Spring retreat - day four

The rain swept over Green Lake in the evening of the third day.  It began with scattered drops on the surface of the lake as I fished about 7 PM, grew in intensity as I made supper under the tarp and shelter, and rattled deafening on the tarp as I ate.  I could hear nothing else.  Carrying on a conversation would have been difficult.

The rain continued during the night, bringing unfamilar sounds.  Sharp raps on the tarp, like someone tapping it with a stick.  Noises like footsteps.  A tree or large branch crashing in the forest.  Spooky.

However, the extra effort to set up camp on the first day proved its worth.  I cooked and ate my supper out of the rain, slept in a dry tent, and woke rested to another misty morning.

After breakfast, I drove to Kate's and Dunc's Lakes.  The track into the lakes seemed hardly more than a wide trail, as it wound through the woods, threaded between low beaver ponds, and climbed over oaky ridges.  However, regular use had kept it clear of brush and passable to within a few hundred meters of the lakes.

The lakes appear very different.  Dunc's has a very shallow, mucky periphery.  I waded the south end, where a reedy marsh made the footing a little more secure.  Even so, I felt nervous wading on my own, and I took extra care to watch for holes and beaver channels.  Nothing seemed to rise on the lake, so I cast streamers over the flats toward the edge of deeper, darker water.  Once or twice I tried to ease out from the edge of the reeds to get my fly closer to the drop-off, only to find the deeper muck unnerving.

The clouds had broken up a bit, showing patches of blue sky.  Sunlight and shadow passed over.  In the patches of sunlight, I could see the flats clearly and watched keenly for anything following my fly.  Once, during a retrieve, I spotted a trout break from the deeper water to chase something over the flats; but it had turned and retreated again before I could lift my rod and reposition my line.  Most of the time, though, a fitful breeze rippled the lake surface, and I cast blindly, slowing working along the edge of the marsh.  After about 90 minutes of fishing in thigh deep, cold water, I began to feel cold and clumsy.  I tenderly picked my way to shore, easing cautiously into each step.  Back on shore, I ate some lunch to restore my energy, then walked 10 minutes to Kate's Lake.

The walk to Kate's Lake provided the most rewarding part of the day.  Passing a small wetland, I saw a barred owl fly up into a tree.  It perched nonchalantly as I fumbled quietly in my bag, only to fly deeper into the woods out of sight as I finally pulled out my camera.  However, the camera proved useful for capturing the early buttercups, round lobed hepatica, and patches of walking fern along the trail.

Kate's is a classic shield lake:  rocky, deep, clear.  Without a canoe, I could only cast from the shore.  After about twenty minutes, a older man came strolling down the trail with his golden lab.  He'd caught trout here last spring he said, but a bit later, when the blackflies and fiddleheads were out.  Also in the winter, through the ice.

I fished a while longer after he left, still without success.  At one point, as I sat on rock, dangling a leg toward the water, a northern water snake startled me by swimming just below my shoe.  A few feet further, it slowed eased out of the water, tasting the air carefully as it did so.  On the hunt for frogs, I assume.



Spring retreat - day three

The drizzle that began in the evening turned to rain showers through the night.  I slept well, though:  warm and comfortable in my dry tent.  When I woke at 6 AM, an enchanted mist hung over the lake.  The damp and diffuse light both muted the colors of the landscape and gave them depth.  The still water formed a perfect mirror for the trees.  In the quiet and intimacy, the calls of small flock of geese echoed around the shoreline.

While eating breakfast at the shoreline, I noticed several mayflies clinging to grass at the water's edge.  Looking more closely, I identified them as Little Blue-winged Olives (Beatis sp.) -- presumably the same mayflies that had generated such interest from minnows as they'd emerged the previous two evenings.  Sadly, I hadn't counted on such an early hatch, and I'd come prepared mainly with streamers, scuds and a variety of nymphs -- mostly caddis nymphs.  No emergers.  Nonetheless, I fished from 9 AM until 3 PM, with only a few scattered showers to dampen my spirits.  Again, I tried every combination of fly, depth, and presentation of which I could think.  Apart from a couple of very optimistic sunfish, I had no success and began to suspect that the lake just didn't hold any trout.

Late in the afternoon, with the rain still holding off, I decided to hike to the top of the hill at the northwest end of the lake -- intrigued by the rock outcrops visible on the slope through the bare trees.  Hiking along the south shore of the lake, I came into a stand of stately, mature beech trees in a shallow valley.  I think that few trees look as beautiful as a mature beech, rising in the forest like a column of smooth, gray stone.  And then, at the bottom of the valley near the lake shore, a real surprise:  a shagbark hickory at what must be almost the northern limit of its range.

