by Hart Haessler
PART 1: THE MATAGAMI EXPEDITION
There are big lakes out there and I’ve never seen them. This was Sam’s characteristic explanation for choosing the Matagami area of Quebec for his August 2000 GLSKA trip. He had written to the development officer of Matagami for information. In essence this was the reply: “The area is ideal for kayaking, indeed he himself had enjoyed many trips in this beautiful wilderness – blessed with perfect weather, abundant wildlife, and prosperous industries.” The fact that Matagami is a mining town of 2000 isolated souls (and dwindling), 800 kilometres north of Toronto, wholly owned and operated by a mining company, was left for me to discover on the Internet.
Ron, Sam and I met in Alliston at 4:30 a.m. on August 12th and at 9:00 we were at the Tim Horton’s in Huntsville. Here we met the remaining two members of our expedition. Bill and Frank had come from Rochester, N.Y. to join us because they too had never been there. Coffee and the anticipation of the unknown cranked up our adrenalin sufficiently to overcome the lethargy of sleep deprivation. We were primed to drive, and drive we did – for 8 more hours – through towns like North Bay, Temagami, New Liskeard, Rouyn Noranda, Amos and then a 200 kilometre stretch of no towns at all, just endless low spruce and sandy road cuts. We had arrived in the Hudson’s Bay lowlands and had left our familiar shield country behind. Finally we arrived in Matagami. Among the 5 of us we did not know enough French to understand that a “Hotel de ville” is not a place to sleep, but we managed to check into the motel, have dinner and scout out the launch site on Lac Matagami.
At the town dock, the development officer’s kayak was noticeably absent, as were all the indications that this was a paddling mecca. The only sign of life was a battered aluminum fishing boat. Then we noticed the water. The waves that lapped at the shore were a sinister brown. The opposite shoreline appeared low and choked with stunted scrub. Only the occasional club tipped black spruce broke free of an unimposing horizon. As I stood at the water’s edge, the light began to fade from an overcast sky and the first Matagami mosquitoes began extracting blood from my neck. I contemplated the next 5 days in this desolate country. I kept my thoughts to myself but I couldn’t help wishing that I were on Georgian Bay far to the south.
The next morning we were back at the public dock and although the sky was still as overcast as the previous evening, my spirits were considerably higher. I was in excellent company and anticipated 5 days of kayaking with nothing to worry about except the rhythm of my paddle. What a difference a good night’s sleep can make.
We launched into the brown waters of the Matagami estuary and paddled upstream to the low falls at the mouth of the Bell River. Here we took pictures and played in the boiling water before the official beginning of our expedition. Our 5 boats quickly found their position in the pecking order. Sam and Ron were generally up front to establish a bristling pace. The rest of us kept up as best as we could. Around the first point came the evidence that Sam was right about the size of this lake. The horizon to the east was broken only by the occasional island. There was no visible end to this coffee-coloured sea. The wind swung into our backs and our progress became impressive. We passed features on shore that dispelled our first gloomy impressions. Occasional tongues of smooth rock projected from the scrubby shore and inviting pocket beaches glistened in hidden coves. We all anticipated perfect campsites for the next few days. As we approached our lunch stop in the lee of a rocky island, we noticed a black bear ambling off into the bushes of the mainland shore. We decided then and there to find our perfect campsites on islands. The blueberries were ripe so our departure from our lunchsite was delayed by serious foraging by all 5 of us. I imagined the bear was doing the same on the opposite shore.
The wind picked up and the waves gave us an occasional rush as we accepted a free ride between bouts of aggressive paddling. By 4 p.m. we had travelled 25 kilometres and could now see the elusive end of the lake. It was time to make camp and, sure enough, we found that perfect site on an island with a fine yellow beach. A walk seemed like a good way to work out the kinks in my legs so, while the others set up camp, I set out to explore the perimeter of our home for the night. The latitude of the James Bay area was evident by the vegetation. Thick sphagnum moss blanketed the depressions in the rocky shore. Hardy shrubs competed with the moss where roots could take hold. The shrubs became an impassable tangle just a few feet inland. Under the foot of an uprooted spruce I found an old axe head. It had been hand-forged and lay in a rocky pocket as if it had been hidden with great care. How old it was, I could only guess but it served to remind me that others had travelled here long before kevlar had replaced birch bark – when buckskin served as Gore-Tex.
