Hello To A Bunch of Lovelies!
Now, I think I should give a rundown of the weekend, since it was such a fucking rad trip.
OK imagine, if you will, a Harvard University van loaded to the hilt with backpacks, assorted camping gear, and about ten thousand random grocery bags of food. Add two canoes to the roof and The Mirage (a bright orange kayak) up the middle of the passenger area. This was the departure stature of the five crazies (MK, Matthias, Mathieu, Thomas, and Thorsten) headed to the woods of Maine.
The drive up was great, though longish - sunset, dinner at Friendly's (your basic JB's type deal with talkative waitresses and chicken pot pie listed under vegetarian meals), and signs like "Please be considerate of other drivers. It's the way we do it in New Hampshire." I cracked open a Budweiser tall boy when we crossed the Maine border, in honor of a state that at least somewhat resembles Montana. We drove on into the night toward Jackman, Maine - each mile sinking us deeper into moose country. We managed to pass five deer and three moose in the course of an hour. Funnily enough, the only wildlife spotted was from the van - we saw little to nothing of the sort actually on the river and of course, 3 days later, as we pulled out in our once again loaded van, a deer appeared on the road directly ahead - a sure sign of something cosmic involving motor vehicles and the great outdoors, though I'm not sure what exactly.
That night we found our 'put in spot' and decided to sleep under the stars on a little dock area, despite Thorsten's complaints of the noteable slant in the wood. We vetoed his concerns, assuring him it wasn't necessary to sleep with his head facing downward. The next 10 hours were unrivalled - we fell asleep to the eerie glow of the northern lights and woke to the most beautiful morning I have ever seen. The sky was more blue than imaginable and a mytical fog lingered just above the inlet water we slept upon. The sun began to dry our dew-laden bags, and the grasses glistened in the calm. To our right sprawled an intricate spider web, also shining beyond comprehension. I thought I was in Avalon or some other world where everything is right just by its nature of being. In fact, time operated much the same way for the next three days.
We rose for breakfast, acquired a most important fire permit, loaded the canoes, and set off across Hollem Lake in the perfect summer day temperature. For Thorsten and me, the outset was a bit dubious, given the gaping holes in our aluminum canoe, patched only with duct tape. No sinking occurred however, and our boat thankfully failed to live up to its given name of "The Leaky Weasel". It was so lovely to be out on the water...although an hour later, my bladder decided to have an episode and I forced Thorsten to paddle like hell for shore, lest the canoe be flooded by my own waters.
Once ashore (aaah...relief!), we dined on what was to be the standard lunch fare - pita bread, cheese, tomatoes and Budweiser. I couldn't help but notice the remarkable resemblance between this lake and Placid Lake (and much of the Swan Valley) - an observation that both thrilled and saddened me. Home is never too far away, I suppose. Anyway, we continued on until the Portage - a mile and a half of trail required to link us to the next lake. Let me tell you now that the Portage (pronounced of course, with a long ahhh sound for the last syllable) will forever live on in our memories as the ultimate Beast of Burden. There are few words to descrive the hellish nature of this event. You cannot imagine the disarray of crap we carried on the first load, our packs dripping with random bags and gear tied on, oars protruding upright from our mid-sections, flapping the trees overhead. Thorsten and Mathieu carried The Mirage on this first trip - a simple warm up for the next round of torture. Matthias and Thomas were lucky enough to have the fancy, new fiberglass boat which made for much easier everything, I should think. Not that theirs was a light fare either, mind you. It's just that nothing can quite compare to a billion pounds chunky metal strapped on your back or head. There were moments when I thought it was all going to be too much, but they persevered with strength and valor. (My own physical experience of the Portage was enhanced by one of the more brilliant MK moves - bug spray to the eyes - which required a few twitchy eyeball flushing sessions.)
Finally, we were on the far side of hell and decided to camp there - plopping ourselves down for more Budweiser, change the world conversation, and a toast to those who couldn't be with us. The lake was calm as calm can be and the campsite was perfect - lots of big rocks to climb upon, tent sights at varying levels, great fire pit - the works. The evening consisted of great pasta, great tequila, great bullshitting, stars like you wouldn't believe, and even a little wolf-calling. Time was at a stand still.
The next morning was also beautiful, though it wasn't long before things started to cloud up. We made our way across Lake #2 and found the entrance to the river, winding around what we thought was the slow transition section. We can now safely say, however, there Is no current on Moose River. None at all. A disappointment indeed, but what can you do? (Well, paddle, for one thing.) Sometime after lunch it began to rain and at first this was quite nice. There is something soothing about being in the middle of water upon water. But then the wind picked up, and the rain fell harder - we became, well, not the happiest of campers. Just when limits were being reached, a cabin appeared out of nowhere on the shore. (Actually, we knew there might be one, but I'd forgotten all about it with the soggy state of my brain.) I scrambled up the path, past some of the biggest, fattest, shiniest mushrooms I've ever seen, to find an unlocked piece of heaven, with five beds and five chairs and a wood stove. There was even an unopened can of Bud on the table. It was magic. That night was such a delight, with cards and stories, jokes and outlandish laughter - not to mention bottles of Champagne, Rum, and Whiskey. Again, Time was nowhere to be found.
Day three on the river promised to be a long one, with two more Portages (though nowhere near the distance of the first) and who knows how many miles of completely dead water ahead. Six hours later we were only one third as far as we thought we'd be and Mathieu and Thorsten were soaked up to the chest by trying to manuever the Leaky Weasel around some rapids with rope. This particular spot joined with an access road and I found myself chatting it up with some local fisherman we had passed earlier on the river. Thunderclouds were rolling in and it looked like we might have stumbled upon the perfect setup for escape. After shooting the shit a bit, this Mainer ("lived here all my life") and his son offered a ride back to Jackman, thus clinching our decision to bail.
Now, this ride was something else. Thorsten and I made four across in the cab of his truck and I might have sworn it was a time or space capsule. We could have just as easily been hitching a ride from Monture Creek back to Ovando or something of that nature and I found myself slipping into my 'locals lingo'. The weather managed to uphold its warning of rain - in fact, hail and hydroplaning were two of the threats we managed to encounter. We chatted about local stuff - snowmobiling, elevation, the lack of winter in recent years. I loved it. Here was a perfect stranger, driving us forty-five minutes out of his way just because we needed the ride. Once again, home was only as far as my back pocket.
So, this pretty much sums'er up. There was the loading of the van in another downpour and seafood chowder on the way home...rocket-like driving by one very tired German and middle of the night tight-quarters parking, as well. But we survived. In fact, we had a blast. And I, for one, was reminded of why the woods are always the place to be. I mean,
Truly
Just
To
Be.Love to you all...
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