Canadian Serengeti

Canadian Serengeti

 

August 2, 1998

Locally they call it the “Serengeti of Canada” to suggest that this biological preserve is as important to migrating birds as the Serengeti Plains of Tanzania, Africa is to native African mammals.  This Canadian “Serengeti” consists of wetlands in the Rocky Mountain trench through which the headwaters of the Columbia River flow.  In the USA, the Columbia flows south and west to the Pacific Ocean.  In Canada, the headwaters flow north before turning west then south to flow into the northeast corner of the state of Washington.

We have driven most of the length of the Columbia River Wetlands on Highway 93 and 95.  Highway 93 begins close to Phoenix, AZ and highway 95 begins at Yuma, AZ.  Both highways provide a north-south route across the United States through Nevada and on each side of the Bitterroot Mountains of Idaho before joining at Cranbrook, British Columbia.  From the headwaters at Columbia Lake near Canal Flats, BC, the highway borders the Columbia River as it travels north through Fairmount Hot Springs, Windermere, and Invermere before splitting again at Radium Hot Springs.  Highway 95 then continues along the Columbia River to Edgewater, Brisco, Spillimacheen, Harrogate, Parson, and ends at Highway 1 in Golden.  Highway 1 continues along the river to Donald and Beavermouth, leaving the river before it enters Kinbasket Lake. 

Mid-summer is not the time to see the great flocks of migrating birds along these wetlands.  The most conspicuous birds are the very abundant osprey whose nests can be found in relative abundance.  As often as not, the osprey build their nest on top of man-made poles designed for nesting osprey.  These poles are generally located beside roads so that it is very easy to observe adults feeding the freshly caught fish to their young.  Otherwise, it is possible to see occasional small flocks of Canada Geese, a few coots, an occasional mallard, common golden eyes and ruddy ducks.  We would certainly have seen other species if we had canoed these waters -- maybe next time. 

South of the town of Golden, British Columbia is a kiosk, apparently supported by the Kootenay Environmental Society.  Displays in this kiosk tell the following story:

The Columbia River is North America’s fourth largest watershed, encompassing 784,000 square kilometers, an area larger than France.  On its 2000 kilometer journey to the sea, the Columbia’s falling waters has been harnessed into the world’s largest hydroelectric plant.  Over 100 dams generate about 12,000 megawatts of electricity, twice the needs of British Columbia.  The economic, social, and environmental costs of developing the Columbia’s hydroelectric potential have been staggering.  Prime forest, agriculture, and recreational lands were drowned.  One of the world’s best wild salmon fishery disappeared.  But, electric heat in winter and electric air conditioning in summer keep the people happy,

Mica Dam is the Columbia River’s largest storage project, holding back water upstream to increase power generation capacities at downstream dams.  Mica dam was completed in 1973 and the Kinbasket Reservoir it created destroyed 420 square kilometers of this regions most productive forests, meadows, and wetlands.  The flooding killed an estimated 1600 moose, 2100 black bear and displaced all wildlife dependent on wetlands.  Benefits are not mentioned.

The 180 km stretch of the Columbia River above Kinbasket Reservoir is the only free-flowing reach of this once mighty river.  The flat relief of the valley floor, the low gradient of the river and the annual flooding during spring runoff have created British Columbia’s most extensive and biologically productive freshwater system, the Columbia River Wetlands.

Columbia River Valley

 

Throughout North America during the last century, human development has typically displaced wildlife from its preferred, low elevation habitat.  The Columbia Valley Wetlands are a rare exception.  Here, the best wildlife habitat is still intact.  The complex relationship between water and soil, mountain, and river, plant, and animal continue, much as they have for centuries past.

Only by protecting the wetlands in their natural state will this remnant of the wild river be preserved for centuries to come – for the appreciation of future generations of people and wildlife. 

Bighorn sheep have made the town of Golden their home.  We watched a small herd strip a small apple tree along the cliffs overlooking the town.  They stirred up small clouds of dust as they climbed up and slid down the steep slopes of shale overlooking the Kicking Horse River.

