Bowron Lake Provincial Park

Trip of Sept 7 to 14, 2002

Pre-trip notes:

Early in September, eight members of the Komoux Valley Paddlers Club paddled the Bowron Lake Provincial Park circuit.  To get there, Norm and Kim traveled in Norm's camper, Steve and Wendie drove via Pemberton, and Blanche and I drove via Hope.  John and Bev started a day and a half before the rest of us.  We hoped to catch up to them somewhere on the lakes.

After communicating by cell phone, Blanche and I arranged to meet Steve and Wendie in Quesnel at the Safeway store where we did some last minute shopping.  The four of us then proceeded towards Wells.  About ten miles before we reached that quaint little town, a wolverine crossed the road right in front of us.  That was the first of many exceptional wildlife sightings we were going to experience in the coming week.  At Wells, we joined up with Steve and Wendie at the Hubs Motel, a clean and cheap place to spend our last night of civilization before the trip.

Saturday:

Eager for a good breakfast at Beckers Lodge, we left early the next morning.  Halfway through the logging road leading to the park, we saw two dogs come onto the road from the forest.  Not knowing if they were wild dogs, we continued.  In retrospect, the dogs looked well groomed and we should have stopped, but it was too late.

At the Lodge we met Norm and Kim camped on a spot overlooking Bowron Lake.  While waiting at the door, we met a group of eight women who were also starting the circuit. We filed in the restaurant as soon as it opened.  After breakfast, some confusion about which party was going to get which rental canoes put a damper on our enthusiasm.  Steve had reserved a Duraflex Prospector in order to try it and see if he'd like to buy one in the future, but the party of women managed to talk their way in obtaining the only available canoe of that type .  Despite their apparent disappointment, Steve and Wendie remained composed, and we proceeded to the registration centre.  There, after the owner of Becker's Lodge bribed the party of women with a free lunch on the day of their return, they agreed to exchange canoes and, the mix-up finally cleared, all the parties filed into the registration centre.

The mandatory viewing of the safety video done with, the clerk weighted our gear and we started the first portage.  It was 11:30 am.  Steve made a harness of the front painter of his canoe and pulled it as if he was a beast of burden.  Meanwhile, Wendie steered by handling the bow.  Blanche and I tried the method and adopted it.  Kim and Norm also tried it, but not liking it, they reverted to the old "one pulls the bow while the other pushes the stern" method.  Aside from Norm's canoe ending up in the ditch once or twice, the portage went well.  Somewhere on the trail, we stopped to watch a squirrel munch on a mushroom cap it had carted up a tree branch.

At the other end, we packed the canoes, launched on the small winding creek leading into Kibbee Lake, and rounded the first bend. On our left, a cow moose was eating roots by the shore.  It looked at us casually as we quietly paddled by.  What a start!

Further down the shore, we stopped for lunch at an old trapper's cabin.  So far the weather had been a tolerable mix of sun, rain, and wind, but as soon as our gear was out of the bags and the stoves were burning, hail came down on us.  Blanche and I moved our cooking station to the cabin.  Of course, the storm passed as soon as we had moved our equipment.  Nonetheless, we had a good lunch, highlighted by listening to the call of the loons and hiking a short distance to the shallows leading into Thompson Lake.

After reaching the end of Kibbee Lake, we tackled the second portage of the day.  This one was a little steeper.  Eventually, an opening ahead of us revealed the light blue water of Indianpoint Lake.  No matter how long the portage, the sight of water at the end of it is always welcome; it is even a little bit exciting.

After launching the canoes, Blanche and I followed the shore while the others made a beeline for Kruger Point across a large bay.  We wanted to explore an old abandoned homestead site, so we had planned this short separation with the others.  We would catch up with them at the campsite.

We reached the rangers cabin at the bottom of the bay where we asked for direction, but unfortunately the information we got was vague: the house had been burned out by BC Parks years ago to restore the area to a more "natural" setting; it was "about there, by the fir tree"; "somewhere by the creek".

