This is a work based on true facts, extracted from my diary, which was meant to record my feelings at the time and not the emotions of a dream, or an adventure, it was recorded without pretense of great achievements or the future. It was my attempt without any pretension other than to be able to remember the wonderful moments that I experienced.
Today I would not undertake such an adventure. And I would not recommend it to people, in general. To venture in this way, it is necessary to; develop your knowledge and techniques of hunting; to study about bears; to have the ability to instinctively handle a rifle as if it were the extension of your hand, your arm. After constant practice it becomes instinctive and automatic. I do not need to think, I do not need to look to lock or unlock or to load and eject a round from my Weatherby 30-06 Vanguard rifle.
It is especially necessary to study and know about bear habits and habitats. You will never know exactly what is going on in the bears' head and what will be their reactions. In fact, it is of no use other than to have a general understanding of their instincts and actions. There is nothing mathematical or linear about the actions of the “Ursus Horribilis”, the bear. It is a beast for which we do not have a scientific book that gives us full knowledge of its habits.
I studied a lot before making the decision to make this trip. I went when I was single. I would not have gone if I had been married. I would not have gone for the love I have for my wife Ana Rita, and my children Helga and Flávio.
Today I know that I could leave a widow and orphans, because you will see in the telling of the story that the danger was incessant, and that luck was my companion.
For reasons of rights, I have excluded the original names of people who were part of this adventure, except for my dear brother Conrado, a gift that God placed beside me in preparation for this journey. This brother who did not participate in this adventure with his presence but was constantly present in my thoughts and situations of this adventure.
My friend and fanatic, hallucinating, inveterate hunter Lairton also was not part of this adventure. He was a born hunter, who would fit into any age of history on this planet, where the horse was still the best way to get around. He himself says that these " jockey clubs" that are under the hoods of this modern world no longer match and do not make the grade.
To all those who became an integral part of this adventure, my tender thanks, and an eternal remembrance of each one of you!
Encourage those who fit wisely and knowingly into any type of adventure.
Do, because if no one else ventures, the electrifying passages and life experiences will end. It would be a sad end to miss the real adventures and live only in the virtual and the unreal ones.
Manfredo Zepf
Diary Day 1:
Destination the Arctic Circle
December is a hellish heat here in Brazil and it is snowing on the top side of the world. So, my contact with Bill on the telephone, with the marked climatic contrast was a source of envy for both of us. He wanted to be here under the scorching tropical sun, and I wanted the cold at the border of the Arctic where the outdoor temperature was a minus eight degrees centigrade,
It was the first phone call with Bill to set the date for my future trip to act on my dream to build a hunting lodge on the Arctic border.
I met Bill years ago when Conrado, Lairton, Rui, and I went for a hunt in the same Canadian province. Horst a guide, who would take us to this hunt, met Bill, his friend and seaplane pilot, by chance at our boarding gate where we all stayed together. Horst told us that if we wanted to schedule future adventures, he recommended Bill. He introduced Bill as a professional and an excellent guide.
Bill wasted no time in distributing his card to us and did a speedy advertisement of his services. He showed his expertise using a book with enlarged photos of places where he took groups to camp on the edge of fishing lakes and where there was abundant hunting.
To get ready for my dream adventure, I made countless contacts with Bill to make sure that all the necessary arrangements for this adventure were made.
Meanwhile I took care of the other preparations and arrangements to be made in Brazil.
This would be a unique trip that I would do on my own. Nothing could be forgotten. Some items, if forgotten, could prove to be fatal.
Four preparation months passed, until finally April came. It came along with the anxiety of packing for a challenging adventure trip. I was excited. It was hard for me to sleep.
As the traditional suitcases would not withstand the challenging conditions of the air transport that the luggage would face, I had two bags made with reinforced truck canvas and had two heavy duty boxes made to carry tools and groceries.
Then, I started packing.
I picked up my checklist for hunting trips. I had it ready so that nothing would be forgotten. The list was developed from having suffered when I forgot some critical item. In hunting trips when you forget something you can be sure you will suffer.
The rather long detailed checklist list is in the appendix. It is long and is divided into two columns with space to tick off when the item is in the suitcase. I used this list on previous trips to Africa, Canada and to the Arctic.