Two different events were taking place in Golden when we were there.  The Golden Rodeo and a hang gliding contest.  From our campsite, we could see the hang gliders and paragliders taking off from a mountain high over the east of town.  A girl behind the desk of the visitor’s center explained how to find the road to the launching site, but cautioned that a 4-wheel drive vehicle would be needed – and it was.  The four-cylinder engine in our Honda CRV strained to make it up the steep, dusty road.  We met a jeep coming down on one of the blind, hairpin turns.  The road was narrow so I backed up to let him pass.  Starting back up after he passed the road was so steep that all four tires slid in the dusty gravel before finally regaining traction.

The view at the top of the 8005-foot mountain was magnificent.  We chatted with a French-Canadian fellow from Quebec as he assisted the last competitors.  He explained that most of the contestants use a hang glider – distinguished from a para-glider by having a metal frame.  The para-glider looks more like a parachute.  They waited for a breeze blowing directly into their face before launching.  It was late afternoon and the winds were not cooperating.  Two wind socks maybe 20 meters apart were pointing in different directions.  We watched several participants launch.  Only one or two were able to find an updraft or thermal to allow them to gain the altitude needed to compete for the prize.  During the three-day event, the longest flight had been a flight of 146 kilometers from Golden south to Flat Canal.  The all-time record is 146 kilometers.  Hang gliders are confident that as new technologies in glider construction are developed, someday the gliders will be able to glide down the Rockies all the way into the United States.

We also chatted with a contestant from Melbourne, Australia.  He was trying to assemble his glider but found it necessary to stand on the hand bar to keep the glider from blowing away in the wind.  I offered to help hold down the glider so he could continue with the assembly.  He gratefully accepted my assistance.  I warned him that if my feet left the ground in a strong wind, I would let go.  He said that would be a good idea, but that it was very unlikely.  Having watched ravens ride the thermals and updrafts from the valley to the mountain tops a couple of days earlier, I asked if they watch for birds in order to find these rising currents of air.  He replied that birds are very important, but that his favorite is a golden eagle that lives high in the mountains.  He has flown with the eagle a couple of times and claims that he improves his technique by watching them soar.  After completing the assembly, the Australian began his double check of cables, bolts, frame, and cover.  A fellow contestant came over and showed the Australian a twisted cable that needed correcting.  We watched as the Australian took off, found a thermal and climbed high over a neighboring mountaintop.  “Must be fun,” I said to Pat.  

“Don’t you go getting any ideas,” she said.

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Canada and Elk in the Campground

Elk in the Campground

August 9, 1998

A herd of about 25 elk grazed on the clover and grasses in Whistlers campground here at Jasper National Park in Alberta.  Composed mostly of females and their young, there were only a couple of young bucks with antlers in velvet.  Thought we had heard children at play  -- you know how little girls sort of screech like when little boys cause them some minor injury.  We looked out the window and there was a cow in the process of calling her twin calves.  As she inhaled, this screechy sound caused the calves to come running to her from out of the black spruce trees.  She allowed one to suckle momentarily before she moved on.  Then more elk moved into view.  Signs in the campground warn about approaching or feeding the elk – females are dangerous during calving season and males are dangerous during rutting season.  Their sharp front hooves can cause serious injury to human skulls and other parts of their anatomy.  But kids on bikes and folks with cameras come up close to them and they mostly just ignore these human trespassers into their domain.  The injury that can be inflicted by the rack of a large, rutting male to a fragile human body is too gruesome to imagine.  

Later, at the Yellowhead Highway park entrance on the west side of Jasper, the girls in the entrance booth waved to us enthusiastically.  Their message became clear when we saw four very large male elk with huge racks grazing along the highway.  Their antlers were still in full velvet, but showed some evidence of preliminary rubbing – hope the close-up photos taken from the window of the car turn out OK.  Since then we have seen bull elk along the highways in several other locations.  Because most of the park is covered with forest (Smokey Bear has been effective in preventing forest fires), there are not enough open grassy areas.  Along highways, the grass grows just fine, so elk tend to congregate on roadsides.  The park managers are experimenting with controlled burns to remedy this situation.  These burns will also help the bears.  Less forest means more berry bushes.  Bears need lots of berries to produce the fat needed for winter hibernation.  Bears prefer sweet berries like huckleberries or thimble berries, but because of Smokey Bear’s prevention of forest fires, there are not many of these berries.  Consequently, bears are forced to eat soap berries.  Sure enough, I tasted one and it tasted like soap.  Yuk!  Poor bears!