Hoping, nonetheless, to spot the remnants of the chimney, we continued a few hundred yards and landed close to the mouth of the creek. We explored the surrounding woods.  While we searched, the wind rose to a point where we felt we had to go soon or be stranded.  We left, unsuccessful in our quest.

Launching the canoe on the rocky beach in the surf was difficult, but we managed without major incident.  Slowly, we progressed along the shore, having to keep our bow in the wind and ferry sideways.  About three hundred yards farther up the shore, a clearing in the forest announced the probable location of the homestead, but it was too late and the water was too rough to attempt a landing..

By 5:00 pm we made it to camp.  The strong wind had chased the clouds away.  Eagles and Ospreys flew above us as we set up our tent in earnest.  The clouds returned when we joined the others, so we rigged Norm's big tarp in a central area.  After supper, we relaxed by the fire and allowed ourselves to experience the magic of that long sought after wilderness feeling.   We were on the Bowrons.

Sunday:

We all got up early and Blanche and I started out on the lake by 8:00 under a mix of sun and clouds.  Steve, Wendy, Norm, and Kim were going to catch up to us as we fished along the shore.  They did as we reached an old trapper's cabin.  There, we met Rick and Karen, a Vancouver couple canoeing the circuit for the first time.    Karen's hair was a little messy after their first night's camping, resulting in Norm warding her the nickname  "Spike".  We all had a good laugh about it.  It was amazing how fast we made friends on the circuit.

Before they left, Karen pointed out an Osprey perched atop a large spruce tree; they had been watching it for a while.  They waved goodbyes as we went up the bank to explore the old cabin. By the time we got back to our canoes, the couple had long disappeared in the cattail-confined constriction at the end of the lake.  As we embarked, the osprey took flight, circled over the weedy shallows, and dove, emerging from the splash with a fish in its talons.  Rick and Karen had just missed it.  So far we had seen a wolverine, a moose, loons, eagles, squirrel, and an osprey catching fish. It was a good start.

Paddling against the current in that narrow stream, we emerged into a shallow widening where our paddles strokes lifted the silt at the bottom of the lake, creating in the process a trail of brown cloudy water behind each canoe.  Dead ahead of us, another portage awaited.

In the past, the landing leading to that portage had usually been very muddy, but this time the water was high enough for us to leave the lake without having to wade in the black muck.  We started the portage under a mix of sunshine and cloudy skies.  At first, the trail was good, but rocks and mud holes increased in frequency as we advanced.  The climb led to the highest elevation we would reach on the trip.

Leading the way, Steve and Wendie made good time with their rented super size canoe cart with balloon wheels.  Following, Kim and Norm had more difficulty negotiating the ruts with their smaller canoe cart, also a rented one.  Blanche and I brought up the rear without too much difficulty, our cart being somewhat wider at the wheels than the smaller type rented by Norm and Kim.

Before reaching the apex, Norm and Kim pulled through a mud hole just a little too fast for their cart and their canoe tipped over on a rock.  Fortunately, no structural damage resulted from the spill, but a large scratch on the hull prompted us to reduce our speed.

After a short downhill stretch, the inevitable splash of blue water announced the end of the portage.  Before reaching the lake, however, we had to manhandle the canoes down from a crudely constructed wooden bridge spanning a small creek.  We made short work of it.  Our group showed clear signs of coalescing into an effective team.

A little bit after starting on big Isaac Lake, the wind blew up.  We trudged on, staying close to shore.  Eventually, hunger made us stop on a narrow gravely beach.  During our lunch, the party of women canoed by us at a steady pace.  Later on, we passed them while they were stopped for lunch.  It was a good thing because we were the first ones to arrive at the large site in Wolverine Bay; therefore, we had our choice of tent sites and set up close to each other.

The wind was still strong when the group of women arrived.  They set up their tents, and noisily filed in the cooking shelter.  Around six o'clock, the wind quieted down and a light steady rain started.

All along we had been speculating that we might catch up with Bev and John at Wolverine Bay, but it looked like they were paddling much faster than we had anticipated.  We looked for a note from them at the ranger's cabin, but returned to the cooking shelter empty handed.

