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August 6, 2005
Day Three: Thomas to Insula
Thomas Lake: Since the beginning of the trip, I have been battling the cold that CB has given me. I appear today to be losing the battle. Slept maybe an hour or two. My teeth ache, my nose drips, my head feels as though a thick fog envelopes it tightly; and yet the beauty of this place compensates for my physical suffering. Selkye is getting progressively more tired with each passing day. I frequently say that "a tired dog is a happy dog": Selkye is deeply happy. She has me place her pack on her while she lays down, and remains there until the canoe is loaded and she is bid to climb aboard.
Williamson Island, Lake Insula: Beautiful island campsite. After a short portage into Kiana, and a longer somewhat grueling portage into a channel of Insula, we arrive into the open water in the face of a headwind. Paddling into it tires us out quickly, but not as quickly as the scouts whom we pass on the portage: They make camp inside the channel just before the open water. Foodwise, the Tang supply which I reduced when CB said to reduce the weight is running out. We could have drunk twice as much. Trouble is, I am a morning Tang drinker and he likes to have his in the evening. Next time, less trail mix, more Tang.
At the Kiana-Insula portage, we make a rookie mistake. We are half unloaded from the canoe: I have handed off the paddles to CB, but I want to grab some trail mix to fuel up for the portage. This is most easily accomplished with the food pack unloaded from the canoe. We chat for a minute when I see that the headwind has pushed the canoe off the rock into the water about four or five feet. I shout for a paddle and step into the water. The granite beneath is almost deep enough to grab the canoe but not quite. I lunge into the water and grab the canoe. While attempting to stand back up, I slip and bash my shin. No worse of a bruise than the mysterious soccer bulge I obtained ten days earlier. Now it is time for a break. I empty the boots of water and wring the water out of my wool socks. One of the boots actually managed to stay pretty dry. Sitting there on the rock shelf, I spy a camoflage bandana, which is added to the food pack.
Once underway, we hear the unmistakeable crash of an aluminum canoe being dropped in the woods. Portages for us are by this point routine and pretty quick: I hand off the paddles and PFDs, place the map under a pack flap, help CB on with the food pack, put the gear pack on, launch the canoe onto my shoulders and start hiking. During the uphill portion, I can feel my heart beating and breathing get deeper. It may be the cold or the exertion, or perhaps both. In any case, we do not break on portages but before or after them. The aluminum canoe is dropped again. I am close enough to see three teenage girls in beachwear struggling to lift it. I wish they would let us by, since it is harder to stop and start than to simply keep going. On the third drop, they do let us by. They remark as many others do on the pack Selkye carries. "Next time, she carries the canoe" I say. At the end of the portage, two well-rested and properly attired parents rest in the shade. "They are on their way," I say needlessly. "Builds character." "We hope so" is the man's response. I gingerly lower the canoe into the water. The girls (two of whom are overweight) quite literally throw the aluminum canoe into the water. I am sure that the next five campsites can hear the launch.
Williamson Island is extremely windy, and the black flies are persistent. During our circumnavigation of the island, we note that the caibo resides on the high spot of the island. Trails connect all the nice views. We filter water in the shade.
While quasi-napping in the tent, I notice the instruction that the Sub-Alpine UL likes to be pointed into the wind for maximum ventilation. I unstake the vesitbule door-flaps, re-orient the tent, and climb back in for another quasi-nap. On this night, I finally make use of the Sub-Alpine's "convertible fly" feature. I do not put the fly's two rear grommets on the pole ends and instead roll up the fly to the high-point on the front pole. There, a conveniently placed loop and bar hold the back end of the fly in place. This greatly improves ventilation, and the view of the stars through the mesh ceiling is terrific.
I give myself an "A" for the tarp hanging. I use the adjusters to move the fabric evenly between the three trees and the ground guy-out (for which I use two stakes). While hanging the tarp, I notice a tent stake high (30 feet or so) in a tree. After the high winds blow through, we look on the ground for it: finding it would make up for the loss of the far-flung Jordan stake. Many minutes are spent at various junctures searching. The bear-proofing also merits an "A," though Smarty-Pants would say that it is too close (about 4 feet away) to the trunk. CB really loves looking at the maps. I become increasingly annoyed at CB's propensity for staring at the map when paddling. His effort diminishes when he sees something of interest. I find myself J-stroking quite a bit. Then I remind myself that he has entered his eighth decade of life.
I feel hot. Sun-burned perhaps, febrile. Not miserable though. The high wind feels excellent on a shady rock still warm from the sunlight. In that spot the interconnectedness of sun and wind are palpable. Adding to the delight is the fact that aside from campers who were breaking camp just as we had arrived, not a soul has been seen. We own Insula for the next 18 hours.
The rock shelf on Williamson makes for excellent jumping into the lake. The swim feels excellent, as always. Our dinner of Ramen with foil-packed salmon is excellent. Definitely would have that again.
Selkye lobbies me to spend the night outdoors. She appears to be saying "We are on an island, for chrissakes. Where am I going to go. Out here, I can keep an eye on things." I am adamant however. In she goes, where she immediately curls up and goes to sleep.
Posted by Underblog at August 6, 2005 5:55 PM
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