We woke up early and began packing immediately, wanting to get a good jump on the day. We had originally planned to go nine miles, but in case of an early Friday morning storm, we decided to push on to the Canadian-American portage trail just to be safe.
As it turned out, we needed more than a day’s break. Upon crawling into the canoe, it felt as though every muscle and joint in my body was in revolt. I could get about ten strokes on my dominant side before switching to the other, but the other side offered no relief—it was even more sore. Thankfully, we didn’t have to battle much headwind, but there were some long, open stretches that made it feel like we weren’t moving at all. I tried to think about anything but paddling. Lionel, in the front, was no longer in a singing mood, in fact, he wasn’t in much of a paddling mood either. About an hour into the trip, he was passed out in the front of the canoe.
Lionel woke up just before we hit our first portage of the day. It was so short that we didn’t even bother flipping the canoe over. We just unloaded the heavy bags and carried the canoe about fifty feet. Then we hopped back in and continued rowing. Lionel began to half-heartedly paddle, and I full-heartedly wanted to stop.
We came up on one of those long stretches where you can see forever, and that’s about how far you have to go. Charlie and I popped some energy gels, which helped with stamina but did little to break up the monotony. We were definitely hungry and decided we’d eat lunch at the next portage, right on the U.S.-Canadian border. With the promise of summer sausage ahead, Lionel’s paddle suddenly had some power behind it, and we finally touched the shore.
The U.S.-Canadian portage was simultaneously my favorite and least favorite of the trip. It was the second-longest—about a quarter mile—and very hilly. At this point, however, Lionel had become a little more sure-footed and was able to walk at a decent pace. The coolest part of the portage was how the trail wove in and out of Canada, with border markers letting us know when we were crossing in and out. Lionel got a huge kick out of this; he’d been wanting to enter Canada for the past three days. We had lunch right on the border. Although the meal was entirely sodium-based, it tasted amazing. After lunch, Lionel deliberated over which country would be best to relieve himself in and ultimately chose the U.S., since he was more familiar with it. With food in our bellies, our spirits were lifted, and the rest of the portage went smoothly... until it didn't.
At the very end, the ground was flooded into a swamp. Lionel was delighted by the idea of walking through the mud, but wisely, Charlie and I decided to go first. After five steps in, my leg was completely swallowed up to the inner thigh. I was trapped and couldn’t move. I reached down to try and pull my leg free, but it wouldn’t budge. Charlie came over to give me a hand. I could feel my leg slowly breaking free of the mud’s grip, but I could also feel my shoe slipping off. As Charlie held me steady, I reached down with both hands and yanked my foot up by the shoe. Fortunately, it came out. Lionel didn’t get his wish to cross the mud by foot, but I did allow him to wade in a few feet so he could climb into the canoe while Charlie and I pushed it, and our bags, through.
It was a “careful what you wish for” moment. After four steps in, Lionel decided he didn’t like the feel of mud on his legs and wanted to wash it off. Unfortunately for him, Charlie and I had more pressing concerns. We crossed the swamp by stepping as close as we could to the trees, standing on their roots and using the branches for support. It was slow and awkward, but mostly effective. We made it through the sludge without getting completely mired. My socks and pants were grimy as could be. Lionel had a point, it was not comfortable at all.
After a prolonged footbath off the dock, we hopped back into the canoe, hoping to find a campsite. We had already gone beyond our nine-mile itinerary for the day and were wet, sore, and exhausted. We had one more mini-portage before we’d be set. Unfortunately, the next three available campsites were all taken. The only thing that kept us going was knowing that our Friday would be shorter.
At the fourth campsite, thirteen miles of paddling and portaging from our original destination, we finally found a spot to camp.
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