- which we'd practice later that day on our way home. We got encouraging whistles and thumbs-up from Kevin and the guys, and made several more runs. When I tried the stern, things went beautifully -- but then I'd made sure Irene was willing to tell me when to do what.

The guys had all the lunch stuff out for us. We were already behind schedule and knew Theresa would be hustling her buns to get the barbecue ready for us at 5:30, so we soon headed back to Barker's Island for our stuff and then beyond to Murray Rapids, which make the same drop as Mosquito Rapids but farther north and more gently. Irene did all the stern-work. The first set was bigger than Surf City but went fine. The second was more complicated; you had to go left of a pillow, then down through a V and some waves but avoid a ledge, and not get mixed up in the swirl from Murray Falls coming in below, river right. We stood and scouted these rapids a long time while Kevin taught us one of the basic communications skills of whitewater tandem paddling. One of you proposes a course, if necessary tossing stones to identify the spots you're talking about. Then the other says, 'So you're saying we should...' and then rephrases the proposal in his/her own words. So, Leslie and Maura, there's another use for our good ol' paraphrasing skill that we teach our kids. Now I have a truly nifty example!

The guys went first and did fine. Then out we went, Irene confessing to a bad case of nerves. I knew she'd do fine, and she did. We sloshed and bopped down, dancing along sweet and happy. Such a thrill! We were perfect, came swishing right up high in the eddy we'd chosen to land in. The guys were all cheers -- Kevin said he wished he had his video camera. Irene was relieved. She was amazed I'd been entirely at ease, confident in her ability.

I think it was the day before that I'd heard terrific good news. On the Clearwater Trip next week, I'll be paddle partners with Kevin!! Wow! The best! I'll learn tons and I won't get as scared! I am fortunate indeed!

We gave the lunch barrel to Rob and Ron and wished them goodbye. I'd see them Wednesday night and hear their new stories. Irene and Kevin and I headed back across Devil Lake, Taiga in the prow of Kevin's canoe with her nose in the wind.

Now that we'd descended some real rapids, I thought again about the voyageurs in their birchbark canoes, wondrous inventions but requiring fixing every time they hit anything. The traders carried sheets of birchbark, a supply of spruce root for stitching, and containers of pitch to waterproof the patch. Every repair made the canoe that much heavier to portage. If worse came to worst and a canoe was wrecked beyond repair, the voyageurs could build another in a day or two and leave the first to rot into the forest floor.

We made good time across the lake with only a mild crosswind to deal with. I felt great. Kevin let Taiga swim most of the way. When we reached the dock, I helped Stacy, the driver who'd been waiting for us, load the gear into the van while Irene occupied Kevin with yet another discussion about J-strokes. Finally we headed back and found wine, beer, steaks, salad and baked potatoes awaiting us at Theresa and Ric's, plus some great chocolate cake. Lots of good stories -- I think the wine took 'em out of my head.

Ric installed me in my new abode, a cabin called Fox Den which has a porch with chairs and gas grill, a nice double bed with floral spread and curtains, a spotless kitchen and bath, a cushy velvety couch and matching armchair that swivels and rocks! And is perfect for laptop use. They use those small instant propane water heaters here, so the water is hothothot quickquickquick. The village store, where I laid in a supply of groceries for the week, is just a few houses up the road and is open from 7 - 10 (when of course the sun hasn't even set). I visited Ric's excellent library again. Kevin recommended Bill Mason's Path of the Paddle as a review of the techniques we'd worked on. I read it far into the night and most of the next day, which was a totally lazy one. I've been looking forward to it for months! Just did some laundry, sat by the lake and read and dozed in the sun as I haven't done since that great time on your Florida beach, brother Jim!

I heard loons calling, but didn't see them. I watched a couple of red-necked grebes (Molly, tell George!) teaching their three youngsters to fish, but actually doing most of the work themselves. Down and up, over and over for hours. I hung out at the office awhile, where Ric showed me the pros and cons of various kinds of photo software. I took a late afternoon nap and didn't wake up till 7:30 when Irene returned; that morning she had decided to drive up to the fishing camp where she worked 25 years ago and see if any of the people she knew were still there, especially any family of her old boyfriend. It turned out to be a pretty emotional day -- she found out that her ex boyfriend hadn't died the way she'd been told, but was shot. All these years later, the family still doesn't know who did it. Theresa told me later that shootings are dreadfully common among the native people here, and usually preceded by drunkenness, pretty much as is true on reservations in the States. Then Irene started her l500-mile drive back to Vancouver, where she has to go back to work Monday.