Despite being in Canada, this trip was very different from the other Canadian trips. I would be alone in the middle of nowhere close to the Arctic Circle and the polar cap. This would be in a place where it would be fatal to forget certain items.
It would be hundreds of miles from the nearest tiny bit of civilization.
Many of the items on the list are not known by newer, younger generations.
Despite a not-so-distant experience some curious items are on the list.
Some twenty, thirty, or forty years of technical progress has transformed all previous electronics into artifacts and museum pieces. Newer versions of them are on the list, also the clothes have improved. Some examples are mitten heaters, under the foot liners that release friction induced heat when walking, ski glasses, waterproof matches, use of a wooden clasp to attach a flashlight to the barrel of the rifle, use of graphite grease for camcorders, thermal protector for camcorders, ammunition, and batteries.
I have, like every hunter, a place at home, where I keep all my hunting equipment. In my case, it is a cramped closet that holds all my hunting equipment in an organized mess. It is a closet that I need to open carefully lest what is in it falls out on top of me.
I separated the clothes that had been stored for almost a year and needed to be washed. There were thin-insulated camouflage trousers and coats for moderate cold, zero to minus fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. There was a cold-resistant sleeping bag good to minus five degrees Fahrenheit. The heavy-duty stuff I hung out in the sun.
All the rest of the clothes got a good washing. They were also put in the sun. These clothes are always thicker than the usual ones by being in the sun they lose the scent of the soap. This keeps the bear, that is endowed with nearly forty times the smelling power of a dog, from smelling the hunter.
My plan was to take only what was strictly necessary to prevent suffering on my part. I did not spare on the cold clothes that I had once acquired to face a harsh Arctic winter hunt. That time when I went hunting for the musk ox was the time when I faced a negative thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit. This was the lowest temperature in my life.
In places like the Arctic, you do not get many second chances. In case of any surprise or disaster, you need to be well prepared. The preparation gives you have a better chance at surviving.
The Arctic experience I had two years before was of inestimable importance. I learned about the Arctic habitat and it also lit the fuse for this trip.
That experience with Loshi, an authentic Inuit Eskimo who was my hunting guide then and who, even with his broken English, was an excellent teacher and passed on his experiences of a life that I would summarize in two words: survival and adventures!
Yes, living in adverse weather conditions such as those in the Northwest Territories one of the wildest places on the planet, where the entire province has no more than 53,000 inhabitants, and its capital, Yellowknife, is populated with only 12,000 fixed dwellers, adventure becomes part of daily life, it leaves no space for the mistakes.
With his life experience, with his knowledge of survival and love of the Arctic, like any other animal, Loshy was 100% integrated in the environment. To get an idea of his weather resistance, Loshy was able to ride on his swift Siberian husky dog sled, with no glasses and his tears didn’t freeze. However, I could not bear more than a breeze that quickly froze my tears.
What struck me about him was his instinct, yes, his instinct was paranormal. He could see the storm coming as if he was a weather station, and in the endless plains, without reference due to the gray of the sky and the endless expanse of snow he always knew the compass direction. A phenomenon that I can only accept as a survival instinct.
He taught me how to handle bear attacks, how to protect the food, how to handle hunting and how to handle being hunted, how to fish, and finally he added: "Not all those that respect and love the Arctic survive, only the Arctic survives.
So much for remembering and applying previous experiences.
Finally, the travel bags were complete but not stuffed. They had a mission to endure the "tender and delicate" treatment of those who deal with baggage, and then they would have to settle into a seaplane with reduced capacity.
Nothing could be missing. From gloves to binoculars, from waterproof matches to candles, they all had to be available when needed. Each item had its quantity duly calculated, with the prudence of having the essentials, and a certain reserve.
After fitting my trusty Weatherby 30-06 rifle into an appropriate "case", there were two additional boxes that would complete the baggage. These boxes were made of light pine and reinforced with steel angles that I used in "cases" to transport sound equipment and light for my company. These angles would make the boxes more resistant to this trip. They would make a one-way trip. They had to resist the “delicate” handling of the airports, which, being heavier than the suitcases, would receive a harsher treatment. They would receive more blows. I applied eight angles so that they would not burst on the first shipment.