A delightful forest of beech, oak, basswood, maple and white pine covered the southeast slope of the hillside.  Impressive rock outcrops broke up the slope, providing footholds for ferns, moss and wildflowers.  Crevices and dark stone recesses lay at the bottom of the larger cliff faces, many of which clearly provided dens for wild animals -- especially porcupines, as evidenced by the accumulation of woody pellets at many of the entrances.

An open, oak woodland covered the top of the hill.  It didn't offer the same prospect as the rock bald atop Blueberry Mountain; but it felt light and airy, and gave good views of Green Lake and the Clyde River Valley.

On the way down the mountain, I followed one of the small brooks that feeds Green Lake.  It ran through a shallow gully into a rich cove, diving underground for a short distance and emerging again as a small spring below a rock outcrop.  Nearby, another outcrop dripped with seepage -- perhaps the beginnings of some future cavern.  More spring wildflower bloomed beside the creek.  Near the bottom, in tangle of brush, a winter wren squirted out its hurried, dipsy song.

It was a good day for plants: red and white trilliums, wild columbine, wood anemone, downy yellow violet, dutchman's britches, early saxifrage, enchanter's nightshade, polypodium, smooth cliff fern (Woodsia glabella), as well as the shagbark hickory and, on the way back along the shoreline, a white oak.

I arrived back at camp at the start of twilight and ate supper in the dark.  The wet weather ended any hope of a fire for the night (or the remainder of the trip).  After washing the dishes, I sat for a while in the car listening to "Ideas" on CBC Radio -- a very interesting episode in a series called, "Beyond Atheism."

Spring retreat -- day two

I slept restlessly my first night, bundled against the cold in two sleeping bags, long underwear and a hoodie.  I woke at 6 AM with a kink in my neck and assorted aches and pains, especially in my casting arm.  Slowly I worked my way out of the tent into the frosty morning.  The lake still lay in shadow, with dawn slowly creeping from behind the pines on the far shore.  After half an hour watching the sunrise over the lake, I fired up my backpack stove, brewed some instant Starbucks coffee (what an improvement that has made to camping) and prepared some instant oatmeal with dried cranberries.  I ate breakfast on my stool at the lakeshore.  Birds sang about me in the trees.  A beaver slapped the water along the far shore.  The sun finally climbed high enough to embrace the shoreline.  I began to feel warm and well.

After washing my breakfast dishes, I drove 15 minutes to the property of Howard Clifford -- "Cliffland", as he calls it.  Howard owns 800 acres of forest in Lanark County, on which he has granted a 999 year easement over 500 acres to the Madawaska Land Trust.  Howard generously showed me around the property, in the company of his two dogs, Pepe and Sable.  Together we set out for Blueberry Mountain and Pike's Peak -- two high points on the ridgeline that dominates the property.  Along the way, Howard took me on a detour past a waterfall and then a small cedar swamp, which miraculously seemed to have escaped past logging.  Here he showed me the largest Eastern White Cedar that I've ever seen.  A fantastic specimen, probably 300 - 500 years old.

The views from Blueberry Mountain and Pike's Peak made the climb worthwhile.  Heath-like areas of rock outcrops, blueberry bushes, juniper and serviceberry covered large areas of slope, particularly along the southwest side, while a pretty woodland of pine and red oak (with some white oak mixed in) trailed along the ridge.  Howard believes that Pike's Peak is the highest point in Lanark County, although my topographic maps appear to show differently.  Nonetheless, from our vantage we could look out past the chain of beaver ponds along the foot of the ridge, across Flower Lake, over several hundred square kilometres of the Madawaska Highlands.  Unfortunately, our time at the top seemed too short, as Howard had errands to run with his wife in the afternoon.  We had enough time enough for quick drink, but not enough time to appreciate fully the delicate shades of the forest:  the dark greens and dusty blues of the evergreens, the greys and nascent yellow-greens of the newly-leafed maples, poplars and birch.  On the way back down, however, we did have time to pause at a beaverpond to eat our lunch and watch turtles.

On the drive back to camp, the clouds began to move in and I felt a chill in the air.  The kink in my neck, combined with a sudden resurgence in my hay fever, had worked itself into a blinding headache.  I took a decongestant, an antihistamine and two ibuprofen and retreated to my tent for a nap, where I slept until 4:15 PM.  Feeling much better, I got up and made some supper.  Then I went out into the canoe and fished until after dark.

A light drizzle began to fall soon after I began fishing:  not enough to drive me back to shore, but enough to chill me insidiously, without my notice until I'd started to shiver.  I paddled back to shore, made some hot chocolate, and sipped it in the car, with the engine and heater running.  I ate cookies and listened to the radio until I felt warm enough to move into my tent for the night.