On a walk down to the public dock I met Heidi, who prepares and packs all the food for the trips, and walked with her and her boys to where they live behind the staff house in an old crazily painted schoolbus with pretty curtains. I tried to call Dave on the staff phone, but this area code doesn't recognize my 888 AT&T card number, so after much ineffective consultation with customer service, I gave up.

Tuesday morning was calm for a change, so I took a 16-foot canoe across the lake and a couple of miles north to a spot I'd heard was lovely, called Elephant Rock, to read and hang out. Since I took Ric's Path of the Paddle with me, I also took one of the waterproof barrels to put it in, just in case I had an upset. I skirted silently near the shore; saw beaver-chewed logs and was ready for that POW! we heard on Post Pond, Maureen! But I saw no wildlife bigger than millions of some kind of lacewing larvae cases littering the surface behind a point. I tied my canoe below Elephant Rock and climbed up. From my shady perch on boulders high above the lake, I could see Missinipe across to the southwest and Grandmother's Bay, an Indian community, across an arm of the lake to the north and east. Otherwise, the shores of Otter Lake, several miles long, seemed uninhabited. I was happy I'd brought my little Crazy Creek camp 'chair' to relax in. While writing in my journal I heard a rustling behind me -- and there was a muskrat, who saw me when I saw him and froze about ten feet away, his black eye fixed on me. I slowly and carefully picked up my camera, opened it -- the whirring of its innards didn't spook him -- and took a couple of shots. Still he stayed; so I talked to him quietly awhile and tried to move around a bit to get him against a better background. My notebook slid off my lap and he thumped away in a flash.

I read the paddling book some more. Now I see how your instincts can work against you: Imagine you're in current going straight down the river. You're in the bow, and suddenly you spy a slightly-submerged rock extending from dead ahead towards the left. You know you need to go to the right of it. But if you do a quick draw to go to the right of it, you'll cause the canoe to be angled in just such a way that the current will shift it smartly to the LEFT, and you'll hit the rock broadside. Not good. So you actually have to angle the bow to the left, which slants the canoe in such a way that the current moves it to the right. Get it? Will I ever get it quickly enough? I marked my questions for Kevin with little sticky notes, Glenna, which I've carried with me ever since our reading workshop. Great idea.

I ate lunch and watched float planes take off and land. Noisy. A yellow canoe went by fifty feet below; I could hear the people talking, but they didn't see me. I arranged my lifejackets in a cozy way and took a nap. Such a life!

The breeze had stiffened, so I hugged the shore on the way back. I had to work a little rounding a couple of points and to cross over, but it was a pretty easy trip. I was invited to yet another barbecue at Driedigers', this time to meet Robin and Arlene Kaplan, writers who had just returned from their 8-day trip on the Fond du Lac River, which flows west into the east end of Lake Athabasca. I bought their book on paddling through the Lake Athabasca dunes, which they wrote a couple of years ago, and got their autographs. The photos are stunning. I cut a couple of inch-thick willows and taught 7-year-old Sarah the first few verses of Lummi Sticks -- she learned the throws pretty easily. I finally got AT&T customer service to help me out and got ahold of Cousin Dave. I learned that Dilly is fine (Thanks, Dinny!) and so are my cats and house and Dave and Candace -- good news, in case you haven't heard, Cousin Sally. Back at my place I organized my stuff and was distraught to find I'm missing a roll of exposed film. Rats -- it was of Saskatoon's elm-lined streets and the first half of the whitewater clinic. I typed a lot of notes, then realized THAT's what screws up my shoulder muscles, not the paddling. Gigi, wish you were here to help me out!