The first box would accommodate the food. Only canned food went into the box. Space was reserved so that after the inspection of the Ministry of Agriculture at the Canadian customs, I could add rice, grains, and cereals and other items that I could not bring from Brazil. The Canadians controlled certain foods and prevented them from being brought in. The void area was filled in with bubble wrap to keep everything in the box in place.
The second box was also incomplete: it carried a machete, ropes, knives, pots, wire roll, screws, and tarpaulins.
In addition to food, I would need to purchase a chainsaw, fuel, stakes, ax, hinges, nails, a hammer, a crowbar, an inflatable canoe, two fishing rods, artificial bait and numerous other items that were on my list.
I could not forget anything.
I confirmed and reconfirmed everything multiple times.
The days went by. I was very impatient. My impatience lessened when the departure was near.
There is always, with a scheduled trip, an accumulation of services and responsibilities that we must ensure that in the absent period, we can leave companies and businesses in "relative" tranquility. This leaves us busy without having the wonderful sensation of making the final preparation and enjoying the anticipation that precedes such a trip that promises a dreamed for adventure that would last a little more than a month.
At last, everything was ready, passport, visas and passages in hand, the day of departure arrived.
I arranged for Billy who helped me prepare for the trip and who was the driver in my company, to take me to the airport in the van.
He replied he could but laughingly asked if the van would hold everything?
“Yes,” I replied. “Pick me up at home at 4:00 p.m. I want to arrive at Cumbica airport early. I will have excess baggage and I will need to register my rifle, cameras and equipment at the Federal Brazilian Customs.”
That afternoon with all the baggage, we proceeded to the airport in São Paulo. On the way, the anxiety, and the realization that in less than twenty-four hours the change of weather would be immense.
A light drizzle was falling on our way from Santos to Guarulhos. Then on arriving in Sao Paulo we found a frightening congestion and a long delay. But Billy Joe knew the way well enough to find an alternate route.
It took two carts to hold all my luggage. The fine coolness of the Brazilian autumn was felt in São Paulo, it was a contrast with the warmer temperature of the coast of Santos. The pleasant weather seemed to welcome the trip to Toronto by Air Canada.
The time foreseen for document dispatch and the handling of excess baggage had not been calculated in vain. It is not every day that a passenger registers a hunting rifle to be carried inside a plane in Brazil. There were several Air Canada attendants trying to figure out the procedure to be used to properly register the gun. Luckily, it was before the "New York, September 11 factor".
Although the company is Canadian, the local employees were Brazilians and for them the procedure was extraordinary. The gridlock was solved when they called the manager, who already knew me and who had processed for the previous hunting trips that I had made. He only asked me to adopt the procedure of taking the rifle with the bolt removed and the rifle disassembled.
The ammunition was packed in a separate canvas with a padlock.
It seemed strange to embark on a hunting trip to Canada without my normal hunting traveling companions, my brother Conrado and my friend Lairton, with whom I had always shared most pleasant moments and memories from all the hunts we had done together.
This trip to Canada I would be on my own.
Finally, with bags and rifle checked and excesses baggage fees paid, I left Brazil with a Brazilian espresso coffee!
My adventure had begun. My anxiety drove me crazy. My seat barely fit my six-foot ninety-kilogram frame. Sleeping was impossible.
I sat awake and with several other insomniacs jealously watched an old gentleman open a real “sawmill”.
The arrival in Toronto was nothing exceptional, except the pleasant sensation of arriving at a place that I like so much and where I was always so well received.
After declaring the reason for my trip, I proceeded to declare the entrance of a weapon and ammunition. The gun-case was not even opened and checked. I just filled out the document of the entrance of the weapon. I signed the clearance paperwork and made a payment for the rifle use fee. I was reminded that I would need the customs control paperwork to leave Canada. I was amazed at how easy the Canadians deal with a practice that does not exist in Brazil for political reasons where hunting has been banned for more than thirty years.
The fact that some countries allow a hunter to be able to hunt with correct regulations, is wonderful. All this tradition and sport should not be restricted for political or emotional reasons.
