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PostPosted: March 26th, 2009, 9:02 pm 
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Joined: October 25th, 2005, 8:24 pm
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Location: Stillwater, Minnesota
Albany River Trip Report

“Someday a real rain is gonna come and wash all this scum off the streets.” – Robert DeNiro, Taxi Driver

It’s a long way from Minneapolis to Pickle Lake, Ontario. Compared to other years, this time we drove in style. A few years back we drove to Red Lake in Paul’s grandpa’s 1984 S10 pick-up with a make-shift wooden canoe rack clamped to the rusted bed. The only thing that worked on the truck was the motor. The entire dashboard was dead. The needle on the speedometer rested comfortably just under the “0” mark, and we were left to gauge our speed by following other vehicles or pure intuition. The odometer was stopped in time at 138,372. It was anyone’s guess what the actual miles were. The advantage of driving a jalopy is that it has a built-in in vehicle protection system - you would have to be insane to steal it. When we arrive at Albert’s “Goldseekers,” he gave the pick-up the twice over, and I was certain he was going to charge us extra for the shuttle. But somehow it got us there and back again, which is all that matters in the end.

Fast forward to June 28th, 2008. This time when we crossed the border into Canada we didn’t have to worry about our vehicle being confiscated because it wasn’t road worthy. The border guard asked us the usual questions about tobacco and alcohol and we were on our way. We are pulling our gear in my newly minted canoe trailer, leaving ample room in the SUV for my travel-mates, including Murphy the dog. Let me give you a quick run-down on the passenger list that passed Canadian border control scrutiny. Riding shotgun is Clayton (CJ), who I have known since high school. Several years back he moved to Park Rapids in northern Minnesota to be closer to his parents and because he wanted to raise his kids in the country. We have kept in touch over the years by meeting up in Ely during the spring and fall for weekend trips into the Boundary Waters and Quetico. After 20 years of camping together we’ve developed our own rhythm and don’t even bother to discuss who brings the hatchet or which piece of equipment goes in which pack. It’s all by rote. The evenings are routine, we each pack a bottle of single malt scotch, kick back under the tarp and “catch-up” on life. With two kids, two dogs, a gazillion chickens, a two acre garden and always a project or two in various states of completion, full week camping trips have eluded Clayton for years. But this year, I must have infected him with my enthusiasm, because he got a permission slip from his wife and signed on. When we picked him up in International Falls I barely recognized him – he had lost 50lbs. “Diet and exercise,” he explained. All I could help thinking was “that bow is going to ride nice and light.”

In the back seat are Paul and Red. I’ve known Paul almost as long as I’ve known CJ. Our wives went to high school together, and we began hanging out during our college years. Paul is a big brawny guy (like the paper towel). He has spent years working with at risk kids, taking them to the BWCA, Superior Hiking Trail, Green River, and all over the United States. He enjoys these “just the guys” trips because he doesn’t have to do any planning. He doesn’t have to motivate kids in the morning, snuff out elicit drug use, confiscate cigarettes and all the other things you have to worry about when guiding a youth group. He likes to just lay back and enjoy the fact that none of us are his responsibility. Paul used to teach social studies at a high school in Minneapolis, but quit due to the lack of support for experiential education. He’s now an outdoor products sales representative. For extra money he trims trees on the side and continues to guide youth trips. Paul can climb a tree like a monkey, and work a chain saw like a gas powered version of Edward Scissorhands. This is our fourth consecutive year canoeing in Ontario.

Next to Paul is Red. Red is the late addition to the crew. A friend of Paul’s from their intramural hockey league. As is so often the case, several folks with good intentions backed out of the trip, and we needed a fourth. I posted the opening in the Paddlers Wanted forum on myccr.com, but got no takers. Paul later gave me call and said he had a buddy that might go. Let’s ask Red. He’s up for anything; sort of like “Let’s ask Mikey” in the Life Cereal commercials. Paul, Red and I met for a beer after work to discuss the trip at Gabe’s sports bar in St. Paul. It’s a Green Bay Packer bar, in short, a hell hole. I pulled out the maps, and listed the hazards: bears, wrapped canoes, mosquitoes the size of dogs, my snoring, and cantankerous Canadian bush pilots. I cranked up the misery meter, but Red was still in. Ok, well, we need a check. Out came the checkbook. The deal was sealed.