Signs posted at Moraine Lake Lodge in the Valley of Ten Peaks warn about one five-year-old bear that has been following hikers.  He becomes especially irritated when bikers sneak up on him.  There have been several “confrontations” with this bear, but his attacks always stop short of human injury.  Food quality in the high mountain valley is especially poor, so the bear only weighs about 200 pounds – not even big enough to play guard for the Texas A&M University football team.  Seems only a matter of time till he becomes sufficiently irritated with the human interlopers to whack one.  To keep him away from humans, wardens have closed the upper valley to humans when the bear emerges from hibernation in the spring – a time when the bear is very hungry and in no mood to tolerate the irritating humans.

At Medicine Lake, we stopped to observe Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep.  Several rams were begging for food from the tourists.  When I opened the car door to get a close-up photo of one, a  ram with large curled horns trotted over, stuck his head in the open door and nudged my knee with his nose.  

It is unlawful to feed wildlife in Canadian National Parks, so – being a good, law-abiding citizen – I chose not to allow the ram to eat our lunch.  Obviously angered, the ram butted the door of my car before leaving to try to intimidate some Japanese tourists in a neighboring car.  Usually, when bighorn sheep are seen on the highway, they are licking the pavement or eating soil on the roadside.  They seem oblivious to the 18-wheel trucks whizzing by or the tourists all stopping for a photo – causing sheep jams.  These groups of sheep are composed mostly of ewes and kids; the rams enjoy all-male company except during mating season.  We watched two small kids climb, with great agility, down a near-vertical rocky cliff to their mom who was eating dirt on the roadside.  When the sheep shed their winter coats of hair they lose many minerals that must be replaced so they can grow a new coat for the next winter.  Failure to grow a luxuriant coat of hair means almost certain death when they try to survive the wickedly cold winters in the Canadian Rockies.

Medicine Lake was named by the local Indians who could find no cause, other than some magical “big medicine,” to explain why the lake empties every winter.  Melted snow-water flows through the Upper Maligne River to fill the lake in spring.  In the fall, when temperatures begin to stay below freezing most of the day, the water becomes tied up in ice and water flow into Medicine Lake stops.  The lake drains rapidly.  There is no surface, outflow river from the lake.  The water flows out through holes in the bottom of the lake, into underground rivers, and resurfaces into the Maligne River Canyon several miles downhill.  Early residents in the area tried to plug the holes in the lake bottom but to no avail.  The lake always found a way to continue the drain.  Good thing too, cause it is a heck of a tourist attraction.

Pat and Win at Maligne River Canyon

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/4404749581224177008?hl=en

Sneaking Through Canadian Customs

Sneaking Through Canadian Customs

 

August 2, 1998

 

The Canadian customs agent looked me square in the eyes and said, “I know you have a pistol in this motorhome.  I will give you one last chance to come clean – there are very severe consequences if you have hidden a pistol in your motorhome.  Your motorhome could be confiscated and you could end up in a Canadian jail.” 

 Again, trying to sound convincing and honest, I repeated,  “There is no pistol in this motorhome.” 

“We know where to look and we will find it,” he said as he again looked me directly in the eyes.  

“Do what you have to do,” I said as bravely as I could.

“I know there is a pistol in your motorhome because when I mentioned the penalties, your wife glanced at you and gave you a very special look.”

“Did you look guilty?” I asked Pat.  She shrugged.

The agent and his sidekick searched for about 10 minutes.  They looked in all the most obvious places, found no pistol and then chatted with us about the hot weather back in Texas and other trivial stuff.

I asked, “Why did you really decide to search our motorhome instead of just waving us through?  Was it because of our Texas license plates?  I understand that Texans have a reputation for carrying pistols.”

“No!” he replied.  “The tip-off was when you told us you lived in your motorhome “full time.”  Folks who really live in motorhomes often carry guns.”

Finally, he said, “You are free to go.  Have a good time in Canada.”

Every time we enter Canada, it is the same story.  The customs agents are not hostile, but very firm.  They have searched us both times we have entered Canada in a motorhome.  The first time they confiscated three apples and a couple of potatoes that we were obviously trying to smuggle into Canada.  This time they did not even ask about fruit or potatoes.  I have to admit that this time we were successful in smuggling apples into Canada.  We ate the last two before crossing the border -- our stomachs proved to be the perfect place for apple “running” or smuggling.  Next time maybe we will test the law and try to sneak a couple of Mexican jalapeños or something through customs.  Nothing like living dangerously.  