It is curious and amazing to know that ninety percent of the money for the construction and maintenance of schools as well as free Canadian education comes from the income generated from hunters and the license fees. Only ten percent of the revenue goes to the census, study, and balance of Canadian wildlife!
After the customs inspection, I left all my luggage, the most that I have carried in all my life, outside of the customs area, in the baggage area. I did not need to worry about my luggage destination because in Sao Paulo I had checked in my bags to the final destination.
Although a wait in an airport is never very pleasant, I opted, for having a low stress connection with plenty of time between flights. After a few impatient waiting hours, I continued again.
The flight to Saskatoon, the largest city in the province of Saskatchewan was a four-hour flight. This city is larger than the provincial capital Regina.
On the flight, I had only some water and a biscuit. This is what I called a physically fit flight.
A few more hours separated me from the end of the day’s journey. I had one more flight with Bearskin Airways to Camsell Portage, the northern most city in the province. Camsell Portage was equipped with an airstrip, about fifty kilometers from the border of the Northwest Territories.
This flight was worth memorizing. The aircraft built during World War II, with a capacity of 12 passengers, was a robust winged specimen worthy of a museum. The seats were like those of the urban buses of the nineteen sixties. The seats and backrest were covered by a shiny plastic so old that they had probably been covered in that time. They were a fixed tubular structure without any controls or ability to recline.
The luggage compartment was even more original. All the luggage was heaped between the cockpit curtain and the passengers. A nylon net fixed them between the floor of the aircraft and its side.
The engines were large contraptions compared to the size of the aircraft.
I was impressed by the communication service, when the pilot appeared with his face in the billowing curtain trying to make his voice stand out above the noise of the two "star" engines. He warned that we would take off soon and that we should all buckle our seatbelts and remain seated.
I was certain that the adventure had begun at that very moment when my world consisted of the deafening rumble of the engines, as they put all their energy trying to get enough speed to get off the ground. I was not wrong.
Despite the deafening noise of the engines, the plane seemed like it would not come off the ground. The sensation was more alarming when I began to feel the creaking and heard the internal noises caused by so many years of wear and tear and vibrations of the thunderous engines. It was a nightmare!
As soon as the plane left the ground. I felt the temperature drop sharply. At this time of year, on a flight at 5000 feet altitude, they did not turn on the heating.
The air entering through a crack in the floor, forced me to keep my foot on top of it to serve as a stopper. I could not move it. When I took my foot off the crack it felt like an icy fan was on. However, when I kept my foot on the crack, it seemed like I would freeze my foot. My foot went back and forth. It was a scene right out of a comedy movie.
It was a hopping flight, as we would call it in Brazil or the beating heart of a mother flight, the plane landed every twenty minutes or so. It would land for a few moments and then take off. Each time taking on or leaving some passengers or cargo.
It was interesting that the cargo was often left unattended. It was placed at the runway windsock, which because often the runway was like a dirt track, was the only structure that indicated that there was an airport. It otherwise looked more like an unfinished dirt street.
These landings were not time consuming, they barely reached fifteen minutes. The first "stopover" was in Yorkton, where passengers descended in front of a shelter no larger than the size of a fifty-square-yard hovel.
Another stopover was in front of nothing, as it only had the runway, but some people were waiting by the side of the runway, where two vans complemented the scene, looking for load and the incoming passengers.
Several landings and departures later, the pilot looked more like a bus driver, because he took the tickets and controlled everything.
A few hours later, and I was now frozen, we landed at Camsell Portage airport. It was an airstrip where it had to be. The runway began on a beach on Lake Athabasca and ended at another beach on the isthmus.
Camsell Portage is a northern settlement of 37 people, located on the north-central shore of Lake Athabasca. The northern settlement is an unincorporated community in the Northern Saskatchewan Administration District.
This time the temperature in the plane was the same as the temperature into which I stepped.
As soon as I got out, I took some photos of the conglomeration of half a dozen houses and a canoe stuck in a warehouse into which only a very brave fisherman would walk.
Lost in these thoughts, I heard:
"You must be the Brazilian, no?”, a bearded gentleman, with thick eyebrows and wearing a lumberjack hunting outfit, who appeared to be nearing the age of sixty, asked.