About that time, an interesting couple arrived at the site: Brit and Jim, from Kelowna. Jim was a tall gregarious man. Brit spoke quietly in a singing Finnish accent.  They had married only a few years ago. 

We settled down for an evening filled with laughter.  While we talked and laughed, Steve and Wendie made desert on top of the firebox.  If I remember well, Steve used rocks, a pot, and foil to create some kind of baking contraption.  The procedure seemed pretty complex and it looked like the dessert was never going to be ready. But when it finally emerged out of the pot, it proved to have been well worth waiting for.  Shortbread with Jam and Devonshire cream, what a treat!

Monday:

The next morning, the sound of the party of women organizing an early departure greeted us as we filed in the cooking shelter.  From what we had heard the previous night, they only had six days to complete the circuit and had planned to camp a long way down the lake.  After breakfast, we watched them load their canoes and drag them on the rocks from the shore to the water.  The loud noise of their animated conversations resonated as they paddled away on the lake. 

As we, in turn, prepared for departure I occasionally glanced up in their direction.  The lake, calm as a sheet of glass, eventually absorbed them and their clamour; they disappeared in the watery reflection of the spruce forest. I must confess that I enjoyed the relative quiet and order that returned on the beach.  As far as I knew, none of us felt sorry to see them go.

By 8:20, we were on the water, paddling hard, to make the best of the early morning stillness. The massive mountains were awe-inspiring.  We felt the warm sun whenever it peaked through the clouds.  Around eleven o'clock the wind started.  We pushed on.  At Moxley Creek, we stopped for a break at the small trapper's cabin.  Hanging from the timber, a small paddle carved out of softwood bore Bev and John's names.  They must have spent the night in the cabin.

Between Moxley Creek and Lynx Creek, we fought a strong headwind.  Jim and Brit caught up to us while we were having lunch by the side of the Lynx Creek cabin.  After finding some hot coals in the fire ring, I made a small fire.  We tried to sit around it while we ate, but the wet wood burned poorly and the smoke, changing direction every few seconds, chased most of us away.

Back on the water, we struggled to make headway against the increasing wind.  Despite the storm, two Arctic Terns fished in the estuary of a large creek.  A long forty-five minutes later, we arrived at the Betty Wendell Creek campsite.  It was a well laid out site.  Evenly distanced spruce trees surrounded the camp.  Brown Wrens skittishly jumped from Blueberry bushes to Alder branches.  Red leaves of High Bush Cranberries and orange berries of Mountain Ashes added charm to the spot.

Although we had planned to stop a little further down the lake, the beauty of the site and Blanche's sore wrists were enough reasons for us to stop for the day.  Again, we set up our tents, covered them with tarps.  For good measure, we also set up a communal tarp, close to the fire ring and cooking area.

By that time, the setting up of tarps had become somewhat of a contest.  In order to decide who had the best set-up, the variety of implements used to prop up the tarp, the originality of the tie up points, the slope relative to the wind, and the tightness of the nylon were carefully assessed.  Of course, a winner was seldom unanimously selected.

After supper, the wind faded away.  Our entire party walked around a small gravel point into an arm of the creek where an abandoned beaver dam backed up a small pond of water.  Someone pointed out the bleached skeleton of a small beaver, a clue, perhaps, as to why the dam was abandoned.  That night, we made a large fire and spent the evening sharing stories and enjoying each other's company.

Tuesday:

When we got up, the lake was flat calm and high clouds blocked the sun.  After dismantling our village of tarps, we made a quick getaway.  It was 8:00 am.  Our early departure paid off; we arrived at the outlet of the lake for lunch without doing battle with the rising headwind. 

An older couple, Lou and Maureen, was already set up on one of the four sites downstream of the cooking shelter.  We quickly appropriated the remaining three. We found a message from Bev and John pinned in a Zip Lock bag on a post close to the emergency radiophone. We were not catching up to them.  On the contrary, they were paddling faster than we were!   