Back at camp, Bill was fishing and soon caught a sizeable pike. This created a stir of activity and we hauled out various makeshift fishing paraphernalia to try our luck. By suppertime our total catch remained at one. Bill was kind enough to share his catch with the less skilled. By evening a cold wind had developed from the northwest, but Ron had set up a fire in the grove of twisted birch and we chatted in comfort while getting to know each other better. It turned out that our two American companions were as different as chalk and cheese. Frank is a wise and cautious wilderness traveller who spared no effort to hang his food and keep his gear in perfect order. Bill on the other hand, subscribed to the GLSKA method of throwing everything into the bulkheads for the night. Frank was quiet and observant, as Bill entertained us with stories of past adventures of his un-politically-correct days of hunting and fishing. Frank seemed to eat only seeds and berries but was as strong as the carnivores in our group. He blew me away with his confession that he was in his mid sixties. Bill and Frank share a consuming interest in wilderness travel and think nothing of driving 1000 miles at a moment’s notice to explore new destinations.
Ron and Sam love to paddle long and hard. They talk about hull-shapes and widths and the merits of different manufacturers. Their paddles weigh less than my pogies, and their sleek 22″ boats are barely visible under their powerful arms when viewed from my usual 100 yards behind them. I’m always a little embarrassed by my Boreal Saguenay. It can carry my camp-chair and cooler but looks like a bathtub beside Sam’s sleek Seda and Ron’s low-volume Ellesmere.
The next morning the sun came out and we pointed our craft in a new direction, south and up the Waswanipi River. At first the river did its best to stop our upstream progress. It hissed and churned all around us. Menacing holes opened up in the vortex of whirlpools, threatening to suck our little boats to the bottom. At one point we were forced to land and line along the shoreline that consisted entirely of huge black slabs of rock turned sharp-side up. My earlier worries of capsizing in a whirlpool were replaced by the real fear of breaking my legs. Once we were through this barrier, the river gave up and let us pass with ease. The sun beat down on us and we moved up the meandering stream as lazily as the osprey above. Lunch was on a mud bank covered with fresh bear tracks. It was now hot enough to swim and since I needed a bath, I took the plunge. Opening my eyes underwater served no purpose. Three feet under and all light was shut out by the tannin-stained water.
Back in the cockpit, our ears began to pick up the sound of rushing water and before long we were faced with a 15 m cascade that took us all by surprise. The topo map indicated only a 7 m rise between Lac Matagami and Lac Groeland. How can this sizeable river be so poorly mapped? We expected a chute but not this thundering fall. A thorough search for a portage turned up an overgrown trail that snaked up a steep hill. A rusty cable and drum system was discovered in the undergrowth. This was the first clue that maybe we were not meant to go any further. Even the hardy souls from an earlier time had to winch their possessions up this portage from hell. Ron, Sam, and myself decided to climb this faint track to Lac Olga and it soon became obvious that no one had passed this way for decades. When we regrouped below the falls, we held a pow-wow. After much discussion we decided to turn back like sensible sea-kayakers. We prefer the sting of spray on our faces to the sting of mosquitoes.
It was getting late but the sun still beat mercilessly on our tired bodies. We were determined to return to Lac Matagami rather than spend the night on this river of our defeat. The current helped us now as we swept through the hard-won eddies. After just over an hour we were back at the place of sharp black rocks. The current gripped us as we approached the angry swift. The shore became a blur as I concentrated on keeping the boat facing downriver. The gurgling holes that had intimidated me on the way up were now more easily mastered with the advantage of momentum. Suddenly all was quiet again and we settled into the familiar rhythm of lake-travel. We headed steadily north in search of another perfect beach, and at the far northeast end of Lac Matagami, we found it. It had been a long day – 10 hours in the hot sun and we were no farther than where we were the day before. But this campsite was ideal. Fine white sand to sleep on and smooth gray rocks for lounging. As the sun went down in the west, a full moon rose in the east, creating a silvery path across the water. Over the evening campfire Sam suggested we return to our trucks the next day and abandon the Matagami area. He had a new lake in mind – an even bigger lake that he had never seen.