"Yes, but you're not Bill Petersen," I exclaimed!
“Yes. I'm certainly not Bill, young man,” he said.
He pointed to where Bill was waiting for me by a van next to the runway.
That's right, right on the runway! Since the "airport" had nothing more than an unpaved lane, people with luggage wait by the side of the plane for some vehicle or someone to come and help remove it.
“Hi Manfred, how are you? Was it a good trip,” Bill greeted me?
“Hi Bill, it’s been a long trip and I'm feeling just like that square box door on plane. We are both beat up.”
We both laughed at my bad joke.
Soon the pilot shouted from the door of the plane asking who belonged to the bags and boxes. Bill and his friend Josh retrieved the luggage and put them in the back of the van.
The vehicle must never have been washed or seen water other than rain. It was filthy. The inside was a mix of spilled oil, dirty buckets, stumps of wood, and hoses. My luggage was shown no mercy and was put in by Josh and Bill. I looked at the van, then at Bill that was to be the seaplane pilot that would take me the next day to my destination. I wondered about the condition of his plane!
He would fly me to a small lake, among some thousands of lakes, and land at the foot of one of an unnamed and unknown mountain.
Thankfully, the saying "the first impression is the one that stays" turned out not to be true. I was scared by this first encounter.
I wondered how anyone who had a vehicle in such bad condition could have a reliable seaplane.
But upon arriving at his residence, where I would sleep on the first night, we met his wife. Mrs. Dorothy, a lady who greeted us and then apologized for not having arrived in time to return her husband's beautiful, 4 x 4, truck.
The one that picked me up belonged to the machine mechanic of "city". What a relief! I was also relieved when I found out this mechanic did not work on airplanes,
“Let's get inside,” Bill invited.
As we entered the house, I came upon the residence of a legitimate Canadian from the "North": A Hunter, A fisherman.
I commented on the beautiful trophies and asked Bill if he had hunted them.
"Not all," Bill told me.
“The moose was my father’s, he shot it when at the age of twelve he took me along hunting for the first time,” he said.
From then on, the stories had no end. The many adventures around each trophy were proudly told in rich detail. I knew these were unforgettable moments for those who experienced them.
Accompanied by the crackling of the wood in the fireplace and a delicious red wine, we were served a delicious mushroom soup followed by moose meat cooked with potatoes in an irresistibly flavorful and seasoned sauce. So good that I twice repeated how good it tasted. I wondered when in the future I would enjoy such a good and exotic meal. And more frightening, I would have thirty days of Manfred as a “master chef”!
And, after dinner, a Blueberry pie for dessert! Blueberry, one of the bears' and my favorite foods.
After dinner. I went with Bill to check the items on the order list and to check on the arrangements previously requested and of course to reimburse him.
I asked Bill if the chainsaw was reliable.
"Yes, unless you decide to cut rocks " Bill said, raising only one eyebrow, as if to see what my reaction would be.
“Do I need to carry a spare blade or some spare parts,” I asked?
"Absolutely," he said, raising both brows.
I was examining the chainsaw when Bill exclaimed with a laugh, "From what I see, you have a good trustworthy ax, it will be an excellent sleep maker after swinging it for a few hours in the pines. You will not hear the bears all night."
I replied that I was not sure how reliable this ax was and commented that I did not have any calluses in my hands anymore. Nor did I want to stop listening to the bears when they were close by.”
I checked the remaining items and tucked them into the crate. I left the chainsaw outside. Now, I thought, it's only six boxes and bags. When I got to the final destination, I could not forget anything on the plane.
"Here are the maps you asked for!" Bill said introducing me to three maps. Two of them were aeronautical charts. They were more complete and more detailed than the third one which was a road map.
As an airplane pilot, I could not help but to check the exact location and route to follow the next day. We were going up north. We would follow the 108thmeridian West and go to just above the 60th parallel North. We would be next to the Arctic circle polar cap in the 65th parallel North.
Between exhaustion and anxiety, I finally went to lie down under a goose-down comforter at a pleasant temperature of sixty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Externally the thermometer registered forty-two degrees.
Ah, what a delight I thought. This is Canadian spring temperature!