Naw!  Maybe it’s not such a good idea.  If Pat looks guilty when we are innocent, how will she look if we are really committing a crime?  Maybe we are just not cut out for the criminal lifestyle.

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Canada and the Eye of Quebec

Eye of Quebec

August 27, 2009

Space View of the Eye of Quebec

 

 

A giant fireball streaked across the Canadian sky and crashed into the Quebec countryside with a tremendous explosive force.  Today – about 214 million years later – the crater caused by this 3-mile wide asteroid is so distinctive that it can be recognized by astronauts in space.  Natives of Quebec sometimes refer to it as “the eye of Quebec.”  It forms a nearly perfect circle of water about 60 miles wide and holds the largest freshwater island in the world.  The impact of this asteroid splashed out rocks of the boreal shield which caused the formation of mountains for many miles around the edge of the crater.  The only road that goes to Western Labrador is located along this crater.  It is very rugged travel uphill in second gear then downhill in second gear for over 60 miles.  Of course, when traveling such roads it always rains -- right?  A strong norther is blowing and the late-October temperature falls to F 39.  In the semi-darkness of morning and rain, photos we take are blurred and hilltop views of the lake are murky.  But, in spite of all the negative stuff, it’s a remote and beautiful place.

After several hours of dodging 18-wheel trucks driven by race car drivers, we arrived at the southern end of the lake.  The sun broke through the clouds and for the first time we got a good view of the blue waters that fills the crater.  Somebody named it Manicouagan – maybe because it is in the Manicouagan area of Quebec.  The Manicouagan river – which runs through the crater – is dammed off to create the large Manicouagan Reservoir within the crater.  Local folks must tire of pronouncing this long name so they have abbreviated it to “Manic.”  As the river travels south before it empties into the St Laurence Seaway, there are 4 reservoirs named Manic 1, Manic 2, Manic 3 and Manic 4.  Each of these reservoirs is backed up by a dam where hydroelectric power is generated.

This road to Labrador is called the Freedom Highway by locals in Labrador because when it opened in 1992, it finally gave the Labradorians the freedom to drive out and south to warmer climes with something other than a snowmobile or dog sled.  The road starts at the handsome, prosperous town of Baie-Comeau, Quebec on the St Lawrence Seaway and ends (631 miles later) at Happy Valley/Goose Bay in Labrador.  We did not measure it exactly, but there must be over 450 miles of gravel-surface.  The quality of this surface is generally very good and is frequently graded.  But, during rains, the 18 wheel trucks quickly pound potholes and areas where the road is being repaired can be very rough.  Maybe around 50% of this road is smooth enough for travel at 40 to 50 MPH.  The roughest parts will rattle your teeth at 10 MPH.  

I had seen this road on maps during previous trips to Canada and thought that it might be fun to explore this part of the world..  But all the advice I could get was that the road did not yet qualify for travel by senior Texans in a little motorhome.  But, while traveling through Newfoundland, I quizzed the locals about the road and it became clear that this road has been improved to the point that a motorhome could make the trip – maybe without falling apart on the road.  Having traveled into the far northern Canada on previous trips, we suffered from no delusions about the scenery along the road.  It would be made up primarily of small, black spruce, glacier-graded terrain, muskeg, blackflies, mosquitoes, caribou, moose and very few people.  Somebody told us that the total population of this huge area of Labrador is about 30,000 people.  Many of these are Innu and Innuit “first people” – as they like to call themselves. 

Freedom Highway

 

When I first read about this road maybe 10 years ago, a 4-wheel drive vehicle was recommended – especially in winter.  But now, all kinds of autos can be seen on the road.  Nobody and I mean nobody travels this road a slowly as we did.  I don’t remember passing a single vehicle.  But everybody passed us.  So I busy dodging potholes on both sides of the road.  I wobble back and forth across the lanes.  Suddenly, a huge truck – that I failed to see in the rearview mirror -- zoomed by and I’m glad I didn’t zig or zag into his lane as he was passing.  

When telling about this adventure to a friend, we were asked: “what in the world motivated you to explore such a remote road?”

