Chapter 11

Frizzell Campsite to Gord’s Corner Store

Be careful what you wish for…

With the forecast predicting rain late at night and into much of the following day, Tom and I used what energy we had to have our things packed and breakfast ready to be cooked. Once done, we were tent-bound before 7 pm. I blogged, and Tom read my blog which cracks me up because he was there so I’m not sure what more I contributed but I appreciate the solidarity. But from his reading it lead to our discovery that what we were calling “Chicken Biscuits” are in fact “Chicken in a Biskit“. I can’t explain why, but this caused the two of us to spiral into a fit laughter that really carried into the next day; we were laughing off the difficult day. So with a mouth full of peanut butter and tears in the corners of my eyes I settled into a fitful sleep.

There were voices around us and maybe some fireworks I vaguely remember hearing somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. This coupled with what Tom and I both described as “kerplunks” in the river kept me from falling asleep (what was kerplunking? Some awful wet nosed, large eyed, hot breathed beastie I’m certain). It was raining too some time then too, and I would compulsively feel about for leaks. The unease followed me into my dreams too: one of a sad reunion with an unrequited love; one where my cousin Chris supplanted Tom and had moved me, tent, and all to another campsite while I slept; another where Tom and I had wrapped ourselves in trash bags and buried ourselves in the ground to escape the rain, dirt and mud in our mouths as we emerged.

Of course the leaks came. Tom’s headlight starting me, as he sought to find the drips landing in his face. The foot of my sleeping bag was wet, where I discovered a puddle the stove and lighter were submerged in. That 5 o’clock alarm came too soon. With a spare lighter, we carried on manfully with breakfast and packing in the tent.

The rain was steady, but knowing we didn’t have to camp in it another night we were undeterred, though we we wore an extra layer lest hypothermia take hold. Soon we were on the river where it was apparent the rains had been busy filling. Nevertheless we had to wade and trudge our way to Stark. Here a boulder field runs after the covered bridge, and we determined that the 0.9 mile portage along route 110 was more favorable. This is an unofficial portage but Katina mentions in her book. The road was steep at times and guardrails at times prevented any jumps into the ditch should a car veer toward us. I didn’t love it but it saved us the hassle and slow-going of the boulder field.

Once back in the water the water was shockingly deep and with no rocks hindering our way. We were paddling 3 mph at times which was impossibly fast compared to the day before. Our morale was buoyed as we glided by cedars and yellow birches, the neon green water grass undulating below. The array of plants and hues of green was like some impressionist painting. Ten miles to go and easy going and all before 9 in the morning! Our day seemed downhill from there!

It was not downhill, in fact we were technically paddling uphill and the rains had not quit. The river was more and more swollen, soon branches and small washed away by the water was not uncommon sight. I don’t remember where the transition became apparent, maybe after Bell Hill Road, maybe before or after, but the river had begun to be narrower, and maples replaced cedars and the undergrowth was thick with ferns and tall grasses bowing under the weight of their dew covered seeds. The current was stronger too, shockingly strong.

Tom and I soon realized our pace slowed the farther up we went. If the boat wasn’t pointed dead into the current you soon found yourself being pulled to one bank or the other. Now trudging didn’t seem so awful, but the water had risen too high, and the current too strong. We made it to Cordwell Campsite, merely 1.5 miles from Gord’s, and stopped to rest. Here Katina had been according to the log book a month earlier (missed her again!). Though we were close, we knew this would be the hardest stretch. On we paddled. “It’s like running in a dream” said Tom, like wresting in your mind for a forgotten memory, as if our restless nights bled into our waking day.

Little by little we went, stopping at the bank to cling to plants to rest a moment before pushing on. And then miraculously we went under the 110 bridge and Gord’s was all but in sight. We fought to stay close to the banks where the current was weakest as incredulous cows stared at us. Several trees in the water, their trunks submerged, we used push ourselves forward, bole to bole. Lastly we needed to cross the river to the other side to reach the take out. We dug deep,but the current there whipped the bow of the boat downstream, Tom cried out in surprise, my feeble J-strokes availing us none, we were broadside, sure to lose the hard won progress! But instead we were on the left bank clutching on twigs and blades of grass, and it was over.

We felt nearly bested, but we persevered long enough to see it through. Soon it was high-fives and laughs, and talk of cheeseburgers and ice cream. What a great trip though, the challenge made it all the more gratifying in the end, though going downstream from West Milan to Stark especially in highwater would be a very lovely day trip.

I’m so glad Tom reached out to join me on this trip. Going it alone has merits of its own, but sharing your experience with someone grants memories for a lifetime. What’s more, Tom has been a friend since we were boys, but thanks to COVID, amongst other things, we haven’t seen each other in well over a year. Lives are busy and it is hard to make time, but I got to spend a full long weekend of laughing and chatting with an old friend. And for that I’m grateful.

Here’s to dry feet and dry bottoms, til next adventure!