Spring retreat -- day one.

On the last Sunday of April, I packed a car with camping equipment, strapped the canoe to the roof, and drove to Green Lake in the Madawaska Highlands for five days of quiet and rest.  Green Lake sits just off the road to Joe's Lake, Clyde Forks and Flower Station, surrounded by a small enclave of crown land.  Every other year, the Ministry of Natural Resources stocks it with small brook trout.  During the summer months, it provides a pretty spot for weekend camping or bush parties.  Consequently, a depressing amount of litter lies scattered around the acre or so adjacent to the parking area.  In the spring, however, the lake seldom receives visitors, especially between Monday and Friday.  I went to the lake to fish, to listen to the wind in the pines, to hike in the surrounding hills, and to quiet the tumult of my mind -- the voices of family, friends, work, radio....

I arrived in mid-afternoon, with the sun shining, and immediately made camp.  The convenience of the car allowed me to pack heavy, and I gave extra room to ensuring dry, warm nights.  I set up the tent inside a bug shelter, under a wide tarp.  Inside the tent, I laid out a thick air mattress and a double-layered sleeping bag.  The surrounding grove of young white pine, hemlock and red oak provided shelter from the wind.  As I finished laying out my site, a middle-aged couple drove their matching ATVs up the track from the main road.  We chatted for a few minutes, and they went on their way.

After setting up camp, I took the canoe out and made a slow circuit of the lake while trolling a streamer.  At a dead slow troll, it takes about 40 minutes to complete a circuit, stopping now and then for a few speculative casts toward the shoreline.  A middle-aged forest of pine, oak, cedar and hemlock covers the rocky shores around most of the lake, except at the northwest end, where a hydro corridor cuts wide, open swath between the lake and a rocky hillside.  Where the weathered, rounded Canadian Shield doesn't drop sharply to the green waters, fallen trees jut from shoreline, lurking below the surface to bump against a canoe or snag a fishing line.  In one small bay, stumps and a few remnant snags attest to a time when the water was not so high -- probably before the three beaver lodges sprung up around the edge of the lake.

I returned to camp for supper, which I ate perched on a stool down by the shoreline.  After washing up, I then took the canoe out again, just 30 feet from shore where I could see minnows rising to a hatch of small mayflies.  In the dusk, I cast a small nymph, hoping for some larger fish below the surface.  Solitary spring peepers called along the shoreline.  A beaver creased the surface of the lake from one shore to the other.  A heron lifted from the shore, circling and climbing heavily and then disappearing low over the dark trees.  A pair of kingfishers chattered, as they flew from one perch to another.

Back on shore, I lit a fire and warmed myself in the cooling night air.  Well after dark, I crawled into my tent and snuggled down into my sleeping bags.  I could feel a foreshadowing dampness in the air.  In the quiet, the peepers kept up their calls, forming a small chorus.  Along the road, far below, I could hear an occasional car pass.  Although the wind had mostly died with the daylight, enough breeze remained to stir the pines with a sound like small waves on a beach.  I felt a bit lonely, not yet reaccustomed to my own company.

April showers

Spring, which seemed to explode upon us in March, slowed to a dawdle through April.  Cool, wet weather dampened the enthusiasm of plants and animals alike.  Trees and flowers slowed their growth.  The tulips, which at first seemed likely to bloom well before our annual festival, politely declined to appear until the start of May.  A flotilla of red admiral butterflies sailed into the City on a tide of warm, southern air, then floundered in a late gust of winter.  The birds stopped moving through the area, and those that had already arrived hunkered down.  The weather wasn't particularly unusual for April -- just such a contrast to the early promise of March.

Personally, the cold and damp pleased me after last year's drought.  The early thaw in March had brought the spring freshet at least two weeks earlier than usual; ice had vanished from the lakes in Algonquin Park at the beginning of April; the Conservation Authorities had already begun talking about water conservation.  Instead, the Rideau River has run high through April, and the wetlands brim with water.

I did get outside a few times in April, mostly for work.

I took this last photograph in the Upper Poole Creek Wetland, along the Trans-Canada Trail just west of Stittsville.  A first for me.  Shivering in the cool mist, after scanning the marsh in vain for anything of interest, I became aware of a quiet peeping.  I moved a few feet down the trail, and in a few moments spotted a woodcock sitting and calling from a log.  I've heard woodcock, of course, in the evenings over marshes and wet fields:  the winnowing of their wings as they dive in display flights.  But I'd never seen one before, and never expected to see one sitting miserably in the open.  Apparently, I wasn't the only creature discouraged by the cold.