Quetico: The State Of The Portages

Let me tell you about portages.
First, a definition and pronunciation:

por-tage [pawr-tij, pohr-tij, or for 2,3,5,6, pawr-tahzh]
-noun

1.	the act of carrying; carriage.

2.	the carrying of boats, goods, etc., overland from one navigable water to another.

3.	the route over which this is done.

4.	the cost of carriage.

–verb (used without object)

5.	to make a portage: On this stretch of the river, we have to portage for a mile.

–verb (used with object)

6.	to carry (something) over a portage; make a portage with: We portaged our canoe around the rapids.

Portages are the trails that lead from one body of water to another. They are either a necessary evil or a very welcome leg stretch. In order to accomplish a successful portage, you must carry all of your worldly camping goods AND YOUR CANOE on this trail.
Many times they are very nice walks through beautiful forests like the one above.
And their nice flat open landings on the shorelines are easy to find and have plenty of dry land on which to unload and unload all your gear.


They have good footing and are clear of rocks and low hanging branches so that carrying a canoe is just another walk down the sidewalk.

But others can have different "features," shall we say. Here I am demonstrating technique on some slick mossy boulders cluttering up the path. That meant that Marty, wearing his 18' canoe as a hat, had to do the same maneuvering. Except without being able to see where he was going.

Look out for the boulders, Marty.
Okay, now step up 3 feet with your right foot...
Okay, got around that one, now twist your left foot ninety degrees and feel with your toes for that pointy rock...
Good, now the nice flat one surrounded by mud... look out for that log... *ouch*
now big step down,
That one's really slippery, watch out, and you're there!
Other portages were little more than a dash over a rock hump, a carry-over. This one went around a beaver dam.
Another portage took us up a pine needle carpeted steep hill through a dense forest. To our surprise there was a rushing river through these thick woods! It rushed in without a care for the trees crowding it on either side,

plummeted over two massive granite stair steps,
careened and cornered recklessly close to stately pines,


And finally, tamed, ended in a meek sluice at a sandy beach.
When we acquired our 'backcountry permit,' the gal helping us with our paperwork that "it's been an unusually cool and wet summer."
We now know what this means in polite Canadian parlance is "The portages are a mucky mess and the wild blueberries aren't ripe yet."

Although this leads me to my favorite portage story of the trip. The blueberries were indeed not yet ripe anywhere in the park. We found a few, very few, here and there but they lacked that intense sweetness. Meanwhile, Marty was insistent that we tackle the Memory Lane portages. These portages are a series of three VERY long and difficult portages into Poobah Lake, an unusually landlocked though picturesque lake known for phenomenal fishing. We did these portages one hot, sticky afternoon and they lived up to their reputation. One extended boggy marshy section of the trail was thick with "corduroy" (logs laid lengthwise to provide some semblance of footing, usually very slippery) and hidden muckholes up to one's knees. However, this bog went through a very open area, almost a field. This field was home to the familiar, squat, unremarkable bushes that we recognize as wild blueberry bushes. Except these bushes were miraculously laden, heavily, lushly, with millions of very ripe blueberries. Marty and I stopped in stinking mud up to our ankles and gorged. We became instant fans of the Memory Lane Portages.

Above is pictured a very modest muckhole on a portage. The mud did a fine job of hiding all the slippery rocks and deep ruts hidden underneath, though it was tame compared to the conditions on the Memory Lanes portages...


Others portages were located under bogs.
This portage entrance was camouflaged as a floating grass mat. It barely supported the weight of the canoe. But we hauled it and ourselves to the small open water leading to the mudhole at the portage landing and unloaded.
Of course we could have simply paddled through the open water at the left... had we seen it...

When it rained, portages became babbling brooks.
And portage landings became frog ponds.

All in the name of the Wilderness Experience!