Algonquin on my Mind

 

In August 53 years ago, I discovered Algonquin Provincial Park for the first time. The awe inspiring landscape resonated with me and has kept drawing me back to the park for more than five decades.

My affinity for the park was cemented at the age of 16 when high school friend Mike Turner invited me to join his family on a three-week vacation to their family compound on a pine-studded island in the middle of Cache Lake. 

If my memory serves me correctly, the site consists of four rustic frame cabins, the original structure having been built by Mike’s grandfather in the 1920's, two boat houses and a pine needle-covered basketball court pounded into the dirt by generations of teenagers playing hoops. Propane gas provided the lighting and ran the cook stove, and water came from a hand pump. 

The island has served as a rendezvous place for four generations of extended family, some of whom hailed from California, and an aunt  in her eighties who travelled from France each summer. Members of the clan would gather at their wilderness retreat to rekindle ties and enjoy the magnificence and solitude of the park together. Situated in central Ontario, northwest of Ottawa, the park is just shy of 3,000 square miles in size and contains 2,400 lakes. Almost a million tourists and outdoor enthusiasts now visit each year, although most campers stick to the drive-in sites along Hwy. 60 which traverses the park. 

Mike Turner
 Long weekend in May,
1974 near Poltimore, Quebec  
with snow on the ground 
and ice still on the pond

In early August 1973 I joined the Turner family on their annual Algonquin pilgrimage.  Two older brothers and Mike's sister were already working summer jobs, so there was room for me to tag along. It was a warm summer's morning when we departed the Turner residence in hope of arriving at Cache Lake early in the afternoon.

The Turner’s old seven passenger station wagon was loaded to the roof line with supplies. Mike and I and younger brother Dan were crammed into the back seats among the groceries and other sundry supplies. Hidden back there somewhere was Shannon, a large, adorable golden retriever exhaling smelly breath over us. 

Mike’s Dad, Jay, was a retired army dentist who also became our family dentist after he entered private practice.  Doc Turner seemed to have a permanent grin on his face as we chugged north toward his happy place. Nelle, Mike’s lovely mom, kept Jay company up front as we drove the five-hour trek to the park. In those days you couldn't bypass all the little towns and villages along the route;  Renfrew, Eaganville, Killaloe, Golden Lake and Whitney. 

The road trip became even more of an adventure for us when the old station wagon began to shudder and whine a few miles short of Whitney, the last village before the park’s eastern entrance. Jay managed to coax the old wagon into the village where it came to a grinding halt not far from the local garage. I have a vague recollection of Doc Turner, Mike, Danny and me pushing the vehicle the final few yards to the garage.

A mechanic in grease-stained coveralls assessed the problem and determined the wheel bearings in one of the hubs had burned out. Thus we were stuck in Whitney until parts could be shipped from Ottawa – possibly later that day. I don’t know if plans were being made for an overnight-er in Whitney, but thankfully the parts arrived late in the afternoon. By the time the vehicle was back on the road, the Algonquin pines were casting long shadows across the highway when we passed through the park gates.

Cache Lake is only a few hundred yards off the highway corridor, and the boat docks are a stone’s throw away from the former site of the Highland Inn which was constructed as a luxury resort in 1908 by the Grand Trunk Railway, in the era when train travel was the only way into the park. 

I can’t remember how many trips it took to ferry the family and supplies to the island, but I have never forgotten that boat ride over the sun-dappled waters of Cache Lake on our evening cruise to the Turner's island. Once we were docked at the compound, the aluminium motor boat was off limits except for mainland transport and work. The only mode of travel for us, and our primary means of fishing, was the  cedar strip canoe. There were numerous traditional cedar and canvas canoes to choose from on a rack beside the boat house.

Little Island Lake at Dusk

Us boys were free to come and go as we pleased. Outside of breakfast and dinner, there was no fixed routine. We sacked out at night in sleeping bags on a  stacked bunk after turning out the propane light. Awakening to a simple breakfast of porridge, and toast made over a propane stove, we wasted no time hitting the water to spend the day fishing on Cache Lake. When we wanted a change of scenery, other lakes beckoned. 

Tanamakoon Lake was nearby, connected to Cache by Madawaska Creek. Once there, Little Island Lake was a short portage away via a beaver pond which also served as our source of frogs that we used for bait.

 My big bass.
 Sadly a pic of Mike and 
I each holding our largest
catch fell out of my album.
  