In the morning a cold wind blew from the west directly against the direction of our return. Bill left a half-hour earlier than the rest of us. He felt he could use the extra time to slow his pace and spare his shoulder, which had given him trouble the previous day. We agreed to meet on a small island 8 kilometres to the west. The oncoming waves broke over my bow and within a half-hour I was wet and cold. I found myself falling farther and farther behind. I could not muster the strength to go any faster. Something was wrong. As my bow rose over a particularly high wave, I felt water swirling around my butt and I identified the problem. My cockpit was filling with water. This was the result of a failed seal in my latest kayak innovation. I had drilled a 1″ hole in my deck to accommodate a siphon tube, which was attached to a standard bailing pump. The pump was mounted to the deck in front of me and I could use it with one hand. Pretty handy – but now I was sinking because of it. All was not lost. My one-handed pump system worked great so I was able to pump out without removing my spray-skirt. Once emptied the boat sprang forward again and the gap closed between us. After we met up with Bill in the lee of his island, a quick duct-tape repair job solved the problem. Here I received a valuable tip from Ron; to keep the water from washing over the deck, point the bow slightly angled to the waves. I now stayed drier in the headwind. After 24 kilometres we decided we had had enough. Just as the sun broke out we discovered a protected beach where 2 ice-huts had been pulled up on shore waiting for winter.
We had noticed other huts on the lake and judging by the construction, the Matagamians take their ice-fishing seriously. These structures were more like little cottages on skids, with real windows and aluminum siding. While we examined the huts someone prophetically mentioned they might be useful shelter in severe weather. (More of that later.) First we enjoyed a really pleasant afternoon in the sun. We fished and hiked, washed and did laundry. We had a leisurely supper and suddenly the setting sun was extinguished by thick black clouds. Undaunted, Ron made a fire anyway, while the first fat drops fell and the lightening increased in frequency. Then all hell broke loose. The roaring wind flattened the trees and heavy rain turned the water white with its intensity. Ron, Frank and I took shelter in the unlocked fishing hut and watched a perfect storm through its little window. There was smoke on the water and fire in the sky. Bill and Sam rode it out in their bombproof tents. Half an hour later it was all over, but now it was cold, so we retired early.
The evening thunderstorm was the forerunner of a cold front and breakfast on our beach was a wet and windy affair. We packed up quickly and launched into the wind, hoping that the exercise would warm us up. We had only 18 kilometres to go, but it was that hardest 18 kilometre of my paddling career. The wind gusted and the cold rain stung our faces like sleet. By lunchtime we had 4 hours of hard work behind us but still had 7 kilometres to go. The wind increased and Bill and I fell behind. At the last headland, before turning south to the Bell River, the others were out of sight. The two of us needed a break so we pulled into a little cove, fully aware that the others would wonder where we were. We decided to walk along the rocky shore so we could signal them and let them know we were okay. Presently we spotted them paddling back to find us. They now had a full side wind and the waves against the headland made it dangerous for them to land. But somehow they managed a bumpy exit because in their minds we were in trouble. They had not noticed our little cove and thought we were walking because we had capsized.
We soon had everything sorted out, and Bill and I walked back to our boats to tackle the last of the waves. Very slowly and with every ounce of our remaining strength we rounded the point and steered south. The wind was now from the side and we made better progress. Within 20 minutes we were in the shelter of the mouth of the river. The lake had one last surprise for us. Just as I was relaxing in the sheltered water, I heard a shout beside me and noticed Bill riding a high pillow of a wave that had somehow found its way up the river. He shot past me with a look of total amazement and then I too was lifted by this unexpected parting gift from Lac Matagami.
Sam was right. It was a big lake out there, but now we’ve seen it. Tomorrow we will be on an even bigger lake that we have never seen.
PART 2: THE KIPAWA CRUISE
By 4:00 p.m. we had loaded our wet gear into 2 trucks and were on our way to a new destination. The heat vents in our vehicle provided the first physical comfort since we emerged from our soaking tents this morning. We drove south through the 200 kilometres of stunted spruce and sandy road cuts. By 6:00 p.m. we arrived in Amos and checked into a hotel. The sun had finally reappeared so we draped our tents and paddling clothes across the kayaks on top of the trucks. Our vehicles, festooned with colourful wet nylon, caused more than one passing car to slow down while the driver tried to make sense of a pile of rags in front of the motel. Two hours later, showered and changed, we felt human enough to think about food. We found a good Italian restaurant and talked about our next destination while loading up on pasta.