Later that evening I got a call from Paul on my cell. There were evidently a few things I should know about Red. For instance, he only eats Doritos and salsa, drinks nothing but Gatorade, and despite having the appearance of being a tough guy, he enjoys “fruity” alcoholic beverages. Ok, I can live with that. While shopping at Target later that week I saw a plastic coconut cup with a flower and sippy straw in the dollar isle. I stashed it away as a mid-trip gag gift.

So that’s the crew. Good men all, though a little on the odd side. After we rendezvoused with CJ in International Falls, we threw our stuff into our hotel rooms, and the four of us headed to the Border Bar for a little “team building.” Two years ago Paul and I passed through International Falls on the way back from Woodland Caribou Provincial Park and the Border Bar was hopping crazy. It was Karaoke night, and the place was packed. Locals were belting out their favorite country tunes, and the cabin crowd in their Titlist golf caps were singing Sinatra. It was an interesting mix of folks whooping it up – but this Friday night it was dead. We were the only people there. Outside the bar the rain was ominously pouring down in the still night.

Evidently we had a few too many beers, because the next morning we were supposed to be on the road by 7:00 and the crew was barely moving by then. It was almost 8:00 and I was sitting on the bed in our room at the Super 8 waiting for CJ to get out of the shower. How long has he been in there? He takes more time in the bathroom than my wife! Agitated, I passed the time eating complementary doughnuts and watching “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” on the motel TV. After poking around the border shops and exchanging currency, we finally crossed over into Canada after 9:00 a.m. We had come prepared with passports and all the necessary paperwork for Murphy. Nobody seemed to care. A man in an orange poncho asked a few questions and waved us through. It was still raining.

By the time we reached Dryden we ran out of dirty jokes. On the road from Dryden to Pickle Lake we picked through my meager CD selection, amused ourselves with French language broadcasts from Quebec (CJ is a good wit and good at voices – his Canadian French is hysterical), and passed the remainder of the trip with Matt Damon’s reading of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. In several places the rain had washed out the road. We would approach huge puddles not knowing if the water was inches deep or well over the car door threshold. At times the rain was sheeting so heavily we had to pull to the side and wait for it to let up.

Pickle Lake is a happening town. Actually, that would be an overstatement. But I do love the outpost towns of Ontario; Armstrong, Red Lake, and now my first visit to Pickle Lake. I don’t know exactly how it is possible, but we got lost in Pickle Lake. We were looking for Pete Johnson’s Fly-in operation. We stopped and asked the locals and they looked at us like we had two-heads. How big a town is this? Cell phones, no signal. GM On-Star, no signal. Police station, closed. Closed?! C’mon!

Finally, we went to the all-in-one convenience store/chicken shack/gas-station and asked the gentlemen at the counter if he had ever heard of Pete Johnson. There was a huddle among the store staff, then some whispers, and next thing you know we had directions on the back of our gas receipt pointing to an X marking Mr. Johnson’s enterprise. Sure enough we had driven by the road several times. Would a sign be too much to ask?

This was a shuttle-in and fly out trip on the upper Albany River bordering Wabakimi Provincial Park. Our plan was to be dropped off on Lake Osnaburgh and get picked up via float plane eight days later at Lake Minimiska. After Murphy made nice with a wondering dog pack, we headed into the office to meet Pete. As a good seasoned woodsman I inquired about water conditions with Mr. Johnson. This is a trick I picked up by watching late night episodes of Rachael Ray on the Food Network – always ask the locals. Out of lake Osnaburgh, the Albany splits into a south and north branch. Which branch should we take? Where is the best spot to get picked up? Pete looked at the map, his calloused mechanics fingers stroked back and forth over the two sections of river that were under the Plexiglas of his office counter. He thought about it. “Normally, if you take the south branch you’d scrape and drag yer canoes, eh? But this year, with the dam open and the water so high, I’d go that way. Yea, I’d take the south branch. That would be the better route.” Pete mentioned that near Lake Minimiska there were sand beaches on both sides of the river where canoeist’s camp. He would look for our tents and pull his single Otter right up to the beach. So it was decided. We would travel the south branch - the wise old bush pilot said so. Pete’s daughter, Toad, was our shuttle driver and drove us to the put-in at Lake Osnaburgh.