I remember when Mike’s grandfather ushered us into his old cabin for a visit. We  walked into a time capsule from the 1930's.  Beside the massive stone fireplace constructed from  Algonquin’s Precambrian granite, there was a huge slab-sided fish mounted on the wall. This dust covered relic from the past was an enormous small mouth bass named Hercules that Grand Dad Turner had caught many years before. To us, that old stuffed trophy was the Holy Grail that sent us on our own quest for a giant bass.

 We never caught anything close to his monster bass, although Mike landed one that was almost four pounds and I caught one about a pound smaller one evening at dusk while fishing around the old dock pilings where the Highland Inn once stood. Sadly, the only photo of us together holding our fish has fallen from my photo album and now lost in time. 

In truth, many of the bass we caught on that trip were too small to keep. Anything over 12 inches was retained for the table. If we caught enough fish surplus to our immediate needs, they went into a wire fish pen to eat on another day. I consumed more fish on that vacation than at any time in my life since then. 

One night a marauding snapping turtle managed to bull its way into the pen and ate our fish. A couple of days later, Mike and I had a stringer of bass which we tied to the dock.  Much to our shock, the next morning fish heads were all that remained of our catch. Now we were on a war footing with a giant snapper.

Doc Turner hatched a plan to deal with the threat. He instructed us to bait the pen with a few dead bass and then dispatched us with a large net to stand watch. Sure enough, later that morning the beast showed up at the pen for another free meal. Between the two of us we trapped the animal, which had a massive shell and a hawk-shaped beak that could snap a finger off.  When we dragged it ashore, Mike’s Dad picked the hissing and snapping creature up by his armoured tail and placed it in a large box.

The next challenge was how to dispose of the thieving turtle? Doc Turner had already figured that out. We transferred the animal to the family boat, motored over to the mainland, then drove a short distance to the park visitor reception centre where there was a large outdoor pond featuring a snapping turtle exhibit. There were probably 10 large turtles basking in the summer sun while entertaining the tourists that day.

What harm could come of adding one more?  The only problem was that on our arrival a park ranger was in the middle of a turtle presentation.  The ranger was facing the audience with his back turned to us when Jay slipped the big turtle into the pond, did an about-face, then marched briskly back to the car. We stood there in slack-jawed incredulity before turning tail and joining him. We laughed all the way back to the Cache Lake landing.

 There were other humorous events during that visit. In the early 1970's public policy was shifting toward returning the park to pristine wilderness, even though land-lease cottages on select corridor lakes had been around since the 1920's. The Ontario Government announced a plan of non-renewal of cottage leases and since many leaseholders were approaching the end of their original term, many older cabins were being abandoned.

Doc Turner wanted another outhouse and there was a recently vacated cottage where one could be obtained. The three of us went by boat to the island property where Mike and I were put ashore to dislodge the ancient, but serviceable structure for relocation.

Dubbed the Elton John, the old crapper was covered in grey asphalt shingles, a common siding used in the 1940's. It took our combined strength to knock the thing off its foundation. Doc Turner tied a tow rope around it and then went back to the boat.  He revved the 9.9 outboard engine to full throttle in an attempt to pull the heavy one-holer off the island. At first it didn’t budge, but with Mike pushing and me pulling, the privy gradually moved and gathered momentum, plunging five feet into the lake below. I have no recollection about how we got that thing out of the lake and set up on the Turner's island.

I can’t finish this story without mentioning the antics of Mike’s younger brother, Danny who might have been 14 at the time. His infectious laugh and boyhood antics were never far away - like the morning he lit his own farts, igniting the methane gas leaking out from the edge of his cutoff shorts in a beautifully executed blue angel that still makes me chuckle today. 

Another example: As a diversion, one morning we boated to the mainland, then drove to the Opeongo River not far down the highway. This fast flowing stream contained brook trout in some pools, though the road-accessible sections were fished out. The bottom of the stream was littered with fishing lures stuck on rocks and Danny had brought a snorkel and mask to help salvage the treasure stuck to the bottom.

There were a couple of tourists fishing in the river that morning and one of them had hooked the bottom. Unbeknownst to Dan, the shining prize he just freed was still attached to the fisherman's rod. Believing he had a fish on, the angler struck back, partially sinking the hook into Danny’s finger.  The shouting and hollering that followed when he breached the surface shocked both the fisherman and everybody else at that pool. Fortunately the angler stopped pulling before the hook was buried in Danny's thumb, after realizing he had caught a human and not a trout.    

Brushing away the cobwebs of time, my first Algonquin park adventure still feels fresh in the telling more than five decades after it took place. I've gone back many times to the park, but that first visit with Mike, 53 years ago, has given me lifelong memories that I cherish to this day.