Having removed some of our equipment from the canoes, we ran two of them through the "Chute".  Because Blanche's wrist were still aching, she declined running the rapid and Kim replaced her in the bow of our canoe, which suited Norm just fine because he did not feel he could chance a wipe out in the rapids due to his recently installed knee joint.  So on we went, Kim and I down the Chute.  We ran it clean and eddied out on river right.  After steadying the canoe in the eddy, we still had to cross the river to end up in the eddy bellow our tents.  We brought the canoe far up the eddy and cut in the large haystacks.  The force of the current propelled us across the river in about two seconds.  It was, I believe, Kim's first Jet Ferry in a canoe, him being a devoted kayaker. But his composure did not betray his excitement.  Once across the chute, we made short work of back paddling our way to the landing site, where the rest of our group waited.

The second canoe we took down was Steve and Wendie's.  Since Wendie did not feel like getting wet, I eagerly volunteered for the bow position.  This time, Steve decided to eddy out directly on the left side.  We took the white Prospector down the chute flawlessly. As soon as we reached the eddy line, I stretched across the bow and planted my paddle in the water using the cross-draw stroke.  We leaned in the turn while the canoe spun on a dime, flinging spray on the slick water of the eddy.  After the turn, we paddled to the landing with large grins on our face.  What an exciting place!

We climbed back to the shelter for lunch.  The wind got up, soon to be accompanied by a wicked rainstorm, which we braved while setting up the tents and tarps.  Steve also set up a tarp around the shelter to reduce the wind funnelling through it.  Both Steve and I got quite wet despite our Goretex jackets, but Kim and Norm stayed dry in their wet gear for working men - something to remember for future trips.

We dried our clothes around the firebox, which Kim kept well supplied with split wood.  Steve and Wendie walked to the end of the portage and back, keeping an eye on the river for possible obstacles we might encounter the next day on our way down.  They reported that the river was safe enough to canoe up to the mandatory pull out above the dangerous Cascades rapids.

Throughout the afternoon, more people arrived at the shelter.  Most of them were completely drenched from paddling in wind and rain.  They set up camp in the lower sites, close to the lake.  At a certain point in the afternoon, shivering people stringing ropes to dry their clothes over the firebox overran the place. They shared stories of dreadful wind and waves.  Some of them were new to wilderness trekking.  Others, such as the couple of men who put up an additional tarp around the shelter, were experienced outdoorsmen.

One group consisted of father, daughter and husband, and two friends.  Chris, the father, was a very interesting man.  A well-educated man, he  had prospected and surveyed all around the province.  After he and his daughter warmed up a little, they ran the chute together.  Chris enjoyed the run and his daughter simply loved it.  She came out of the canoe grinning from ear to ear.  Her enthusiasm and exuberance was contagious.  She soon ran the rapid again with her husband, who at first looked a little apprehensive about it, but was overwhelmed by her fervour.

Eventually, we made supper and chatted with Lou and Maureen.  They had met John and Bev the previous day.  After a while, we liked them so much that we declared them honorary members of the Komoux Valley Paddlers for the duration of the trip. We also made jokes about Norm and Kim's never ending cheese supply.  They had brought two big chunks of cheddar for the trip and every one of their meals involved cheddar cheese in one form or the other.  After supper, Blanche produced her famous lemon pie desert.  Once again, we dined like king and enjoyed good company until the darkness chased us to our tent.

Wednesday:

The rain stopped during the night and we got up to an overcast sky.  Since we were starting the day on a river and were free of the necessity to "beat the wind", we had a laid-back breakfast.   At 9:15, after bacon, eggs, bannock, and coffee, we departed.

Norm and Kim were going to portage around the first part of the river on account of Norm's knee.

Blanche and I crossed the chute by doing an "S" turn and waited in the far shore eddy for Steve and Wendie. We turned around in the eddy.  By that time, most of the other parties camping at the chute were watching from the top of the embankment, next to Norm and Kim.

So far, my ego was doing well, but it was about to take a pounding.  Just before Steve and Wendie launched, I realised that in the excitement preceding our crossing of the chute, I had forgotten to put my life vest on.  That was a "Big" mistake, but we were about to make an even bigger one.

