A kayak for all seasons…in a bag, no less

Kayaks, these days, come in all sizes, shapes, and materials. Mine comes in, or should I say, out of two bags.  A thing of beauty, and an absolute animal to assemble. Good friend John and I spent four days traipsing over the Bruce peninsula along the Bruce trail. Kayaking was definitely on the menu, but I decided that we should forego the Pygmy wood kayaks I had built a few years ago, and dig up the folding ‘wonder’ for one more experience of wood and canvas impregnated with PVC.

John did a great job of filming and editing, while I laboured, cursed and sweated, wrestling the magnificent beast into submission. Enjoy the show.

Thank you my deer


It was early in the spring and I was preparing myself to run a marathon around the middle of June.  Typically, my weekly ‘long run’ found me on the cross country ski trails in Pinery Provincial Park near Grand Bend Ontario.  For many years I had enjoyed walks in the park and come in contact with the local deer population.  Always, such an event was a gift, since I believe that sighting a wild animal is a two way granting of favours, it will allow itself to be seen by you and you will respect its presence.  It was early in the morning and the tall grass on the edge of the trail still held the previous night’s spider webs highlighted with tiny drops of dew glistening in the morning sunlight.  I commented to my running partner that it was so unusual that we seldom, if ever, sighted deer in an area that was so heavily populated with them.  We turned a sharp corner in the trail and headed along a perfectly straight stretch following the road by the lake when, totally unexpectedly, we ran towards a grouping of about 15 deer standing to our right.  My heart jumped into my throat with joy and surprise and I picked up the pace as we headed towards them.  At the instance when we came along side the group, one of them separated from the herd, jumped onto the trail directly in front of me and ran away from me at a lively pace.  At that moment I could no longer contain myself.  I broke into a sprint and gave chase, running faster than I had ever run before.  With the herd stopped behind us, the two of us were locked in a duel, human against animal, running as if our lives depended on the outcome.  For about 100 yards we were separated by mere feet.  I heard its hooves hit the hard ground and its explosive breaths escaping its nostrils.  My lungs were screaming for air and my head was pounding with the excitement of the moment.  I was having a race with a deer, a deer, was racing with me.  Suddenly it all came to an abrupt end.  The deer decided that enough was enough.  It threw up its stubby tail flashing me with that familiar white spot, made an abrupt turn to the left and headed for the safety of the underbrush.  I stopped immediately and tried to understand what had just happened to me.  Was this an accident, was it a gift of sorts, was I just oh so lucky?  Of course I’ll never know, but what I do know is that for a very brief moment the deer and I were locked in something that was more than a race.  The thrill of it was greater than words can describe, and I want to believe that the race was fun for both of us since the deer chose to race me.  It was a feeling that comes only when you are offered an opportunity for something unique and you commit yourself to the event, an event that can transcend explanation, species, time and place.  This was a moment when both of us behaved as animals on this beautiful planet had behaved for untold eons, until we broke the bond by inventing the club, the bow and arrow, the gun.  I will always be grateful for that magical moment.




Ontario is an enormous province. The trip from London to Thunder Bay through the north-country, is a never-ending journey down a tree-lined boulevard. Unless you are young, in a great hurry, or totally unaware of the distance involved, you will need two days to complete the trip. We stopped overnight at Wawa and finished the next day at Phil’s house. (uncle) Phil Cotton has undertaken the Herculean task of mapping the Wabakimi wilderness, an area the size of Prince Edward Island. At any given time, four volunteers are the only people in the park, cutting trails, grooming existing portages, and clearing campsites. This is a lonely and beautiful wilderness.


John with stylish ‘Canoe Hat’

At Phil’s house John and I expected a large single room stuffed with outfitting gear, and a corner for sleeping. Wrong…a very orderly living room and busy kitchen. In the yard, a roomy and very tidy shed filled with paddles, safety jackets and packs. Sarah his assistant, met with us and we soon found out that Phil likes things just so, his way or the highway.