“Well, a little insanity helps” I replied.  “But mostly we did it because it’s there.”

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en 

Canada and Shaggy Mane Mushrooms

Shaggy Mane Mushrooms

While traveling through remote parts of Alaskan Highway in Canada back in 1995, we happened upon a lady harvesting something and placing it in a large basket.  To satisfy my curiosity, we parked our motorhome along the highway and joined the lady out in the tundra and shrubbery.  As we approached her, I noticed that her large basket was filling with white, elongate mushrooms. 

Shaggy Mane Mushrooms

 “What are they?” I asked.

“Well, they are Shaggy Mane Mushrooms,” she replied. 

“How do you know they are safe to eat?” I asked.

“I’ve been eating them all my life and they have not hurt me yet,” she said.

“Do you mind if we join you in harvesting some?” I asked.

“Help yourself,” she said.  “As you can see there are plenty of them here for everybody.”

The mushrooms were easy to find.  They grew mostly in piles of moose dung.  Apparently, the moose were very abundant in the area, but we could not see any of them nearby.

We gathered about a gallon of them and then thought to ask the lady how to cook them.  “Well first, you need to blanch them in boiling water for a few seconds to stop the maturation.  Otherwise, they turn black and the flavor is affected.  They are good in stews and soups and have something of a fishy flavor.  Some folks claim that it’s not good to eat them with alcohol so go easy on the “juice.”

We thanked the lady for her help and returned to the motorhome with our treasure.  We blanched them and then cooked up a batch.  We both thought they were quite tasty. but maybe best of all, they did not kill us.  We have often been warned of the dangers of mushroom mis-identifications resulting in human poisoning, so had never tried wild mushrooms.  Now, here we were out eating off the land.  It was fun!

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Canadian Inside Passage to Prince Rupert

Canadian Inside Passage to Prince Rupert

Roadblock

August 24, 2001

Near sunset, on a remote road in British Columbia (BC), a blockage appeared in the middle of the road.  No sign of explanation, just a couple of saw horses and signs with diagonal markings and a light on top.  We were about a four-hour car drive from our motel in Prince Rupert; it had been raining most of the day and there was a chill in the mountain air.

We began to wonder out loud what in the world is this all about and what do we do now?  Then I remembered a fellow in another car that we met a mile or so back who waved a finger back and forth as he passed.  Now it made sense that he was telling us that we could not pass through this road.  We knew of no other road out of this remote place, but I remembered a sign for a Bed and Breakfast on the road behind us, so hopefully, we would not have to spend a cold night in the car while waiting for the road to open.

It had been a very interesting trip.  It started when a fellow with a thick, heavy mustache walked up beside me on the BC ferry from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert on the Inside Passage.  He explained that an arm of the passage that I was observing led to the town of Kitimat.  At the far end of this arm and up the Douglas Channel was a large copper mine and the town that built up around it.  I had seen this friendly fellow on the ferry a couple times and we had exchanged greetings.  We chatted briefly.  I explained that we had left our motorhome and car at Port Hardy and walked on the ferry so we could see the famous Inside Passage and explore Prince Rupert.  I also told him that we were undecided about what to do when we were there.  Maybe we would take a bus inland and around to the town of Bella Coola, where we could catch another ferry back to Port Hardy.  He explained that he and his family were from Victoria on Vancouver Island and that they were on holiday to the Queen Charlotte Islands.  We wished each other a happy holiday (vacation in Canadese) and parted company.

The next day, at the Prince Rupert Visitor Center, we again met this same fellow.  He said that the ferry to the Queen Charlotte Islands did not leave till tomorrow and that they had decided to take a day trip to Nisga’a Memorial Lava Bed Provincial Park.  Would we like to go with them?  We had already decided against the trip to Bella Coola, so it immediately seemed like a good idea and Pat agreed.  He outlined the trip on the map and it certainly appeared doable.  So we piled into their Chevy van, which was pulling a small trailer covered with a tarp.  A handsome wooden, homemade canoe perched on top of the roof.  Room was cleared on the seats for Pat and me and off we drove.  It rained off and on as we traveled up along the Skeena River --  known for its salmon.  The three kids, Erynn 6, Alicia 8 and Nicholas 10, all agreed to have lunch at A&W Root Beer in preference to McDonald’s and several other restaurants when we reached Terrace, BC about noon.  After lunch, we headed north and in a couple hours were at the lava beds. 