I gestured toward Steve and he understood that they had to wait for something. As we prepared to cross back, I let the stern of our canoe catch in the fast current.  We were committed.  We back paddled into what turned out to be a reversed "S" Turn..  When we arrived on the other side, Steve, who by now knew why we were coming back, handed me the life vest.   The rest of the crew would never let me live that one down.

We crossed the river again and waited.  We watched Steve and Wendie ferry across the current.  After they pivoted around and faced downstream, we headed for the Roller Coaster, a class II rapid, while Norm and Kim started the portage.  We handled the Roller Coasters easily and found ourselves at the landing in no time.  Norm and Kim rejoined us at the landing and we proceeded down the trail.

That section of trail was the worst of the entire trip. Manoeuvring through mud holes, rocks, sharp turns, and ruts required our constant attention.  At the end of the trail, the descent to the river was so steep that we teamed up to manhandle the canoes for the last fifty feet of rocky slope.

We launched the canoes between large boulders resting in the shallow water.  It was a short paddle to the next portage.  Although that one was quite steep, it was in better shape than the last one.  At the crest of the trail, we left our canoes unattended for a few minutes and took a side trip leading to a view of the Isaac River Falls.  From a small mossy viewpoint, we watched the river plunge thirty-five feet over the brink.

Downstream of the falls, we met Lou and Maureen again.  They were having difficulty pulling their canoe over a section of shallow water.  We helped them get their beautiful cedar strip canoe in deeper water before we pulled our own rigs right over the shallow spot unto a gravel bar nearer to the deep water.  After the Isaac River emptied into small McLeary Lake, we paddled to a cabin on the far shore.  The spot was idyllic.  We looked at the poems written on the lumber covering the porch and gazed at the wind catcher in the window.

For fun, we read graffiti on the walls of the outhouse.  One story is worth mentioning:  When a family spent a night at the cabin, a bear, smelling the food they had discarded in the outhouse, ripped the seat and pedestal of the outhouse and gorged itself on the smelly mixture.  In the morning, the dad fixed the outhouse, but at first, he put the seat on backward.  He eventually fixed it.  The story, although somewhat funny, illustrates vividly how important it is to dispose of refuse properly while canoeing in bear country.

Heading for the confluence of the Cariboo River with the outlet of the lake, we left the cabin.  No sooner had we launched that I again found myself without a life vest.  When I returned to shore to get it, Steve, again, handed it to me.  This time, he had tied a piece of string to it.  With a grin on his face, he explained that for safety reasons I should use the string to tie my life vest on to my belt.

We finally entered the Cariboo River.  The current greeted us and whisked us at a fair speed.  The skies cleared.  The views were awesome, but we had to keep focused on the river.  Sweepers and deadheads were our main concern.  On the outside of a sharp corner, a sweeper and a few deadheads barring the way required that we pass on the inside of the turn.  When Kim and Norm approached the obstacle, they realized that an easy sideslip would not be enough to take them out of harm's way.  They were running out of time.  Back paddling in earnest, they angled the stern of their canoe toward the safe side of the river.  The moment was tense.  The closer they got to the tangle, the more furiously they back paddled.  Eventually, the water, pushing against the side of their canoe, ferried them to safety.  On their face, anxiety and relief changed into a large smile, showing their excitement.

Farther down the river, we stopped for lunch on a gravel bar. Blanche tried her luck at fishing.  The weather was glorious. Upstream, the perpetual snow of an ice field toped a range of mountains.  Downstream, the waters of the river, tinged a muddy shade of green by glacial silt, acted as foreground for the willows lining the shore.  Beyond the trees, the mighty Cariboo Mountains peaked through the remaining clouds.

After pulling the fishing rod from Blanche's hands, we continued down the river.  At the outlet of the river, we paddled over the shallow sandy bars of Lanezi Lake.  Millions of spent midges floated on the opaque waters of the lake, remnants of what must have been a gargantuan hatch.  The lake being calm, our eyes darted between Mount Ishpa and its majestic reflection.  The day's paddle ended at Turner Creek, where we reunited with our honorary members, Lou and Maureen.

