After a difficult winding paddle through lily and water plant clogged, resistant channels we eventually found the hidden portage to Howry Lake disguised in the marsh. After carrying part of our baggage part of the way along the mislabeled portage we were struck by the leading edge of a low pressure system which showered us with rain. We bogged down. Our decision not to proceed the late afternoon before was the only bright aspect of our predicament. We built a temporary shelter from the rain with the 18 foot canoe. Tony and I, who had managed to get ourselves soaked to the bone, found a burst of energy and completed the pack portion of the portage jogging up the trail. I guess the preceding four days had hardened us and revived in me the training and fitness level I had maintained before August 14, the last day I had done anything vaguely athletic when, in proper training, I should have been peaking. Or... maybe we jogged up the path with 50 pound packs only to keep warm. But, regardless of the reason; we overcame the loss of our spirit and I made good on my previous failures to carry my share of the load. During the portage it was raining too hard to bring cameras out of their protected places to take pictures. By the time we reached Howry Lake the rain had let up but the west wind blew us, shivering, to the first of two legitimate campsites. To go farther, perhaps to the legendary island cabin shelter donated to adventurers by a patron of the canoe; with a fireplace, would have been a risk. Paddling into a gale is sometimes impossible, if we missed the island or it was without shelter so...

so we set up a camp rigged for storm and took a meal under a tarp at the first possible place.

Rain storms passed through our camp followed by sun storms of intensely humid evaporation. During each sunny break we laid out gear to dry weighted against the wind with rocks and locker looped jackets and shirts to tree branches. During the rain storms we huddled sheltering under fly sheets. Rain bursts followed sun followed by rain with the sunny breaks gradually getting longer and the rain milder by early afternoon.

We were scheduled for one night on Howry Lake.

We made our way downstream on Howry Creek which was flowing deeper and swifter carrying out the rain water to Murray Lake, Charlton Lake and on down to Lake Huron.

Howry Lake was held back by a man made black boulder dam. We hadn't seen any beavers and little sign of recent beaver activity.

Humanity has taken control of the waterways.

We found, on our entire journey, one freshly gnawed twig. When we dragged our canoe over two beaver dams on Howry Creek we saw a bit of fairly fresh gray clay from the river bed on one of the dams. We saw no beavers and heard no tail slap warnings of our approach.

Even though, in my experience of Ontario, has there never been a year of such great vegetative bounty, we saw no deer, no moose, no bear, no large flocks of waterfowl. Not a mouse. Perhaps next year? Perhaps next year there will be the wildlife populations in Ontario that I saw in Montana. Perhaps not. Probably not. I have little evidence and even less knowledge to wonder why it seems that humanity has declared a war upon that other mild and defenseless terra forming species, bomb blasting their building and devastating their villages. I think it is not about bacterial infested water. We don't like the idea of sharing the land and the waterways with the one who provides the moose grazing, and as their dams silt in becoming meadows; deer meadows. I can imagine little mice, animated with trousers and suspenders and red, long sleeve tee shirts gathering seeds for winter and brown black bears eating dark blue blue berries fattening up for their hibernation...

"While in Killarney last weekend I was amazed to discover an abundance of wild blueberries. I guess I've usually been there in the fall, so I've never noticed. We picked about a half quart at the top of Silver Peak and made blueberry pancakes the next morning. Wonderful!
Then I had a great idea: Bring along some pectin and pick a few quarts at the top of Silver Peak and make fresh wild blueberry jam in Killarney! I can't wait! : )"

"Impressed by the artwork, they decided to visit the real Nellie Lake, in Killarney Provincial Park, to find Jackson’s inspiration.
One afternoon, while hiking and picking blueberries, they found the exact spot, with the exact view, that Jackson had captured in his famous canvas."

"...Lodge Guests include... Canoers from all over the world seeking adventure on the water in the stunningly beautiful back-country of the La Cloche Mountains & Killarney Provincial Park... Photographers and film crews, artists of all mediums, writers and poets, visionaries and dreamers, seekers of wild unspoiled wilderness peace, blueberry pickers, hikers, explorers, people who need a rest from the roar of the city, and the grind of work and the rat race." 

"Sometimes, when we go blueberry picking for an entire weekend... If it wasn’t for the mounds of blueberries we freeze, dehydrate, and yes, even sell, I’d be sad that we don’t really do any hiking during the summer months."

I could go on quoting self incriminating people admitting to their immorality, and on about commercial lodges of questionable purpose (designated as townships but without permanent residents) deep within park boundaries. What about those office bound petty government bureaucrats declaring wars on beaver villages and perhaps promoting poaching on the people's land? What about logging in the parks? But; I am not-an-artist and it isn't my business to protect the beauty and the abundance of nature and the holdings of the people.

Is it? Or... is it? Isn't it what the old Group of Seven (if I am an artist - our founding fathers) set out to do in support of the fledgling parks systems?

During the night I heard wolf howls from across the lake where the vultures were circling. Later there was a human scream. I jerked upright in my hammock as the sound tapered off. I flipped my feet over the side and slipped into my boots. I listened.

Nothing.

I let the boots fall off my feet, fell back into the hammock, and as I cooled, slipped back into my bag. If someone had been killed we would find the body in the morning. If they had been injured, they would cry out again for help.

Above there were stars. The first I'd seen since the bright moon and thick clouds and sheltering fly sheet had blotted out the night sky. I zipped the bag and slipped back to sleep.