We made an early start, for we had determined not to spend another night on Rice Lake. This, then meant that we would have to make extra mileage. Fate, however had other plans for us.
We reached the lift locks about 8 o’clock and were taken down at once without any fuss whatever, much to our delight and surprise.
After chasing around for supplies we proceeded down the picturesque Otonabee. It was hard to realise that only about 300 years ago the first white man, Champlain, saw and paddled down these very same waters. The Huron Indians were his guides and many and treacherous were the rapids he had to shoot or portage. We, on the other hand, had no fears as to what lay around the next corner. Boulder strewn rapids and dangerous waterfalls were no longer there. In their stead were comfortable locks and well marked dams.
By noon a drizzle had begun which soon set in for a steady, driving rain. We covered up our duffle with ground sheets and kept on paddling. The current being with us we made pretty good time on this down trip.
By the time we reached Rice Lake a strong west wind was blowing the rain in great gusts down the lake. As the first four canoes stopped we wondered if we could ’make’ the end of the lake. The wind and waves were so strong we knew we would be carried down the lake at a good rate of speed and since the fifth canoe must be quite far behind, we wondered uneasily if we would be out of sight before they reached the mouth of the river. Bobs and Franklin offered to remain a while for them.
We could see the white caps chasing each other in a mad war dance out in the lake, so we stowed cameras and other valuables in the driest places, donned our raincoats, covered up the duffle with ground sheets, drew a long breath and started out to dare the demons of Rice Lake to outwit us. It did not take us long to find out that the best of seamanship was required to guide our crafts over the great rollers which piled down the lake. Higher and higher rose the crests; deeper and more aweful sank the troughs; excitement ran high; nerves were tense and we were all more or less hysterical.
One great mound of water picked us up bodily and swished us forward on its crest at express train rate. Before we could recover from this breathless spasm, another, another and another came and then, just to fool us a deep trough would suck us backward down into maelstromic depths.
’’We’ll have to make shelter as soon as we can,” shouted Ralph and louder, “Head for the nearest island.” His voice was lost in the noise of the storm so he had to gesticulate his directions. Slop slop! Two more waves payed us an afternoon call. Would we reach the island before we were swamped? Would the canoe crack on a crest? Would she split in a trough? Still we tore madly on. The nearest island was about five miles down the lake and at last we rushed past it and managed to pull up along its leeward side. The lake was too rough to attempt going further so we would have to find a camping site on this jungle-like island. To our horror we found that the island was completely covered with poison ivy!
In a small clearing we managed to put up the tent and a search for dry wood and birch bark inaugurated. In the meantime we sighted Bobs and Franklin tossing down the billows. When they arrived we immediately asked as to the whereabouts of the fifth canoe. "We waited until you were almost out of sight so we thought we had better start before we lost sight of you and in all probability the fifth canoe would reach the end of the river in time to see us." explained Bobs. This was a wise move on Bobs’ part but it did not allay our fears concerning Art and Jack. As we changed into more or less dry clothes, someone kept a weather eye open at the far end of the island for the laggards. Not a sign of them could we see. Had they gone under? Ralph was worried. Each of us was a bit uneasy to say the least.
Twilight began to fall and still no sign of the nomads and still the lake flung its taunting spray into our anxious faces. ’Tis true the rain had temporarily ceased, but the wind seemed just as potent as before.
”l bet they’ve made shelter somewhere near the mouth of the river,” suggested Bobs, ’’They must have. They wouldn’t start out alone in this sea. Art’s got sense.”With that statement we tried to console ourselves and gave them up for the night. As the appetizing smell of a hot supper assailed our nostrils, this ghoul-like place seemed less formidable. Ralph, however, was still worried or annoyed; it was hard to tell which.
Suddenly someone cried excitedly, ’’Here they come.”
Eighteen eyes immediately searched the waves for two familiar faces. We need not have had such anxious fears for with the utmost ’sang froid’ came the two nomads.
True to form, Art was sitting in the bottom of the canoe with both feet hanging over the edge, reclining against the bow thwart and holding up with his paddle an improvised sail. Jack was sitting calmly in the stern steering and occasionally giving an extra flip with his paddle. They would have gone right past had we not hailed them.
Two hours late! What on earth had happened ? Nine anxious hearts sought immediate answer to that question.
"What happened to you?” we demanded. We sensed a dramatic tale of being piled up mercilessly on a rocky shore, of being swamped by mountainous seas, of springing a leak, of - - - - why almost any thrilling and dramatic story might be forthcoming from their lips. But even as one hears the jarring sounds of an alarm clock in the middle of a beautiful dream, so mundane humour broke in on the dramatic. These two young retrobates had no thrilling tale for us, No, indeed; they had purposely lagged behind and stopped at two farm houses to buy some pie to satisfy their fancy cravings for dainties. They looked so pitiable in the drenching rain that, added to the appealing look in Art’s eyes, the farmers’ wives immediately melted and asked them in and gave them pie and berries and even tried to persuade them to stay.
This then was the un-romantic close to a dramatic afternoon. We were speechless. Ralph, too, was silent until it came time to do the supper chores. I wonder why he picked on Art and Jack to do all the unwanted jobs that night? Does the reader know? Keep it dark if you do. Forgive and forget.
To say the least the inside of the tent had an unwholesome damp smell that night, but in spite of that fact we had a pretty good night’s sleep.