Diary Day 2:
Arrival at “Manfred” Lake
The sun with its rays still weak at this time of year, came through the thin curtains that veiled my sleep to wake me. I woke up new and refreshed! There is nothing like a good bed. My god, it was eight o’clock!
I walked quickly toward the living room and came upon Dona Dorothy and two other ladies sipping tea with toast.
“Hey, Sorry,” I had forgotten where I was. I was still in my pajamas! I instantly turned around. I heard laughing behind me as I went back to the bedroom.
I went straight to the bathroom and then I saw that my hair was standing up like a porcupine!
Even though I was eager for the day ahead, I bathed. I wanted to take long enough to let those smiling ladies out.
That was my miscalculation. I was saluted in a "Good Morning" chorus, followed by smiles and "got caught".
Bill saved me when he said I'd have my breakfast on the plane. He said that we could not afford to waste any more time.
I checked on my luggage and wondered if I had forgotten anything?
Then Bill exclaimed, “That's all. Let's go.”
“That's all. Let's go! I repeated as if answering my own question!
On the drive to the seaplane, we passed three irreverent bears. They were on the road and did not move off even as Bill honked as he approached. They were going to the place where the community threw out its litter and edible waste.
Bill explained that the bears were all over Saskatchewan. They were very dangerous and, they feared nothing and nobody.
"Every year there were some cases of someone being killed by a bear somewhere in the province.
"The school buses in Saskatchewan would now only deliver the children when an adult received them. And they were not allowed to carry any food in their lunch boxes.
"And beware of the swirling wind." Sometimes it blows to one side, where one should be more attentive, but always look 360 degrees,” he continued!
We got to the hydrofoil. A Cessna 210 in apparent excellent condition - Phew!
Two gentlemen helped us load the luggage, gallons of fuel and my breakfast.
This time, my luggage was in first class. It was inside a "clean" bucket! And the runway was the smooth surface of the lake.
It was 9:30 a. m, everything was set, seat harness on, engine starting and the feeling of excitement. I was on the way to my adventure.
What a wonderful sensation. A dream of youth come to life at age of 35.
A mixture of anxiety and achievement for a unique, odd adventure that had a direction: North! The compass would point to the absolute North. A flight of around two and a half hours and then it would be time to choose a lake. We would probably baptize it with a name. It would be but one of the one hundred thousand lakes existing in the province of the Northwest Territories. This territory occupied one third of Canada's land area. This lake, I was sure would have the only inhabitant in hundreds of square miles around it.
"
Brigadier’s Heaven”, as we would say it in Brazil: There were no clouds at all.
My breakfast consisted of scrambled egg with bacon that I ate with the toast.
"What the hell are you doing eating dry toast? Put the syrup on or it's a bad breakfast,” Bill told me!
The syrup, though horribly sweet had a Vicks vapor rub mixed with honey flavor and that of some other unknown ingredients.
"I'm going to use syrup in the camp,” I told him immediately after tasting it. It was a little lie because I hate syrup.
In Brazil we do not have the habit of eating much in the morning, but since I am the son of Europeans, I always ate a morning lunch.
“What a landscape, my god, what a landscape,” I thought.
We were in an interspersed region of lakes and mountains, with no trace of humans for hours. Only at the takeoff, near Camsell Portage, did we see perhaps a dozen ranches.
It was already hard to say which was the most beautiful, which was the best, which was the ideal.
Because of their large size we noticed numerous elk along the way. They were easy to see from the air.
As the flight time reached the two-and-a-half-hour mark, I saw two lakes, a large one and a smaller one interconnected by a stream.
I pointed this out to Bill and suggested that the flat region between the lakes was an ideal location for the “camp.”
“Let's take a flight around,” Bill replied.
We took two laps to certify the conditions of the place and also of landing in the lake.
“Ok, that clearing is exactly what I want,” I told him as I pointed it out.
High trees surrounded a clearing of ideal size for the construction of the bunker. It was on the "small" lake that had the area of one hundred soccer stadiums. The largest lake was a several kilometers long and surrounded the base of some beautiful mountains.
Flying low over the small lake Bill raised one eyebrow and asked if I wanted to land on “Manfred Lake?”
“The place looks perfect,” Bill exclaimed.
