Memories of Magical Waters. Gord Deval
I ignored the yells from the distant shore, not wishing for them to get completely soaked as well, and believing that somehow I could free myself from the mess without their assistance.
Eventually, after tilting the machine and scooping out handfuls of the heavy slush from the track, I was able to advance a few feet when suddenly I found myself going from the frying pan into the fire. Apparently the movement of the machine disturbed the snow surface sufficiently to cause it to be sucked in to the slush mass as well. The machine and I were helplessly sliding towards another, gaping, newly exposed sump hole. The thing appeared large enough to swallow both the Skidoo and me along with it. Soaked to the skin with freezing water that was rapidly forming a coat of ice on my sopping wet clothing, I could see the guys beginning to head towards me as inextricably I was being drawn towards an unpleasant dunking and, perhaps, worse! Much worse! I screamed at them to follow my initial trail near shore then approach me from the rear where the trees that had been felled were now suddenly serving as anchors, having been sufficiently jammed up in the slush to arrest my forward movement.
Although they could easily see the entire situation and the mess I was in as they approached, because it was the first time that either of the fellows had been up north in these conditions, it seemed necessary to scream to watch out for the sump holes. The Skidoo had come to a halt with the nose of the machine partly underwater, with the tips of the skis resting a foot beneath the surface. It appeared that only the trees anchoring its forward progress were preventing a disaster. The skis, fortunately, had not gone entirely under, or extricating the machine would have been impossible with their being caught beneath the edge of the ice.
By the time Al and Norman made their way to where I was hanging on to the back of the Skidoo, they, too, were soaking wet. Finally, the three of us, using the well-anchored trees for support, managed to drag the machine from the sump hole and a potential watery grave. The suspension was “de-slushed” and when we were safely clear, the trees were unfastened then placed on the fresh undisturbed surface in front of the machine to serve as rails to allow for a quick start. The Skidoo was revved up and we made our escape to shore without further incident.
On shore, the Ski-boose was rehooked and all the gear unceremoniously tossed inside, along with the nice brookie that Al had taken earlier. The three of us now completely ensconced in a layer of ice squeezed onto the Skidoo to begin the trip back to Birch Lodge. Although it sounds ridiculous to say it now, other than our faces and fingertips that were nipped with frostbite, our bodies were warm. The ice that encased us obviously allowed us to retain the substantial body heat that had been generated by all the exertion required in escaping from the sump hole.
However, we were still faced with the forty-five minute ride through the bush and down the back route to our cabin at the lodge. By the time we reached the road the temperature had plummeted to near zero Fahrenheit and, combined with the wind chill factor created by the speed of the Skidoo, we were close to passing out by the time we reached the cabin. Hypothermia had obviously overtaken our bodies and brains and only the innate sense of survival drove us beyond that point where our systems would have shut down.
With each of us concentrating on his own personal survival mode, hardly a word was spoken during the trip back. No one had enough strength left anyhow to shout loud enough to be heard above the roar of the old Skidoo’s engine. When we finally arrived back at camp it took the last vestiges of our willpower to disengage ourselves from the machine. To any observer we would have appeared to be walking like zombies but looking like King Arthur’s Knights of Old as the thick layer of frozen armour almost entirely prevented any movement.
After an hour or so of chopping and hacking off the ice and discarding our soaking wet boots and clothing, we began to shiver in earnest. We were not without a few tears, some of relief and some in response to the pain from the frostbite, as our bodies warmed in the heat of the cabin. Luckily, no permanent physical problems resulted from that trip to Grants Lake, but for some reason or another it turned out to be our last to those waters with its absolutely unforgettable outcome.
Butternut is another small lake with a difficult approach in the Land O’ Lakes. In order to partake of its brook trout fishing, one must access a hydro road leading north from the village of Ompah, then drive another five or six miles before branching off on a bush road for several miles, then finally hiking the last mile or so to the lake. As must be evident by now, we brook trout anglers, often seeking the most distant and inaccessible waters to ply our craft, are a stubbornly persistent lot whom most other fishermen would deem foolish. Nevertheless, having heard rumours that Butternut had been deliberately poisoned by the Department of Lands and Forests to kill the existing unwanted fish species, then subsequently stocked with yearling speckled trout, its allure became irresistible.
Another fishing buddy of mine, Bill Taylor, was recruited to join me for our initial attempt to find the trail to Butternut and check out the fishing. I happen to have a lousy sense of direction, even getting completely disoriented on occasion in large malls like the Eaton Centre in Toronto, whereas Bill always seems to know which way is out of the bush and back to our car when he and I are partridge (ruffed grouse) hunting. Tagging along behind him when we began the hike to the lake, after having located the trail with little trouble, was easy and the entire exercise rewarding.
It proved to be a lovely little trout lake with a great vantage point about half-way down the shore, a rocky promontory from which we were able to hurl our lures in three directions. A half-dozen sixteen to eighteen-inch brookies were landed in short order before the bite went off for the day. All were released to do battle on another occasion. Keeping them would have been foolish anyhow as the temperature had soared and the trout’s edibility might not have survived the hike back to the car in the oppressive heat.
My two sons, Randy and the older lad Ronnie, not yet teenagers, had become quite proficient with their own tackle and fished numerous streams and bigger, more easily accessible waters with me ever since they were able to flex a spinning rod. However, neither had been on one of our more exploratory junkets. After hearing the many tales about some of these escapades, the boys pleaded with me to be taken with us on the next “mission impossible” excursion, hoping to experience some of the adventures they had been hearing from their old man since, as they put it, they were kids. After much discussion, among the boys, myself and their mother, it was decided that they were now old enough, strong enough and big enough to endure a lengthy trip to Butternut Lake in the Land O’ Lakes where Bill and I had enjoyed a fine, not too difficult to reach, day’s fishing. When the lads were told that we had put back a half a dozen fat brookies their excitement grew even more. Seldom had they been on trips where we had actually caught more trout than we wished to keep for the pan.
The following weekend saw us heading once again for the Land O’ Lakes and while I tried hard to not display my trepidation, the boys were bursting with anticipation. I didn’t have old buddy, Bill Taylor, with us to help locate the final trail to the lake and thus keep us from straying. Although spotting where the bush trail branched off the Hydro Road proved to be no problem, with Ronnie interpreting the topographical map, my concern proved to have been justified shortly after we parked and struck out on foot in the direction of the lake. Every little game trail branching off our chosen course caused a momentary pause and discussion timeout concerning which path to pursue. After a couple of hours of fruitless wandering, it became apparent that if not lost, we were certainly well off course. After my third attempt at reassuring the boys that we were indeed moving in the proper direction, I noticed the surreptitious glances between them interspersed with disbelieving looks in my direction.
I finally had to swallow my pride, admit defeat and call for a “sit down” with a chance to study the top maps and discuss the situation before we continued any further. We broke out the sandwiches that had been prepared for our shore lunch at the lake. With our appetites appeased, the alternative strategies were kicked around: Should we call it a day and try to find our way back before we end up spending the night in the bush? Continue in the direction that the compass dictated for us? Or back up until we located a more likely trail branching off in the same general direction?
Ronnie finally came up with the winner. According to the