Day One:

Toad dropped us off north of the bridge that I assumed would be our put-in when I planned the trip. Instead, there is a boat launch five kilometers up the road which had better access. The canoes were unloaded from the trailer and gear carefully accounted for and placed near the shore. Before long we all watched as Toad drove off into the distance taking my truck and trailer back to the base camp. It was already 6:00 and we were ready to get on the water. The rain had let up, but the sky was still dark and overcast. Lake Osnaburgh was whipped up with two foot white caps. We were off my 8.5 x 11 map set, but keeping the shore to our right we eventually found our way onto the black and white grid. Our goal for this day was to find the first spot that looked habitable, pitch camp, and relax. We picked over a few sites that were full of discarded mattresses, but five miles into the trip we found a rocky camp site that met the approval of all. Within minutes we had a fire started, tents pitched and the Bügen-hüs™ erected. What is a Bügen-hüs™ you ask? Well, a Bügen-hüs™ is a Kelty 9 x 9 parabolic tarp with bug netting sewn around the perimeter. Bügen-hüs™ is German for bug house…or at least it sounds about right to me. And you know the Germans make good stuff. Are you following me camera guy?

Free from bugs, CJ and I kicked back and enjoyed some single malt scotch. Meanwhile Red took his camera and went off in the woods (we would later name these sojourns as redventures®) and Paul went swimming with Murphy. That night we presented Red with the plastic coconut cup with the flower and a sippy straw. Nestled inside the coconut was airline bottle of Raspberry Schnapps. Bring on the fruity drinks!

Day Two:

Lake Osnaburgh is a large lake, and it took us several hours to cross it. We kept close to the shore line and nipped and tucked our way around islands when the wind picked up. Around noon we spotted a sand beach on the east shore of Osnaburgh, and headed there for a shore lunch. This is what we thought our take-out would look like – a sand beach. It had become a picture perfect day. After two days of non-stop rain the blue sky was a welcome reprieve. In short order the canoes were beached, and everyone was barefoot walking in the sand. The food barrels are opened, and out come the lunch packs: tuna in the pouch, fresh tomatoes, cilantro, whole wheat pita bread, and all the fixings. Everything is lined up deli-style and within a few minutes the crew is fed and eager to press on.

“My mouth itches” declares CJ. He reaches into the garbage and pulls out the empty plastic re-sealable bag that once contained the pita bread and begins reading the ingredient list. “F**K.” Sure enough, down the list of ingredients, between salt and yeast, was sesame flour.

My friend CJ has profound food allergies to a variety of nuts; including, hazelnuts, almonds, walnuts and sesame seeds. He has a history of going into anaphylactic shock and respiratory failure after consumption of sesame products. As such, when we go canoeing I always cut out the ingredient label of any store bought food we take on the trip. This is his “trust but verify” policy – if he can’t read the ingredients he simply won’t eat it.

CJ is clearly distressed; he’s been through this before and knows where it can lead. We immediately get out the satellite phone and the first aid kit. We have three Epinephrine pens and Benadryl. We all agree there is no downside to taking Benadryl, so CJ takes two capsules right away. The next steps are critical. Do we call for an evacuation? Do we go ahead with an EPI pen?

CJ tells us his mouth and throat are itchy, but otherwise feels okay. Four year ago when he inadvertently had salad dressing with sesame oil in the dressing he was puking within half an hour and unable to breathe. He wound up in the ICU. This gives us the idea to induce vomiting, which he tries to no avail. By that time nearly 10 minutes had passed. Our location is good. We were in a highly visible and accessible area with a sand beach. Perfect for a float plane or helicopter, so there was no need to relocate. Better still, we are in close proximity to the Town of Pickle Lake. It wouldn’t take long for someone to get here. We also agreed that since we have three EPI pens, there was no reason not to use one immediately – even if the symptoms weren’t progressing. So, CJ stuck himself in the leg and sat down in the shade. He assured us that if he started escalating he would let us know and we would make the call to fly out.

Half an hour went by and he felt the same. He felt a little itchy but otherwise okay (except for effects of adrenalin and Benadryl). So we decided to stay where we were and wait for his symptoms to fully resolve. Paul and I passed the time playing horse-shoes with a plastic toy set I had packed along for camp recreation. Red was on a redventure® with his camera.

Paul is a steady hand in a crisis. As a little side story, earlier that spring he was trimming trees for the City of Roseville as part of a contract crew. There was a young man that was lingering around the work site, and seemed fascinated by the wood-chipper. Suddenly he ran up to it and dove in, arms first, like he was going off a diving board. The wood-chipper was running full-throttle. Paul was the first on scene. He shut off the chipper, pulled the guy out and called 911. While others in the work crew were losing their stomachs at the gruesome sight, he was giving comfort to the kid as they waited for the ambulance.