After a restful night, John and I embarked on the final road portion of our adventure, a 250 km winding road to Armstrong and the Huron Outfitters. There Ernie, Donna and Mitch, met us. Mitch would be our very eager and capable young pilot for the adventure. We packed our gear into the Beaver floatplane and headed for Peninsular Lake and the camp of Huron Air. Having a warm cabin for the first night was a plus that we had not expected, but was greatly appreciated by all.

The full compliment for this 8-day assignment was as follows: Phil Cotton, John Howitt, John Holmes and myself. Phil reviewed the maps with us and filled us in on the details of our assignment, which had all the characteristics of a military campaign: “paddle hard, clean campsites, repair campsites and portages, and cut new portages where required.”


The next day we began our trip by paddling across the lake and heading out on the Atwood River, destination Gowies Bay. Our first campsite needed a fair bit of cleaning and opening up to accommodate two tents. We soon realized that we had much to learn. Packing a canoe packsack, for one, pitching and folding a tent, erecting the shelter tarp, preparing the site, and so on. I have camped all of my life, but this was different. We had to get used to dancing to the tune of a different piper.

Phil is an amazing man with many years working as project organizer and wilderness guide; competent and, as such, made us feel safe.

The next day we left around noon and headed down some relatively easy, fast flowing water. When we arrived at the portage we were introduced to the reality of the condition of campsites and portages in this pristine wilderness. It could only be describes as ‘filth’ and total neglect. We were greeted by an aluminum powerboat and outboard motor, a pole leaning against a tree with hip-waders hanging from it, a cooking pot, a bear-trap, and a moose leg stripped of all meat. We filled an industrial size garbage bag with the mess we found, and it became the first of 4 massive bags of garbage that we dragged with us, all the way back home. The portage had been cleared to handle a York Boat, meaning that the entire distance was covered with rollers (four foot lengths of 5 inch tree sections). At the end of the portage was an aluminum canoe; the typical setup left behind by the Indian hunters in this part of the bush. After John and I measured the length of the trail, 30 m sections at a time, we continued our trip to Gowies Bay and camp number two.

We set up camp just in time to be safely tucked away, when a thunderstorm raged around us for the next hour. Looking at the maps we were told that we were actually east of Wabakimi and that our destination was the Albany River; a revelation that was unexpected, but welcomed.

The following day proved to be a new and very physical challenge. Phil told us that we were going to build a portage where none existed before. He walked over the ground to determine the best route and then proceeded to mark the trees that required removing. After considerable, backbreaking work, it resulted in a beautiful portage, making us proud of our accomplishment, (and Phil’s chain saw). It was only 88 meters long, but it served the purpose of getting around some dangerous, rocky rapids.

The next day we paddled a patch of rough water that we negotiated with relative ease, followed by a 556-meter portage, a challenge after a day of robust paddling. Upon arriving at a campsite, we realized that it was not suited for two tents. It meant that we would have to clear an additional pad for the second tent. Discouraged by the prospect of a long and difficult ‘clearing’ job, we decided to check out a second site on the lake; we settled on it for the night. We were a bit nervous when we discovered bear scat, right in the middle of one of the tent pads. “So what”, said Phil, “when you’re tired you’ll sleep in any poop”, and we slept like babies. Following a hardy breakfast, next morning, we returned to the portage we had crossed the day before to clean it out, and to find the water purifier that had carelessly dropped from my pack. After some anxious searching, I found it and made sure that it would never get away again.

A note about the packs we carried. In the beginning I tried to handle some of the heavy ones, but eventually found it too difficult. I have had a couple of back injuries in the past, and they quickly reappeared. Everyone understood, and I carried a lighter pack, when possible.


Fishing in this wilderness is the best in the land. Pickerel and pike everywhere. John and I landed eight Pickerel in 15 minutes. “Catch them, you eat them.” I must say—sometimes you can have too much of a good thing. Phil still prepares fish the old way, breading them in flour and corn meal, lemon pepper and lots of butter (margarine in this case). Sure is good.