Wednesday I lazed around, too. A good time rolled around for me to use Theresa's phone line to get online, so I finally sent Newsletter #1. Sarah was eager to learn more verses of Lummi Sticks, so we worked on them for a long time in the grassy playground that serves as town 'square.' Elliot, I told her how you stuck your tongue in the corner of your mouth to help you concentrate -- and it worked for her, too. At four I went over to Theresa's to help her with yet ANOTHER barbecue -- Kevin and Ron and Rob were coming back, along with two other guys, from their course on trip-leading, and I wanted to hear their stories. Theresa's garden, in compost-filled raised beds (the only way you can grow things here, the soil being so thin), had grown a lot since Friday. Sarah proudly displayed radishes from her own little plot, and we put them in the salad along with beautiful romaine and green onions. Steaks were ready to grill, and Theresa had fried up two huge bins of an old Mennonite recipe called 'Rollkuchen,' sort of like doughnuts but with a lot of eggs in the dough.

Heidi brought the beer I'd asked her to get in La Ronge. Apparently all the (government) liquor stores around here use the same bags. They say: 'HAVE ONE (crossed out, replaced with 'SOMEONE') FOR THE ROAD. CHOOSE A DESIGNATED DRIVER.' And below that: DRINKING ALCOHOL DURING PREGNANCY CAN HARM THE BABY. We have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome in our Community....Let's Find A Solution.

This made me think of the Rupert Ross book you lent me, Kathy -- and the awful liquor-generated tragedies he describes in the fly-in communities in northern Ontario. Same here, I think.

In the wee hours of Thursday morning it rained pretty hard -- sounded wonderful. I slept late, listening to people busy out there in the rain, the kids laughing and playing. Got more books from the office, read and wrote all day. I was vaguely aware of a group of high school kids returning sopping wet, and more pointedly and gloomily aware that the same fate may well await us on the Clearwater. Their gear festooned the lines and trees, and all their soaked tents were put up to dry in what became another sunny hot afternoon.

I read a chapter in a wonderfully written book about canoe adventures and misadventures in this area and farther north, including the death of Art Moffatt, whose home is still (and I believe his wife is still) over the ridge from me on Turnpike Road in Norwich. I'd read the account of his succumbing to hypothermia after spill after spill into the Thelon River too late in the year on too few provisions -- written by one of the survivors, George Grinnell, in his book Death on the Barrens which I found on display at Howe Library soon after its publication in l996. I didn't realize when I read it that 'the barrens' is way north of here, not in the East. The accident happened way back in l955; and then Grinnell lost his two adult sons when a storm hit their canoes on James Bay in the 70's. He never was able to tell the story (or find a publisher?) until the 90's.

Matilda, a Cree woman who lives in Grandmother's Bay, showed up with various family members. She brought Ric more birch baskets to sell -- she stitches them with spruce roots she's split and dyed herself and adds leather handles she's cured in smoke. Theresa (who I learned is also a canoe builder par excellence) was worried that the 16' solo canoe (for another guide, Curtis, who's coming along) wouldn't fit into the 17' Prospector canoe we're taking -- turns out you nest two so the float plane can carry two on one float. Ric was sure it would work, but to make sure, he unbolted the seats, the braces, and the yoke, then took off the little plastic bow and stern decks. The 16-footer settled in nicely when we pulled outward on the incurving sides of the 17-foot boat. So I guess the other 17-footer will go on the other float of the plane. [I was wrong.]

I took a walk on the 'Birdhouse Trail' some guys told me about. It winds around down by the lake, and every 50 feet or so are identical rose-painted birdhouses with names on them. A school project? But they're all female names. Turns out the local womanizer put them there to commemorate his conquests. Not all the recipients of his ardor were pleased.

I came out at a big fancy starter castle I hadn't noticed before. It's owned by hockey player what'shisname Jennings. I don't know about these things, but you might.

Back at the office,Taiga was trying to catch a squirrel by climbing its spruce tree. She'd jump straight up and clench a limb in her teeth, hang on till it broke, try again. Theresa was despairing of ever being ready to go in the morning, but sat and talked a long time about the post-trauma counseling she does. Very rewarding much of the time, huge differences in people's lives -- for instance, being able to sleep well for the first time in years. She does some of her work long distance by phone, plus spends a few days each month working in Edmonton.

Ric was on the phone pinning down our flight tomorrow afternoon from La Loche (about six hours' drive north and west from here) to the Virgin River, from which we'll reach the Clearwater. Good news -- the guy said that the following Saturday, when they fly us from the lower Clearwater back to La Loche, they may not charge me to take me west to Fort McMurray, since they're based there. Cool!