But that’s how life works. Sometimes you are just living your life and minding your own business when some fool comes and jumps in your wood chipper. It’s nothing you did, but you’re still stuck picking up the pieces of teeth and jaw bone. As we played horse shoes on the beach Paul reassured me, “Don’t worry, Clayton will be alright. I’m not sure why it is but nothing bad happens when I’m around. That kid tried to kill himself in my wood chipper and even he didn’t die.”

So from then on during the trip we used the term “wood chipper” to describe any set of rapids that would be, well, suicidal.

After two hours of horse shoes we figured that CJ was in the clear.

There is an open question as to whether we under-reacted or over-reacted to the situation. Given CJ’s history, I’m sure that some would have made the call to evacuate immediately. We chose to postpone the call until we witnessed escalating symptoms, which fortunately never occurred. In may be that the sesame flour was such a low level ingredient that CJ’s reaction was minor, or that once sesame seeds are processed into flour they are less potent than the natural seed or oil. Or perhaps the preemptive Epinephrine nipped it in the bud. It could be all of the above.

There is also the question of how did this happen? I’m used to checking labels on trail mix and items that are likely to contain nuts. CJ broke his cardinal rule of “trust but verify” for the same reason – he wasn’t accustomed to looking at labels on bread products.

But the scary thing is this:

During the entire episode we assumed that the satellite phone would actually connect if we dialed for help. That has been my experience using satellite phones in Wabakimi, Woodland Caribou, and the Kopka. The connection was always reliable. But this trip, when we called to check-in a couple days later it simply wouldn’t find satellites. When it finally did connect (after retrying for several hours) the connection was dropped in a matter of seconds. This repeated itself when we called to verify our takeout position. When we were picked up our bush pilot confirmed that the satellite service was terrible recently. When I got home I found this on GlobalStar’s website:

Globalstar has a number of satellites that are not functioning which is currently causing inconsistent service. Due to this, GlobalCom is recommending our Iridium rental phone which provides consistent service throughout the world.

Basically they are missing so many satellites they are not renting their phones! So one way or another we would have been sitting on that beach -- anaphylactic shock or not.

So we were on our way. The plan was to find the first suitable camp and take it easy for the rest of the day. We veered south on Osnaburgh and ran some class I shoots between the interconnecting lakes. We were now officially on the south branch of the Albany and could notice a current in the water. We then came upon a narrows connecting two larger bodies of water. Able to see down its entire length, there were no strainers and it was basically a shallow bump and grind that opens to a large pool. CJ and I went first and, other than some new scratches on the Royalex, pushed through without incident and waited for Paul and Red. And here they come…Ker plunk.

Yes, Ker plunk. That’s the sound of a canoe going over a small ledge, and the bow dipping in the water and swamping. Of course, nothing was tied in because no one seriously considered this section of river as swamping territory. CJ and I collected the jetsam and flotsam from the wreckage: A “Croc” shoe, a Cliff Bar (still good – the wrapping is waterproof!), a portage pack. Once we were satisfied that everything that was coming downstream had been collected, we beached our boat and headed up to the pool to see how things were going. Well, Red was a little upset (no pun intended). He is missing his camera tri-pod which was stashed in the bow. And it turns out its not just any tripod. It’s a carbon-fiber tripod…a $500 dollar carbon-fiber tripod. So Red and Paul spend the next 20 minutes diving in the pool looking for the tripod, while CJ and I walked the banks creating theories of how far a carbon-fiber tripod would travel given current, mass and numerous other factors. Would it drop like a rock, or slow drift toward the bottom as air was evacuated from the extrusions? Who knows, at some point we decided to move on, since CJ was still exhausted from his epinephrine shot. In the end Murphy was blamed for the incident because he jolted over the gunwale when the canoe hit the ledge.

Bad dog Murphy!

In short order we found an island campsite within view of the rapids that claimed Red’s tri-pod. After a quick survey of the island, tent sites were selected, the Bügen-hüs™ was erected, and a fire was crackling. The crew then designated me as “camp bitch,” which in our camping lexicon means you have cooking detail. I don’t recall what we had for dinner, but I do remember the snake that came out to warm in the rocks of the fire ring, and that Murphy chewed up my bamboo spatula when I was wasn’t looking.

Bad dog Murphy!

To make amends, Paul split some wood and carved a new spatula with his pocket knife. Everything was getting back to normal. We settled under the Bügen-hüs™ for the evening – CJ and I sipping scotch, and Red and Paul with their Baileys and hot cocoa.