"The lake is deep," he said. “We will not have difficulty landing, but are you ready to enter this "hot" water to land the luggage,” he asked with a loud laugh?
"Okay," I replied as I pointed to a young moose feeding on grasses at the bottom at the far end of the small lake.
"Looking at dinner, huh?" That's a good idea,” Bill said.
Bill examined the ideal place to land. He verified the direction of the wind as indicated by the small waves that formed in the lake.
What a lake I thought. Its water was an incredible translucent blue hue color made of the melting snow of the mountains that surround it. I believed that it was the purest water of the planet. The absence of human beings, the pure air, and the fact that the water descended the mountains in stone bedded streams that guaranteed their total purity.
A wonderful sensation and joy of being in this spot at this moment invaded my spirit.
Bill seemed to read my thoughts and commented,
"You chose well. The scenery is magnificent! And the climate here preserves, intact, a wonderful and indescribable place like this on the planet. You certainly will not find anything here to indicate that a human being has been here before. You will not even notice jets air streams crossing the skies. Here is the nothingness for civilization and everything for anyone who wants to be away from it. I love it,” Bill exclaimed!
"It's this feeling that made me come to this country. I love this corner of the world. And I always say that I like my company. Sometimes it is very good to walk alone with your shadow,” he said.
We skirted the wind leg, and Bill, humorously, picks up the microphone and asks for landing permission from the lake control tower. He calls them a nasty name because they ignore him and do not grant him landing permission. He laughs at his own joke.
The landing is smooth, and a rainbow of water sprays up from the landing floats.
Bill directed the seaplane into the clearing we selected from above. He peered through the open door, watched the distance from the floats to the bottom of the lake and the rocks.
"Bill, have you ever had the float stuck or chipped on a rock?" I asked.
He replied that yes in the past he had such a situation. He went on to say that it would be very bad to have problems with the float here.
He explained that the inside of the float was filled with polyurethane, but it still took in water and the seaplane was tilted. He had extreme difficulty in the takeoff. Since one float was more submerged than the other, the drag was difficult until the moment that the damaged float hydrodynamics left the condition of "a submarine" and began its skiing function. Bill said he had to compensate at the helm, and even then, he could not keep the initial trajectory of the takeoff against the wind. He had to make a quick turn to take off in a better direction.
He explained the damage to the ski happened when he scraped a submerged rock. Thankfully, he was taxiing because if he had been at speed, he would have ripped off the ski, and then maybe he would not be here today,” Bill completed his story as he carefully moved toward the shore.
"And later at the time of landing, how was it," I inquired?
"I was very much afraid, for I did not know what reaction the aircraft would have when the float downed in the water. But thanks to the spigot in the hull of the ski, the water was draining from the moment it was in the air. This spared me an experience I would not want to have,” Bill replied.
"Was it your only experience," I asked?
“Thank God, yes! And I would not want another at this end of the world,” Bill exclaimed as he raised his two eyebrows.
"I'm already seeing rocks on the lakebed, close to the floats," I said.
"Yes, you're not the first to get that impression. We should be in about ten feet of water. These waters deceive. You will see when we are in water about twenty inches deep. That is when we have to turn off the engine and continue slowly to the beach.” he replied.
So, it happened. Bill untied his seat belt and climbed onto the float.
He asked me to do the same before the floats scraped on the bottom of the lake.
He told me to jump in and to save the seaplane like a man.
I jumped into the water and held on to the seaplane.
I could barely avoid shouting, “What cold water !!!!”
Bill temporarily tied the plane to a large pine trunk located in the water. It had probably transitioned from the mountains to the lake in some past avalanche.
Soaked trousers and sneakers, we disembarked.
The boxes and baggage helped us eliminate the cold we felt on our legs and feet.
Bill helped me to transport them to where the camp would be erected. The location was protected from the wind at the edge of centuries-old pine trees in a higher part of the clearing.
It was ideal for camping and raising a bunker, as it would be above the water level.
We ate a snack reinforced with roast moose and a juice prepared by Mrs. Dorothy. Apples were the dessert.
The adventure had begun and the next moment was one of urgent action. Our total effort was against time. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon and the temperature was beginning to drop.