The whole family, including the parents, Marilyn and Mark, were delightful.  The kids were bright, happy and seemed to be well-adjusted.  They all seemed genuinely pleased that we had chosen to accompany them.  Mark drove and pointed out the most interesting features in the landscape as we traveled.  With his background in gardening and biology, Mark had many interesting comments about the flora, fauna, and geography of the region.  He had taken an MS degree in Japan and Marilyn had lived in Germany and had traveled extensively in Australia.  He had also once worked as a projectionist in a World Congress of Entomology in Canada, so we established a connection.

When we reached the park, we read that a volcanic eruption resulted in a large flow of lava that blocked the Tseax River and created Lava Lake.  The lava had continued to flow down the old river bed for miles, spreading out in flatter areas.  The old river appeared and disappeared as it continued to filter through the porous lava, but salmon could not pass through.  We took a couple of short hikes on trails through the lava fields, viewed fish in some ponds and observed a waterfall as it cascaded over the lava into a large pool.  Surrounding the lava fields were mountains capped with snow and glaciers.  The air was so clear that we could see minute details on the mountain peaks.  The rain stopped and we had some views of blue skies.  Pat and Erynn became instant friends and walked hand in hand down the trails.  Nicholas chatted about world events that he has read in the newspaper and gently hinted to his parents of his need for a new laptop.  Alicia’s life goal is to climb Mt. Everest.  Erynn told me a story about a polar bear that left candy in her backyard on Halloween.  “Erynn has quite an imagination,” her older sister Alicia explained.

With the approaching twilight, Mark decided it was time to head home.  As we left the park about 7:30 PM, we came upon the roadblock.  In a flash, we all knew what had happened.  On the highway into the lava bed area earlier that day, we had passed a warning sign along the road.  We had interpreted it to mean that the road was closed from 7 AM till 4 PM.  Apparently, we had misread the sign which must have read,  “closed from 7 PM to 4 AM.”  Since the road was not closed at the time, we reasoned that there was no need to worry and we passed through.  There was no evidence of any activity by the construction crew as we passed through the muddy, potholed construction area and we promptly forgot about it.  

But now, as we sat facing the road barriers, we had several options: 1. We could remove the barriers and drive till we found someone who could give us advice, 2. We could walk the road behind the barriers for the same reason, 3. We could try to find another route out, 4. The Pawluks could remove the tent from the trailer and camp in the park, 4.  Pat and I could either sleep in the car or in the Bed and Breakfast.  We chose to walk first.  It was a “guy” thing to go out and save everyone, so Mark, Nicholas and I took off walking.  Far in a distance ahead, we could hear the sounds of heavy equipment at work.  At each bend in the road, we made the decision to continue even though the sound of the equipment did not seem to be growing much louder.  Then, with considerable relief, we saw headlights approaching from the construction area. 

The foreman of the construction crew drove up in his pickup truck and Mark explained our predicament.  The foreman said that this must be our lucky day.  Normally, we would just have to wait until after 4 AM, when the road would be open again.  But there had been an emergency “hydro” (electrical) problem in an Indian village, the hydro trucks were coming in a few minutes and the foreman had agreed to let them through.  Although the little adventure was fun, the prospect of spending a cold night in a car was not terribly appealing.  We were relieved when the foreman told us that we could pass through with the hydro trucks.

Within a few minutes, the hydro trucks appeared and we followed them to the construction area, where the road was being widened along Lava Lake.  High above the road was a large Caterpillar with a bucket on the end of a long arm, digging out a path on the steep bank for itself so it could pick up and dump logs, boulders, and soil down the slope onto the road.  To widen the road below, it was necessary to cut away much of the hill above the road.  The road was blocked with all this stuff.  A fellow with a chainsaw was busy cutting trees which also fell down the hill.  We waited and watched for a few minutes till the Caterpillar descended and swiftly cleared the road of debris so we could pass.  He moved the bucket side to side in a sweeping motion to make a path through the debris.  When the road was clear, we were motioned to pass.  We traveled rapidly down the road behind the hydro trucks, but could not keep up with them.  Maybe they were late for dinner or something.  