Despite the shining sun, we erected our usual tarp city, spurred more by our daily contest than by our need for protection against the rain.  Blanche went fishing.  She caught a small trout and released it.  Supper was followed by Steve's terrific rice pudding.  Norm loved it so much, he spooned the pot clean. After supper, we waited for the sunset, idling time away. A small terrace above the shoreline acted as our balcony for the spectacle of colours unfolding, just for us, as the sun dipped below the mountains.

With few words spoken, we relished the moment, feeling, as Radisson the famous fur trader once said, "like Caesars in the wilderness, being nobody to tell us otherwise."

Thursday:

The next day, back to our routine of early starts, we were on the lake by 8:30 am. A thick layer of fog surrounded us as we quietly followed the shoreline, hoping to see some wildlife.  The water was flat and glossy.  Once in while, the sun peaked through the fog, creating beautiful reflections of the canoes in the water.  One of many memorable scenes was Norm quietly steering his canoe while Kim paddled steadily in the bow.

Since the beginning of the trip, Kim's paddling rhythm had been quicker than Norm's.  Wanting to contribute his fair share to the daily toil, Norm had asked Kim to slow down on several occasions, but it seemed that Kim's natural paddling speed was much greater than Norm's.  After a while, Norm gratefully accepted the situation.  When they were too far ahead of us, he steered every other stroke, resuming his paddling when we caught up with them.  This happened so often, that we humorously referred to Kim and Norm's canoe as being a "front wheel drive".

By the time we stopped for a snack near the end of Lanezi Lake, the sun had burned the fog completely.  Our canoes were already loaded with logs brought over from the last pile, but following Steve's example, we exchanged some of our logs for drier ones left on the beach by a previous party.

So far, Steve had been our firewood master. With him leading the way, we had stopped and investigated every woodpile on the circuit, gathering the driest logs in the process.  His ability to spot the signs with the big red "W" announcing where the firewood piles were located earned him the temporary nickname of "Woody".    After groping around the site and stretching our legs for a few minutes, we departed for the small stretch of river linking Lanezi Lake to Sandy Lake.  The view was stunning. 

Before the river emptied in Sandy Lake, we noticed a small flotilla of canoes beached on a sandbar.  People on the shore gazed at something on the outside of a large curve in the river.  From our position, we could not see what it was, so we drifted down quietly, following the example of a canoe in front of us.  Rounding an evergreen covered point of land, we saw the object of everyone's attention.  A large cow moose, seemingly wanting to cross the river, walked knee deep in water.  Unnerved by the spectators across the river and the canoe in front of us, it paced the shore back and forth.  When it saw us, overwhelmed by so many people watching her, it turned around and trotted back to the safety of the forest.

The river brought us to Sandy Lake.  Around that wide lake, the scenery was more muted and subtle than what we had become accustomed to.  The height of the surrounding mountains was diminishing and the peaks were becoming more rounded.  Feeling energized by the sun, we headed for one of the campsites on the magnificent beaches..

Once ashore, we noticed how the vegetation was also changing.  Because the west side of the park received less precipitation than the mountain valleys to the east, the trees around the site were smaller and sparser.  The woods were more open, devoid of Devil's Club, High Bush Cranberry, and Mountain Ash.  Replacing these species, diminutive low bush blueberries growing on a carpet of dry moss formed the bulk of the undergrowth.

Eager to obtain a good campsite, we opted to delay our lunch and made a dash for the last stretch of the Cariboo River leading to Una Lake.  Our quest for a good camping site, however, was not enough to hold Steve back when he saw a sign with a big "W" on the shores of the river.  We made the mandatory stop, joking about how he became unstoppable near a woodpile, much like a moose during the rut.

Passing Babcock creek, our link to civilization, we followed the river as it turned sharply to the south.  A few minutes later, we entered the small opening connecting the river to Una Lake.  We were now looking back toward the Cariboo Mountains.  The view was magical. The mountains, now tamed by distance, acted as a backdrop to the softer surrounding of the lake.

