| Blackstone Lake is named for an Ojibwe Chief of
that name, famous in our area for his last heroic trek, during
the 1918 flu epidemic, in which he endeavoured to save his
people, the Kawnipi Band. He was unsuccessful - the whites had
no medicine - and he died of flu before reaching home. Most of
the band died as well, and the few band members remaining
removed to lac la Croix.
We reach trailhead in the dark, offload canoes and packs,
and park our pickups down the road. As we hike back to Sag,
false dawn shows on the horizon. We've brought small motors
for the trip across Sag and dawn finds us a quarter way to
Cache Bay.
Sag, or Saganaga, is one of the most beautiful lakes on the
border. Rock rimmed islands support tall Norway pines each
with their half foot thick bed of duff consisting of
generations of pine needles. We see a bear swimming but with
the motors we can easily outrun him. Paddling, we'd be more
concerned as they sometimes attempt climbing into the canoe.
An attempt is as bad as success for the canoe does not remain
upright.
At American Point we cache the motors and head into
Canadian waters with our paddles. My avant is an avid
fisherman. He catches a nice trout and we have words before he
puts his rod away and reluctantly attempts a feeble stroke to
every five of mine. He is a good friend and a lazy suck. He
soon earns the Ojibwe name of "Dog Who Drags Butt On
Grass," or "Animosh" for short.
Jahr, a large man of Irish extraction, commonly known as
"Jarhead," leads the way. In his 20 foot canoe, with
his young daughter as swamper, and Trapper Bill as avant, he
makes good time. Always helpful, with a big smile, Jar's a joy
to be around, except when portaging. Every year his packs
multiply and each one gets larger. This year he's found a new
cooler to pack out fish. It could easily double as a coffin in
size and we swear solemn oaths that we will leave him buried
in it rather than pack it out. The only way to get it across a
portage is to cut a pole and suspend the cooler between two
men carrying the pole on their shoulders.
Pa and Daniel are in another canoe, and Rudolf and his two
daughters make up the fourth.
We stop at customs. As usual, there is no one around. When
the customs man finally does appear he is much more intent on
selling us one of his high bucks home made paddles than he is
in getting our paper work settled. We leave as soon as
possible.
-CONTINUED- |
