Nipissing to Naiscoot
In 1968 I guided a 15 day Camp Pine Crest (CPC) canoe trip from Sturgeon Falls on Lake Nipissing to Naiscoot, near Point au Baril on Georgian Bay. Steve Rumm had returned to camp, presumably on holiday, to be my 2nd sternsman and staff. The camper canoe would provide its own sternsman providing much valuable experience for the kids. The campers were:
Jon Burt, 321 Delrex Blvd., Georgetown, ON.;
Daryl Copeland, 91 Roxborough St. E., Toronto 5, ON.;
Scott Doan, 37 Appledale Road, Islington, ON.;
Dave Jackson, 117 Rockport Crescent, Richmond Hill, ON.;
Ted Lister, 111 Roxborough St. W., Toronto 5, ON. P.C.3.;
Tom Manson, #45-41 Valleywoods Road, Don Mills, ON.;
Rick Williams, 254 Walden Dr., Burlington, ON.
We had planned a variety of experiences. These included “push” challenge Voyageur type days, some recreational “easy” days plus a few R&R stay-in-camp rest times. We weren’t out to “kill” ourselves. The trip itself would prove challenge enough. Day 5 proved to be our longest, most difficult day. In fact, we had to pitch camp by the light of a full moon. Exhausted we melted into our sleeping bags. Our watches had coincidentally malfunctioned and so we relied upon the sun to tell the time. Actually, we became quite accurate referring to this as “animal time” as versus people daylight savings time. However, we awakened to overcast skies and had no idea of the time until we reached the Village of French River where we needed to pick up five days of supplies with the $25 so allocated. We were shocked to learn that it was 3 o’clock. So much for the previous day’s gain. While I shopped, the campers plugged a hole in their canoe with the pocket from John’s raincoat and some steel hardener. It paid to be resourceful. Others wrote postcards home; some phoned. Much later, at a new campsite, we discovered that we had left our purchased supplies in French River. John, Tripper for the Day (he was in charge), plus Rick and Steve returned to fetch them. “The mosquitoes are unusually terrible for this time of year. It must be the warm humid weather,” reads my log.
The next day we met CPC guide Dave Adams, already out for 10 days. He told us that we couldn’t possibly make our destination that day and suggested that we share a camp but we pushed on trying to make up for lost time. With a storm brewing we weren’t overly optimistic but motivated to find a campsite for shelter.
We portaged, leaving the French River for the Pickerel River. As we paddled the wind picked up and the sky grew darker. Distant lightning strikes sent us shoreward when we came upon a trapper’s cabin. Trappers used to leave their cabins unlocked. Tradition dictated that if you used it you left it in a better condition than you found it and it didn’t hurt to leave a note of appreciation.
No sooner had we pulled our canoes on shore and moved our gear inside when the storm broke – wind, driving rain, thunder and lightning. “The whole ball of wax,” as we used to say. After building a fire in the old woodstove, out came the comfort food – poor man’s steak (peanut butter), jam and bread. Simple the shelter may have been but it allowed us to rest peacefully while enjoying the storm. Or so we thought.
Now there is nothing that induces a sound, restful sleep like a fierce thunderstorm raging outside with rain pelting rhythmically on the roof. And there is nothing that disturbs such peaceful slumber so fast as the feeling of furry little feet scampering across one’s face. The cabin, it turned out, was wild with mice.
Rumm just couldn’t cope with his face being used as a mouse portage and following a brief reconnaissance with the beam of his flashlight he decided to sleep on top of the kitchen table. The mice wouldn’t find his face there. Or so he thought. But alas, Steve had no sooner turned off his light and settled in to sleep when his furry friends found his face once again. That proved too much. Necessity may well be the invention of mothers – for he soon searched the food pack and found pepper which he liberally spread about himself and the table in an attempt to keep the mice at bay. And, may I say, there is nothing so disturbing to a peaceful slumber quite like a thousand little mice sneezing through the night.