We needed to build a shelter so that we could spend the night.
Initially I went to the edge of the lake, where with the chainsaw I cut a log in five pieces, each approximately four and a half meters.
With the machete I cut off the smaller limbs and used the ax to cut the thicker ones.
We pulled the smaller logs from the lake to the site for the structure by hand. Then we pulled the thicker heavier ones with a rope and pulley.
We had to do what Loshi, my Eskimo friend once did and what he taught me. We built a shelter that in Brazil could be said to resemble the shape of a bird's nest made of bamboo, but in the wilderness of Canada it had to be made with logs to protect us from the bears. The logs could not be too far apart. It was imperative that they could reach in between them.
The boxes and luggage were put in the middle and the structure was built around them. This was because the door would be just large enough for me to squeeze myself and my “small silhouette” buttock in from the top.
The arrangement is the same as a square where the first two logs are arranged parallel and staked into the ground. The two others would be parallel overlapping on the previous two and so on.
They were firmly lashed where they overlapped. We were overlapping and interlacing the logs until at dusk the beehive pyramid was completed.
Only the fuel and the tools for the construction of the bunker were outside of the ‘new bunker”.
Bill went to the lake and sank deep stakes to anchor the plane so it would be able to withstand the wind. Initially, in our first telephone conversations, he had indicated he would drop me off and return immediately to Portage. He decided to stay the night because he was concerned about returning at dusk when it would be hard to land. He had decided to stay overnight, when I asked him if he would help to make the bunker.
This would allow us to sleep safely on the first night.
It was fortunate that he stayed to help because with two people working hard, it was still a push to complete the bunker by end of the day.
This initial structure was where I would spend almost all the days of my adventure.
And for me, the adventure had to end well.
I was now prepared for my first night in that paradise.
Scented by the endless pine trees, a light breeze announced a cold night under a mantle of endless Northern Hemisphere stars.
I prepared a fire with the remaining logs, branches, and pine roots that we had gathered. I interspersed green and dry logs so that the fire would burn for most of the night.
I prepared my hot chocolate by hanging the pan over the fire in the Canadian way. It was a tripod of pine branches with the height and distance of the three legs so that they far enough away from the fire and not ignite.
A pan is attached with a wire that runs over the top and the ideal pan height can be adjusted.
In this style of cooking everything ends up with a somewhat smoky taste.
I made a fire inside of a circular stone wall about ten yards from where we would sleep. It was located toward the lake and was done so that the fire would not spread and threaten the forest.
The voracity of the burning logs was impressive. Feeling the intensity of the fire, I decided to put in some pieces of green logs so the fire could last longer. I put my cauldron to warm the water and I prepared to bathe.
Bill incredulously said that I would die if I bathed at that hour. I said I had the habit of bathing, especially after a day of so much sweat.
How I asked was I to bathe at this temperature?
He recommended it be done with an improvised tarpaulin shower enclosure. This would be protection from the wind. Even so the bath needed to be very fast and the water at body temperature.
So that is what I did.
When I was done, I returned to the bunker and said,
"Bill, I agree the shower has to happen in the hottest hours, but this time I sweat too much, and I cannot sleep like that,"
He laughed and replied, "Yes, but I did not sweat like you since I do not have the courage to shower like you,"
The night had definitely arrived now. We were under a magnificent stellar mantle and experiencing absolute silence. Only the occasional crackling of the fire broke the silence.
I felt the sleep coming. I was tired. I stepped into a makeshift structure and tied the log on the top. This was the upper access entrance. I jumped into my "sleepy”.". The last I remember was pulling the covers over myself. I slept wonderfully.
Bill settled on the cushions he'd taken from the seats of his plane along with some of the blankets he always carried. He went to sleep and opened a sawmill. Luckily after giving him a few shoves, he shifted, and I was able to sleep.
The protection from the log wall partly protected me from the chill wind of dawn. I had brought a tent, but I did not erect it, because it would not feel good to sleep inside it and leave Bill in the open. Nor did he want to sleep inside, we decided to protect ourselves with a tarp. There was no danger of rain, but the tarp gave me protection from the serene temperature of forty-one degrees Fahrenheit.