Sometimes when the going gets rough, accidents will happen. While carrying the canoe with John across treacherous rocks, I slipped into a hole and bashed my shin into a boulder, resulting in a chicken egg size bump and tear on my shin. It is slowly returning to normal, but I will have a souvenir for some time.

Thursday Aug. 23rd was a day none of us will soon forget. It was hot and we paddled non-stop all day. We had the choice of going down to Frenchman’s rapids or go in the opposite direction to Triangular Lake. We picked the latter and were rewarded with a 26 km paddle on the Albany River, in brutally hot sunshine. It is a bit deceptive to call it a river, since the Albany often turns into a massive lake several km across. Paddling up the middle is only advised on a calm day, which we were lucky to have had. So far we had not seen any fellow travelers, and were somewhat shocked to see two canoes coming at us at a menacing pace. I did not feel good until they were close enough to see their faces. One of the chaps shouted out “Phil Cotton, I told everyone that we might just run into you. What a surprise.” The paddler of the party of four, who had just identified Phil, was the author of an article I had read at Phil’s house in Thunder Bay, in a Canoe and Kayak magazine. Such is Phil. Now there were 8 paddlers in the 2,000,000-acre park.

Later that afternoon we arrived at our final destination on Triangular Lake, the place where our trusty Beaver floatplane would pick us up in two days. But not before we had paddled another 4 km to a portage that needed some serious work. Our trip was coming to an end, just the way it should. Spectacular sunsets, restful nights, excellent fishing and the never ending ‘story telling’ that is inevitable when four guys, with love for the bush in common, get together. We made new friends and strengthened old bonds. Is there anything better?

A two-hour delay in the scheduled departure made the morning wait for our flight home a bit tedious. Thunderstorms had delayed the plane’s departure, but eventually it did arrive. As promised, two cans of cold beer for the return flight, and enough tall tales for a lifetime. The Wabakimi Project has had over 150 volunteers work on the park and surrounding lands since ‘uncle’ Phil started it. The ‘Friends of Wabakimi’ has been created and should guarantee a full set of maps, as well as continuous maintenance of trails and camping sites, for the years ahead.


John and Fred at Huron Air

Both John and I agreed that it was well worth the effort and the price. Wabakimi will never be as crowded as the existing parks in this country, but it will always be a destination for those adventurers who want to enjoy a true wilderness experience – another wish off my bucket list.






Emma, our beautiful and talented ballerina

After spending a year with Canada’s National Ballet School in Toronto, Emma is back with Miss Linda, her dance teacher since she was four years old.  She is now thirteen and is once again competing, after overcoming a broken foot about two months ago.  Way to go, beautiful little ballerina.

Always keep on rolling

For those of you who know me or have read my blog, it won’t come as a surprise to read that I enjoy the outdoors and especially camping.  While I still love tenting or just plain sleeping under the stars, I don’t enjoy the dampness of the ground, the hardness of the earth or the cold chills that come through a summer sleeping bag.  The challenge now is to get the right rig to cope with all conditions, advancing years, fading strength, nonexistent agility, you know…old stuff.  Finding the picture of the above rig made my heart flutter (or was that the pacemaker skipping again).  I passed it along to my friends for comments and received one, so far.

John wrote: “I wonder if there is a place to pee in there.  Otherwise why bother?”  OK John, I’ll do some more research.  Meanwhile, I still think it’s a great rig, as long as you stay away from the 401.  Cheers.

Willie Nelson—many years ago

Haven’t  featured a music video for some time.  This one came along, from a friend this morning, and I could not resist. Willie Nelson appeals to anyone who likes music, be they Classical, Jazz, Country and Western, or Hippety-hop aficionados.  Sit back, close your eyes and listen for a few bars, then open them and see the young Willie Nelson. Picture him today… it’s amazing.