It got cold last night. I kept all the windows open and added my sleeping bag to the bedding -- lovely. But I resolved to take all my fleece stuff on the Clearwater.

Friday, today, is get-ready day! I said goodbye to the Driedigers, who are actually going canoeing themselves for a few days. On the hour-long drive to La Ronge for errands, we passed a lot of burned-out places. Kevin said firefighting is big money up here; it's in the interests of government departments, private helicopter contractors, native firefighters, suppliers, and owners of local stores to keep the fires burning as long as they can. He thinks some are actually set by such eager beavers. At the airport we saw huge orange tanker planes they use to scoop water out of lakes for dousing the forests -- which they'd done just across the road a few years ago, where you could see that a fire had gotten within a hundred yards of some gas storage tanks.

We picked up one of the guys going on the Clearwater with us tomorrow -- he's John something, a short amiable professor of English at Pueblo State College in Colorado, and looks to be about my age. Kevin's guided him before and says he's great fun. At his urging we made a major stop at the liquor store; this trip will be different from the last one. We told Kevin to get his Mennonite corkscrew polished up.

We looked around Robertson's Trading Post, the last one in Saskatchewan, they say. There was a roomful of soft, luxurious pelts from lynx, beaver, black bear, otter, mink, arctic fox, timber wolf, even red squirrels. The big ones are in one piece, like a tube, with no seam as though the animal could crawl right back in (I don't know how they scrape them -- turn them inside out?) and with the legs (yes, they're slit and flattened out) dangling and claws and footpads intact. You can see how these furs kept people alive at 40 below all those centuries -- people who used caribou hides wore the inner parka, loose at the bottom, with the hair toward their skin, thus letting sweat get ventilated away, and the outer layer with the fur out. Kevin said some university did a study by putting some people in fleece plus Gore-tex, others in down, and still others in caribou parkas into freezers for awhile -- the caribou folks won hands down. All sorts of taxidermied animals graced the walls -- golden eagles, moose, elk, caribou -- plus snowshoes, birch sleddog sledges, great numbers of leather jackets, moccasins, mittens. Not long ago I would have been horrified by the 'slaughter'; now I realize that it's us anti-fur people keeping the prices down who make it nearly impossible for the native people to live the only low-impact, sustainable way one can live here. All I bought were some cords to hold my glasses on if we swamp. Tomorrow on our way through we're to pick up a satellite phone to use on the river.

It was hot and dusty in town. We ate at an A&W. On the way back, we stopped at the bridge on the main road near Wadin Bay where there was indeed a plaque saying Peter Pond had wintered here and killed Jean 'tienne Wadin. It says Pond left the north country in 1788, which is a date I keep bumping into. Robert Bloomfield, what do you know about that? Wasn't your ancestor Augustinius Pond born at Fort Chip in 1791 or '92, of the union between Peter Pond and a Dene (Chipewyan) woman? And wasn't his older brother Peter Pond, Jr. (who became a blacksmith in Fort Chipewyan and later moved to Sorel, near Montr'al) born in 1789 or 90? Bill McDonald, what do you know about these discrepancies? Can you look in the Innis and Wagner biographies to see what they have to say?

Virginia, in explaining my raison d'etre here to people like John, I always credit you for helping me learn that I am indeed related to PP. I was getting tired of referring to him as my 'alleged relative."

Kevin introduced me to a bunch of Cree guys fishing and drinking beer at the bridge; they seemed delighted to meet me. They said the story is that Peter Pond buried some gold near Wadin's body; somebody dug up a lot of dirt a few years ago, but found nothing. Then there was a legend about a headless ghost there. The headless skeleton of a woman had been found. Years later the crew putting the road in found a skull. I couldn't tell whether they meant to suggest there was some connection to Peter Pond.

Kevin delivered our waterproof blue barrels and our tents to us, so we can get our stuff packed. Simon Ray, a guy from England, arrived, but I only had time to shake his hand when Heidi's boy Landis invited me to go up to Devil's Lake for a cookout and swim -- where we bumped into the Driedigers, who'd run Devil Rapids ten times and were now headed off to their favorite campsite. I drove their van back so as not to be late for our 8 pm trip meeting. But Kevin's not here, so I'm sending my email.

Wish me luck!

Judy