We were the first party on the lake. The strategy had paid off.  As temporary owners of the lake, we selected the best campsites and the daily tarp contest ensued.  Shortly after, Lou and Maureen joined us.  After a well-deserved lunch, we paddled across the lake to the Cariboo Falls trailhead.  Before reaching land, someone noticed a large whitetail doe and her twin yearlings feeding by the shoreline.  She energetically chased her own offsprings when they got too close to what she was eating.  Gliding silently, we observed as she dug holes in the ground with her hooves in order to eat roots at the bottom of the holes.  The food must have been a favourite of hers.

The trail leading to the falls was magical.  Shaded by widely spaced pine trees, a carpet of moss undulated over gently rolling hills.  Near the end of the trail, the sound of the falls announced the transition from fairytale landscape to powerful cataract. As the trail approached the river, the roar increased, forcing us to shout in order to communicate.  On a small promontory overlooking the brink, we felt the ground vibrating under our feet.

Kim was the first one to scramble down to the foot of the falls.  Following him, we looked on as the entire river plunged eighty feet in a foaming cauldron, creating a perpetual cloud of mist rising at least two hundred feet in the air.  Below the cauldron, the water surged through a steep, narrow canyon.  Our senses assailed by the roar and rumble of the falls, we admired the spectacle, awed by its power.

We clambered back to the top and returned to the quiet of Una Lake.  After supper, we heard a loud bang coming from nearby Rum Lake.  People must have paddled to it while we were at the falls.  In order to investigate, Steve, Wendie, Blanche, and I bushwhacked to the small lake.  First we met Chris and his family, camped by the shoreline in a shady site.  They told us that a party of Scots camped further ahead had fired the shot.

When we arrived where the Scots were camp, we could not help but hearing loud music blaring from a recording device.  A party was going on.  One of the men almost fell on the ground as he rose to welcome us.  They said that they had fire a bear banger to scare a small bear that was hanging around their camp.  Satisfied with our investigation and wanting to return to our quiet campsite before darkness fell, we headed back, this time following a good trail.

Well supplied with wood, we made a large fire.  Lou, Maureen, and a pair of later arrivals to our site, Darrell and Bill exchanged stories with us of the best and worst canoe trips they'd ever experience.  One of us, Norm I believe, quoted the phrase, "My eyes are full," to describe the beauty of what he had seen today.  We all agreed.

Friday:

A calm sunny ski greeted us the next morning.  Steve and Wendie had a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes.  Needless to say, the rest of us eyed their plates with envy as we gulped our lowly oatmeal.  On the water by 8:15, we paddled the short stretch up the Cariboo River to the entrance of Babcock creek.  We pushed our way up as far as we could, but eventually had to line the canoes.  A few minutes of pulling and dragging brought us to the trailhead.  The portage was short and easy.

On Babcock Lake, Steve pointed out the first of several moose he was going to spot on this day.  It was a cow.  As we got closer, it started to run up and down the shore, displaying its anger by shaking its shoulders and trampling the water with its front legs.  Eventually, it disappeared in the bush.  There seemed to be no reason for it to be so agitated, but later in the day a party following us told us that they had seen a calf in a different part of the lake.  The cow had become separated from its calf and it was angry with us for what it perceived as our efforts to keep them apart.

After another short portage, we meandered through the cattail-lined outlet of Skoi Lake, the smallest lake on the circuit.  At the end of the lake, we eagerly completed the last portage of the trip.  We were now overlooking long and narrow Spectacle Lake.  Paddling along the shores, we were treated to many sightings of moose, all of them spotted by Steve.   Prompted by his ability to spot the wild beasts, we almost transformed his nickname from Woody to Eagle Eye, but we changed our mind when he made a beeline for the next woodpile.

Halfway up the lake, at Pat's Point, we ran into Rick and Karen, formerly known to us as Rick and Spike.  They were laid up for the day.  Rick had injured his back and winced with pain most of the time.  Norm ministered to him with a proper dose of painkillers.

