2000
Adventures With Uncle Wally (Armchair Navigation)
by Uncle Wally (a63)
This time of year, when you're all cuddled up with your maps in your cozy chair by the fireplace and dreamin' about next season's perfect canoe trip, it's easy to lose sight of the fact that sometimes just gettin' to the put-in is half the adventure.
Armchair navigation is a real pleasure in the middle of the winter. It's stress-free, the price is right, and the trip you take in your head is always flawless. Some folks like to drift away from the snow driftin' up to their windows by puttin' on their aloha shirts and dreamin' of the Bahamas or the south Pacific or Hawaii. But we of canoe-faring ilk tend to let our imaginations wander the other direction.
We dream of Nunavut, the Yukon, Alaska; of weeks spent floating down the ultimate, northern river. We dream of waters that are, at this very minute, takin' a long, winter's nap in the ice and snow so as to be ready to come out and play when we finally get up there to paddle come August.
They're nice dreams, too. It never rains on these mid-winter dream trips. The wind is always behind you. The campsites are all large and level. You always see lone moose and herds of caribou. Best of all, you can keep all the loon calls and wolf howls in your dream voyage while editing out all the black flies and mosquitoes. And you never have to deal with the before and after travel logistics.
Reality doesn't check in 'til summertime when you're loadin' up the truck, trip odometer set at zero with several hundred miles to go before boat meets water.
I wasn't thinkin' about logistics at all the summer we went up to Wabakimi Provincial Park in Ontario. My ol' friend, Tom, had done all the planning for this little jaunt, kind soul that he is. The rest of us just had to pack up, show up, and pony up for our share of the food, Crown Lands permits, and train tickets. Tom always does a superior job of sweatin' the details beforehand. So we were all pretty comfortable puttin' our general welfare in his capable hands, never thinkin' that even the smoothest of plans tend to develop a wrinkle or two along the way.
We met up in Thunder Bay so as to enjoy the scenic drive up to Armstrong together. Armstrong was way up at the end of the road, most of which was paved. It was some 240 kilometers of uninterrupted boreal forest and low-flying logging trucks. And not much else.
From Armstrong, we were takin' the train. And the train wouldn't pull into town until about midnight. So we had some time to kill here at the end of the road. Time dies a painful death in Armstrong on a Sunday evening. We dined leisurely at the best (and only) restaurant in town (which was, like half the other properties in the neighborhood, for sale, in case you're interested). After we'd worn out our welcome at the cafe, there wasn't much left to do but cool our heels outside the train station, which was locked.
We still had several hours of waitin' ahead of us. We beguiled the time swappin' lies, tryin' to be pleased with the fact that at least it wasn't rainin', and avoiding considering whether or not there'd be room in the baggage car for our three boats. VIA Rail is always happy to haul your boats for you, just so long as nobody else beats you to the available baggage space. It is strictly first come, first served. There are no guarantees. They'll reserve seats for canoeists, but not berths for their boats. And while you can usually count on findin' space, havin' to face the beginnin' of your two-week canoe trip without your canoe would be a pretty sorry state of affairs.
But Luck was smilin' on us. Nobody was shipping their pet elephant to Saskatchewan this run. It wasn't even a squeeze to load our gear. We settled in to our seats with a sigh of relief and tried to catch a cat nap on our hour-long ride.
We arrived at Allanwater Bridge just after midnight, local time, havin' come back in to the Central Daylight Time zone. Not that there was any daylight left. Seems like half the populace of this little burg came out to meet the train. The social round at Allanwater Bridge must have a pretty narrow diameter. Most of the locals were tryin' to cadge cigarettes. Incredulous that there were no smokers in our little party, they soon wandered off to more accommodating acquaintances.
We wandered off into the dark to make camp. Options were pretty limited here. On the strength of Tom's past acquaintance with the landowner and the fact that the fellow hadn't actually said "no" to Tom's repeated requests for formal permission to camp there again this year, we pitched our tents on a grassy, little sward beyond the tracks to make the best of what was left of the night.
Seems like I'd just closed my eyes when they were involuntarily jerked open again by the heart-stopping sound of a freight train bearing down on us out of the dark. The rational fact that we were sleepin' well away from the tracks did nothing to put a trigger lock on that autonomic response that has kept the human gene pool goin' ever since the first, fur-clad hunter realized the tables had been turned in his stalking of some saber-toothed tiger centuries ago. I was ready to run. It felt like that train was gonna come right through the middle of the tent. I was out of my sleeping bag with the door half unzipped before I realized that the train engine was already past us.
Well, the golden age of railway travel may be long gone. But let me tell you that the rail freight business is still boomin' across central Canada. I'd no sooner drift uneasily off to sleep before I'd start feelin' the distant rumble of wheels on rails. The burgeoning din of efficient and industrious rail freight transport would soon rise to engulf my dream-dazed psyche. By the time the engine came roaring through the little whistle stop of Allanwater Bridge, whistle blowin' or not, I'd be sittin' at attention in the middle of the tent, my heart tryin' to race its way up out of my chest, my survival instinct already out of the door before my corporeal self was fully awake.
By silent accord, we were all of us out, folding our tents, just after the 5:20 freight train had passed. As we portaged down the tracks to reach the access, my nerves were as jangly as if I'd been up all night with the help of eleven pots of coffee. We paddled a good hour before we stopped for breakfast. By then, we were well out of sight or sound of the Allanwater bridge. Wilderness had never sounded so sweet.
The rest of that trip was nearly as perfect as we had dreamed it back in January . . . except for the rain and the wind and the bugs. So go ahead and dream your pleasant paddle dreams now while the snow flies. Pull up your favorite chair, roast the soles of your slippers by the fire, and drape a big, ol' topo map across your chest. Then drift off to happy reveries of the perfect canoe trip down the ultimate river. And if you want to leave out all the excitement you might have just gettin' to where the water is, that's all right. Reality'll catch up to you next summer.
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Well, 'til next time, keep your paddle wet. And keep in touch. Drop me a line c/o Mickey McBride, 8191 Belden Blvd., Cottage Grove MN 55016 or mickeymcb@worldnet. att.net. Let me know what kind of roadside adventures you've had just tryin' to get to your favorite piece of water. Remember, Uncle Wally promises to 1) tell the truth so no one would ever believe it anyhow and 2) never reveal your true identity to anyone, not even the Triple A.
