Duncan Portage

September 7, 2007

Day Nineteen

We pulled into the Narrows and the wind died in the lee. The sea calmed and a steady rain began to fall. Shining beads glistened on the water momentarily before becoming part of the lake.

At the Narrows campground, Jim wisely proposed that we take lunch in a shelter. We chose the warmer one, facing west. With a heavy rain and a dim inside light, we draped wet life jackets, spray skirts, and paddling gear on the wooden bars to drip, if not dry.

I grimly contemplated a tough portage over slick rocks and a muddy trail. My kit was packaged to stay dry in sealed kayak hatches. Over a long portage and carried outside the boats, left on the trailside to await the next trip, everything, including my sleeping bag and clothing would be damp and that much heavier.

Jim and I shared intimate bits of our personal histories along with cheese, summer sausage, flat bread and dried figs. I forgot about the rain. When we left the shelter the sky was gray, but nothing was falling out of it. By the time we paddled one and a half miles to the portage, unloaded our boats and secured mine to await the next trip, patches of sunlight splashed on the lush moss-covered floor of the boreal forest. No matter how heavy the loads or many the trips, this wasn’t going to be that bad.

It wasn’t bad. In the bizarre way of challenging, tedious work, it was glorious. I appreciated the strength in my body and moved quickly along the trail. A portage is not about the journey, it is all about destination; particularly with my end of our heavy plastic boats resting on an ever-more-bruised right shoulder.