Two hundred kilometres farther south, parallel to the Ottawa River, lies the complex maze of water known as Lake Kipawa. It covers 300 square kilometres and has over 2000 kilometres of shoreline. The village of Laniel, halfway between Villemarie and Temiscaming, was our access point. We arrived here in bright sunshine the following morning. The friendly proprietor at the general store provided us with maps and enough verbal information to give us a sense of what to expect and where to camp.
The word “Kipawa” means “closed off waters” in Algonquin and after the open water of Matagami, we looked forward to the shelter of the countless bays and islands. We launched from the village park and within 2 kilometres, all signs of civilization disappeared and the true character of the lake unfolded. The dense spruce extended right to the waters edge and their trailing roots snaked their way down rocky ledges to drink from the lake itself. Every inch of land was claimed by some form of boreal vegetation. These protected shores were never scoured by storm waves and there was no evidence of possible campsites. Fortunately, our friend from the general store had marked his own personal favourite fish camp on our map and that was now our destination.
This was truly flat-water paddling. In the sheltered bays the mirror image of the green shores shimmered and danced in the sunshine. Loons called as we passed from one quiet inlet to another. Before long we had lost ourselves amongst the green islands and had to do some serious map and compass work to stay on course. No development marred these shores and traffic was limited to the occasional fishing boat in the distance. Far from urban areas, the cottage culture had not taken hold here and the country had the feel of an undisturbed wilderness. Our map indicated a half dozen hunting and fishing lodges hidden in the narrow bays but they seemed to have little impact on the solitude.
After a few hours of easy paddling, Sam discovered the island that was to be our home for the next 2 days. A primitive dock was the only indicator that camping was possible here. From the water the island looked as steep and overgrown as all the others. We landed and climbed the bank, barely hoping for enough open space for our tents. We got much more than we expected. The island had a flat top and not only was there enough space for our 5 tents, there was also a well used fire ring with 2 grills and a fully equipped outdoor kitchen. A plywood shelf held frying pans and underneath it was neatly stacked firewood. This “improved” campsite would be considered an eyesore on Georgian Bay but here in this isolated part of Quebec it made perfect sense.
We whiled away the afternoon in the sun and prepared our evening meal in unaccustomed leisure. Frank soaked his usual seeds and beans in boiling water while Ron prepared his 5-course Freddy-Chef paper bag army rations. The rest of us cooked pasta and rice like civilized kayakers and washed it down with Sam’s beer. After supper Ron and I set out on a quick paddle to Baie du Canal, a deep and narrow cut in the Precambrian rock. We arrived just as the evening light set the cliffs on fire. We drifted through the gap while taking the best pictures of the trip.
The next day we leisurely explored the far reaches of this bay and met a group of canoeing ladies who had spent 9 days on this lake and were still not bored. Their canoes seemed more appropriate to this lake but the speed of our kayaks suited the “see-it and go on to the next destination” mentality of our group. At the far end of the bay Sam displayed his exploratory instincts and left his kayak to search for portage links to other bays. I suspect his real purpose was to find blueberries. He never passed a patch without stripping it clean and I even caught him picking overhanging berries from his kayak.
By 3:00 we are back at our camp just in time for another spectacular thunderstorm that threatened to flatten our tents. Frank had to wait out the storm without shelter. His tent was pitched with the door to the wind and any attempt to get inside would have flooded his gear. He chose to shiver in his t-shirt rather than risk a wet sleeping bag. This man has discipline.
The following morning we were homeward-bound in a headwind and were reminded of Lake Matagami, but here, with no fetch, the wind could not raise a wave worthy of a kayaker. We made a race of it and covered the 12 kilometres in 2 hours, and our 7 days paddling in Quebec were over. We had experienced 2 big lakes that we had never seen, and we will surely continue our quest for new destinations in other summers. So much water – so little time.