Spring Hike after last summer’s tornado

I thought I would share my hike along the Benmiller section of the Maitland trail with you.  We hiked this section last spring and it was one of the most beautiful trails we had hiked in a couple of years. Steep hills, rolling sections as well as some lush valleys with low bush and small creeks.  Then came the tornado, I think it was last June. This is the result of one minute or terror and utter distruction. Entire hillsides laid flat, all the trees lined in neat rows, as if a firing squad had executed them. We walked through at least 4 km of this distruction. What was equally amazing is what the Maitland Trail Association has accomplished in the short time they had to restore the trail last fall. Their accomplishment is nothing short of amazing. Whole new sections had to be opened because of the massive piles of tree trunks and roots.  Amazingly, some of the bridges were not touched by the storm.  I had a very uncomfortable feeling walking through some of the more messy sections. It felt as if we had no right to be there because the job was not done yet. I expected the entire hillside to slide into the river below. The return walk was better since the initial shock had worn off. It will be interesting what the greening of spring will accomplish. My feeling is that the signs of the tornado will remain, clearly visible, for many years to come.
Winter Miracle

Winter Miracle

Miracle, “an amazing product or achievement, or an outstanding example of something.” just one of several definitions of that oft overused word.  However, in the example of fish surviving the hostile, brutally cold environment of life under a sheet of ice for a period of up to 6 months, that surely must qualify as miraculous.  I have a small pond in our garden. Each year, for the past 12 years, I have tried to keep alive a collection of gold fish.  I use the word ‘tried’ because my success rate has been somewhat less than spectacular…until I finally realized the error of my ways.  Over the years I had tried a number of natural as well as unorthodox methods of defeating the cold of winter to keep my fish alive.  I have stored them in the basement in large plastic tubs and aerators, lights and constant feeding.  It worked, but was messy and required a babysitter when I was not home for a few days.  The fish survived and  grew, but each spring I had the messy task of removing them from the tubs and relocating them to the pond.  Not a lot of fun, and very unsettling for the fish.  Then I came across a floating heater ring that had to be plugged into a 110 v outlet.  After delivering electricity to my little pond, I finally had the answer to successful fish survival for the winter months—or so I thought.  After a brutally cold winter, the water froze, the fish died in spite of the heater ring, and I had to go back to the drawing board.  Just a short digression here to explain the physiological facts of winter survival under the ice.  No matter how low the temperature, the fish will survive in a state of semi hibernation as long as there is a source of fresh oxygen reaching the water supply of their home.  In a very large pond that is not a problem, since there is sufficient oxygen suspended in the water, and a few fish will not use it all up before the thaw.  In a small and contained pond, such as mine, it’s a different story.  Two things happen when the pond freezes from edge to edge. One, the fresh air supply is cut off, and two, any plant matter still present in the water will rot and poison the environment…fish die.

What was the solution?

I had heard that the crossing on the St. Lawrence river, from Kingston to Wolf Island, was kept open by a constant flow of air bubbles.  Three years ago I connected an aerator to the pond and my fish have been happy ever since.  No more chasing and capturing them in the fall and spring, no feeding, since they must not eat while their system is running on super-slow-mo, and no more feelings of guilt for dead fish in the spring.

Of course, none of the interventions on my part will negate the miracle of survival of these beautiful gold fish in an environment that would kill any one of us in seven minutes or less.  Nature has equipped these fish with a survival system that is the envy of every scientist working on improving cold water survival rates of humans.

Below are two pictures of my gold fish, one through the net that keeps out leaves and stuff, the other through the ice.  Hang in there little buddies, spring will soon be here again.

Snow, snow, snow.

Well it finally came. This part of the world is not known for its green Christmas days or balmy temperatures in winter. We are normally buried under several feet of snow by the end of November, and have developed considerable arm muscles by the end of December from all of the shovelling. It is a bit of a shock though when it comes all at once.  This morning we were dumped on, as the saying goes. Better than a foot of snow covers everything in sight. As I look out of my window I see clean white mounds of snow and a clear blue sky. How can anything be more beautiful than this.

The swimming pool sports two new islands of snow thanks to the inner tubes under the protective cover.

The bench that I forgot to store away in the garden shed, is piled high with the white, fluffy snow.
Now all of the familiar winter tools come out to clear paths and drive-ways. Winter is finally here, and we busy ourselves with all of the activities that define us as people of the snow country, Canada.