We stopped at the warning sign to read it more clearly.   It clearly said “. . . closure from 7 PM to 4 AM, Monday thru Thursday,” and today was Wednesday.  We had no excuse, but it turned out OK.  Mark and Marilyn took turns driving in the rain, the kids slept and we arrived back in Prince Rupert about midnight. 

It had been a good day with pleasant, interesting company and a visit to a beautiful area of British Columbia.  We had a bit of  “gentle adventure” and maybe we have learned to read the warning signs more carefully.  Maybe!

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Canada and Lake Superior

Lake Superior

July 2, 2001

Lake Superior

 

 The “First Nation” Ojibway Indian word defines Pukaskwa as “eater of fish.”  Pukaskwa is a large, mostly wilderness, Canadian national park along “Ketchegummee,” as Lake Superior is known to the Ojibway.  According to a Reverend Grant in 1872, “. . . those who have never seen Superior get an inadequate, even inaccurate idea of hearing of it spoken as a lake.  Though its waters are fresh and crystal, Superior is a sea.  It breeds storms and rain and fog, like the sea.  It is cold in midsummer as the Atlantic.  It is wild, masterful and dreaded . . .”  It is so large that it holds one-tenth of all the surface fresh water on earth – an almost unbelievable statistic.

 

Pukaskwa National Park

  

When we arrived at this Canadian park Visitor Centre at 4:30 P.M. on Saturday, someone mentioned that a boat ride was available at 10:00 A.M. on Sunday morning.  So, at 9:30 on Sunday morning we were ready.  Keith McCuaig appeared in his diesel-powered boat and we idled out of the calm Hattie Cove in Ontario into the turbulent Lake Superior.  It was shirtsleeve weather when we arrived at the park, but out on the water, we could see our breath in the cold air.  (The water temperature of Lake Superior averages about F 40 year around.)  As Keith hit the throttle, the diesel engine roared, the boat hit large waves and spray came over the top of the boat.  It was rough and we both wondered briefly about the wisdom of taking such a trip.  We were provided with life jackets, but we had also just read a story by some fellow named Craig Zimmerman about his frightening experience in the lake: 

“The canoe capsized.  Gasping, we plunged into the coldest and deepest of all the Great Lakes – Superior.  In mid-May, seventy-five meters from the rocky shore, we held arms across the spine of our canoe and stared at each other in disbelief, fear and uncertainty.  Lake Superior’s chilling water was having an immediate effect.  Our breathing was rapid, fingers and limbs were slowing and rational decisions seemed impossible.  The Lake seemed to be pulling us into her dark grave.”

“Time was against us.  With all of our effort we righted the canoe, drained what water we could, and climbed into what soon might become a water-logged coffin.  Paddling to shore, still partly immersed, our body systems continued to deteriorate.  We crashed onto the rocks and with difficulty extricated ourselves from the canoe.  Lighting a fire proved impossible.  We shivered convulsively.  Taking most of our wet clothes off, we huddled together on sun-soaked-basalt, trying to warm up.  Slowly, ever so slowly, we realized we were out of danger.”

But Pat and I were not in a canoe; we were the only passengers in a large, twenty-seven-foot, steel-hulled boat whose captain assured us that he had never been tossed into the Lake Superior waters and had no intention of ever having such an experience.  We began to warm to the pounding, rolling, wet conditions and actually enjoyed the experience.  “Sorta like riding a wild, unbroken horse in a cold Texas Norther,” I thought.  

After about forty minutes, we entered a narrow gap in the rocky headlands into the shelter of the White River.  As we idled carefully past some large, shallow rocks and a couple of miles upriver, Keith explained that his boat was something of a hobby.  He lives in the nearby town of Marathon, Ontario, where he is an accountant.  His dad also operates a boat chartering service that specializes in transporting park hikers, canoeists and kayakers to their favorite wilderness spots along the shores of Pukaskwa.

 

Chigamiwinigum Falls

  

As we approached the boat landing, we could see the seething, foamy waters of Chigamiwinigum Falls as it crashed through a narrow rock canyon.  The boat landing was composed of a large, floating log chained beside a rock cliff.  Keith placed a plank from the boat to the log, we teetered down the plank and scrambled over whatever footholds we could find till we reached a small beach.  “To reach the hanging bridge over the falls, simply hike up this trail and make sure to make a sharp turn at the trail intersection.  I’ll return for you in two hours.” Keith said.  If we missed that turn, we would be headed along the Coastal Hiking Trail, where we could travel through the park wilderness for several days.  There are no stores where we can resupply water or food along this trail.  We might see no other humans for days.  However, we might see remnants of a woodland caribou herd that are able to survive this far south partly because of the cold climate afforded by Lake Superior. 