Seduced by the beauty of Pat's point, we opted to make camp.  Chris, having left his family behind, or shall we say after having enough of waiting for them to get going, joined us and waited for them.  Bev and John remained elusive.

After lunch, we watched squirrels and whiskey jacks compete for trail mix offerings.  Kim had an afternoon snooze.  Blanche fished, then took a walk with Wendie and Steve.  Norm and I paddled to the Ranger's cabin on the opposite shore of the lake, sat on the porch, and put our feet up on the railing.

On our way back from the cabin, we saw two men coming up the lake.  They were zigzagging all over the place, but what they lacked in paddling skills, they made up for in enthusiasm.  The last people to join us, they were brothers, formerly from Tanzania, now residents of Canada and England.

That evening, the last one of the trip, we had a terrific potluck dinner consisting of our main meals plus biscuits, cheese bannock, popcorn, fresh tomatoes, butterscotch pudding, and gourmet pieces of chocolate.  At dusk, we watched crimson clouds light up the sky beyond Sugarloaf Mountain.  As darkness fell and the moon rose, an owl screeched from a nearby treetop.  Everybody gathered around the campfire, sharing stories and relating highlights of the trip.

Saturday:

During the night, a beaver fell a small alder behind our tent.  It fled before I had a chance to spot it with my flashlight.  The gentle cry of muskrats chatting a few yards off shore as they ferried weeds back and forth woke me up.  A thick fog enveloped the campsite.  After a quick breakfast, we launched on the lake to the tune of an old French Canadian song harmonized by Norm and myself.

The fog made it impossible to distinguish where water ended and air started, giving the impression that the canoes were suspended in the thick mist.  The shoreline, completely out of focus, sometimes disappeared when we canoed in a thicker bank of fog, only to reappear later in a ghostly fashion.  We were near the end of the lake before the fog burned out completely.  Highlighted by the low angle of the morning sun, a few birch trees displayed bright yellow leaves, announcing, proudly it seemed, that another season was nearing its end.  

We followed the channel beside Pavich Island.  At the end of the lake, we stopped for a few minutes where an old cabin overlooked the Bowron River Swamp.  The party of Scotsmen occupied the campsite by that cabin.  They were a lot quieter that morning than they had been two nights ago.

Each canoe taking turns in the lead, we paddled down the gently flowing Bowron River, listening to the quaking of Black Ducks as they fed by the river's edge.  Thickets of shore willows lined the banks, obstructing our vision of the swampy delta.  Before we reached the lake, an opening in the banks enabled us to paddle out of the willow-lined maze, onto the placid waters of the swamp.  The swamp covered an area of at least ten square kilometres. 

In the absence of large wildlife, we paddled back to the main channel.  Near the outlet, the wind got up.  Fortunately, it was a stern wind.   When it became strong enough, Norm happily suggested that we should sail.  Spurred by his enthusiasm, we rigged a tarp spanning our three canoes.  As Kim and Wendie lifted the tarp, we hung on to each other's gunwales in anticipation.  The wind blew in the tarp, spinnaker style, and we felt the canoes accelerate until we were sailing down the lake as fast as the wind.  What an exciting way to travel.  We watched as miles of shoreline retreated behind us.

Halfway down the lake, the wind slowed and we stopped.   Another gust took us forward for a while but eventually, the wind died completely.  Resigned to our fate, we took up the paddles again.  In the ensuing calm, we let ourselves become separated, not paying particular attention to where we were going.  But as we got close to the end of our adventure, we waited for each other and regrouped before landing at Becker's lodge.

Only a few minutes spent cleaning the rental equipment separated us from lunch at "The Last Portage", the only restaurant open for lunch. There, rejoicing in such simple comforts as tap water and flushing toilets, we cleaned up a bit before ordering fat filled hamburgers and French fries.  After washing our meal down with a copious amount of coffee, we lingered at the table, not wanting the trip to end.  Iin the end, however, commitments, time tables, and life in its civilised form called us back to our vehicles where we bid each other goodbye, until the next time.