 

Hanging Bridge

 

At the trail intersection, we made the appropriate turn and soon saw the bridge hanging over the roaring falls.  “I’m not going over that thing,” Pat announced.  The bridge was composed of four cables, two for hand rails and two to hold the slats of wood that served as steps.  Every step caused the bridge to sway, and the foaming water in the river far below could be seen through the wide spaces in the slats.  “Will this flimsy-looking contraption hold me up?” I wondered when I was about half way across.  Then I thought about the hikers with their large backpacks full of gear, who had successfully crossed and my mind was put more at ease.  I tried not to think of those who may not have made it.

The White River serves as an old and current canoe route between White Lake and Superior.  There are several falls and rapids on the river that must be portaged.  According to officials of Pukaskwa Park, when water begins to speed up on the river and you suspect rapids or falls ahead, it is better to portage your canoe around the falls than to take a chance you might not survive a canoe ride over wilderness waterfalls.  While swaying on the hanging bridge, I wondered if any of the old French voyageurs, who trapped beaver in this area, ever made the mistake of failing to portage these falls.  If so, there might be human bones somewhere at the bottom of this river alongside some beaver traps.

After returning across the bridge, we continued on the trail up the river to the base of a second falls.  We never really saw the falls, only a large cloud of mist at the bottom of the falls.  To see the falls required several long jumps onto wet rocks in the rushing river.  Neither of us was up to the task.  A pair of Spotted Sandpipers frantically tried to lure us away from a fuzzy chick that escaped across the large rocks on the bank.  Checking my watch, we had only ½ hour before Keith returned with the boat.  “I almost hope that we don’t see any exotic birds on the way back, or we won’t make it in time,” I told Pat.  So, as you might have guessed, about halfway back, a mother Ruffed Grouse stood in the trail ahead of us with her crest raised – as if daring us to try to pass through her brave trail block.  Her six fuzzy chicks scurried out into the woods and she soon followed. 

As we neared the boat landing, Pat heard a warbler beside the trail.  “Keith might be here any minute, but let’s see if we can find the bird,” I said.  I caught a glimpse of a yellow throat high in a Birch tree and thought it was another Magnolia Warbler – like several others we had seen recently.  I went ahead down the trail to make sure that Keith had not yet arrived, then hurried back to see if I could again see the warbler.  We had been searching for a Canada Warbler for several days.  Canada Warblers are very inquisitive and will investigate strange noises.  I made the familiar “pishing” sound that birders often use to attract sparrows, warblers and other birds.  Almost instantly, a yellow and black bird flew out of the woods and landed on a limb only a few yards in front of me.  The light was excellent, revealing a black necklace on a yellow chest, a gray back and yellow eye-ring.  It was just like the picture in the book!  Now we had found our first ever Canada Warbler.  Pat also saw it clearly for a verification.  We danced down the trail in time to see Keith’s boat arrive with another couple of passengers.  When we announced our find, Keith and the two girl hikers seemed somewhat impressed.  But, what impressed them more were blackflies.  

 

Canada Warbler

Blackflies are not all bad according to the Pukaskwa Visitor’s Guide!  Yes, they have short, saw-like mouthparts that cut through the skin, then they lap up the blood.  It takes three to five minutes for them to complete feeding, so you have time to swat them before they are through.  But they are sneaky and can get into the hairline on the back of your neck without being noticed.  They leave a sizable, bloody wound that itches when your body has an allergic reaction to their saliva.  That’s the bad part!  The good part is that fish, birds, bats, toads, frogs, dragonflies, and many other insect-eating wildlife depends on mosquitoes and blackflies for part of their food supply.  Also, blackflies are a major pollinator of blueberries.  So when you donate your blood to a feeding blackfly, just stop and think that you are doing your part for the healthy ecology of the region.  A healthy ecology means more warblers.  Who knows, maybe partly because of blackflies, we may be able to find the Mourning and Cape May Warblers that we still seek.

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en