Day Three:

The next morning I stumbled out of the tent to be presented with a cup of coffee by CJ. “Top O’ the mornin’ to yer!” (Sometimes in camp we talk like Irishmen. CJ says I sound more like a pirate than an Irishman. He does voices well, I don’t.). ”Ay, a fine day indeed Lad.” CJ declares he is fit as a fiddle, except his leg is a little sore. He even got up early to get the coffee going, and…and…do I smell bacon? What a morning! Red is off on a redventure® taking pictures, this time using his tabletop ultra-pod and a 60L barrel to compensate the lost piece of equipment that shall not be named.

After a satisfying breakfast, we broke camp. As we loaded our canoes and shoved-off, CJ declared, “From here on Skipper, its smoooth sailing!” Finally, I thought, everything is getting back to normal.

The lower Albany is typically a boney run that will elicit the curses of late season travelers as they drag their canoes over the gravel bars and pick their way through rock gardens. This was not our experience. As we descended the river we began to realize that we were floating down a river in flood. It wasn’t apparent right away. It took a while to set in. As our descent progressed we were confronted with increasingly difficult rapids. As a team we would scout, talk it over, and determine if the rapid should be run or portaged. On this day, we ran most rapids. CJ and I would go first, and signal safe passage once the run was complete. In the quiet sections, Paul would review with Red the basic whitewater strokes: draw, pry, and cross draw.

We eventually come across a section of rapid that was impassable. After a debate, we decided to line river left. By this time the river had swelled up into the woods. It becomes a team effort of leap-frog, where two go ahead and station themselves so the others can toss the lining ropes. At times we are chest deep in water. Meanwhile, the torrent raged on in the main body of the Albany. After a reprieve of calm (but very fast moving water) we come across another section of rapid that we could not run. We scout right, no trial. We ferry to river left, no trail. We split up and march into the bush. No trail. We resort to bushwhacking. As we hack our way through the bush, over blow-downs and brush, we ruminate on why there is no trail. We convince ourselves that in normal water the rapid is either (1) run-able, or (2) can be portaged by walking along the bank. The river at this point reveals no bank because it has crested. Scouting is difficult, but we are opportunistic and paddle sections when we have a clear vision and exit strategy. We are behind schedule. Dusk is setting. We find a campsite and call it quits for the night. Red, being the consummate angler, delights in a walleye bonanza. Too tired to fish, I sip my scotch in the Bügen-hüs™ and relax. It’s apparent no one has camped here for a couple of seasons.

Day Four:

Morning on the Albany, the blue sky is gone and it is again overcast. The discussion around breakfast revolves around the absence of trails. There must be portage trails. Is the river so high they are all washed out? We make a point to keep a keen eye out for blaze marks and anything hanging from a tree. As we finishing packing up camp it settles into an all day drizzle. After several quiet lakes, the river again picks up. It is becoming really big water. CJ and I are paddling a 16 ft prospector which, even in these conditions, is a delight to paddle. The Wenonah Spirit II, on the other hand, is reaching the limitations of the water it can handle. The Prospector was way drier than the Spirit II in the haystacks and standing waves.

Every time we convinced ourselves that we were through the worst of it, the river upped the ante. By midday the river was a raging hell. Our strategy was to stay as close to the bank as possible and travel point to point where we could eddy-out and scout. It was a slow moving business. Scouting was a buggy, shin bruising affair. Paul’s pants were torn to shreds. Again we resorted to bush-whacking, while mumbling that it is impossible that there are no portages around these rapids!! I did a lot of research on this river and there was nothing - n.o.t.h.i.n.g - to indicate this level of whitewater. The common joke was, if our wives were with us, we would all surely be divorced by now. After a day painstaking determination, grit and fortitude…it happened.

“Red!!...RED!!!... Dammit Red!!”

He was gone. Paul and I struggled to get the swamped Spirit II to shore. But Red was gone.

Paul told him to stay with the boat, but he had to get his camera bag. And it’s not just any camera. It’s a Nikon god-knows-what-with-50-different-lenses camera…it’s a five thousand dollar camera. And Red went after it, down a treacherous rapids that can best be described as the mother of all wood chippers. Losing his carbon fiber tri-pod was bad enough. He was determined not to lose his prized camera as well. As a consequence, we were a man down.

It all started when CJ and I took were canoeing ahead of Paul and Red, winding our way through the rapids. Typically, we would stay close to shore and eddy-out between navigable runs. While we waited for Paul and Red to join us, I would scout ahead while CJ held the canoe. In this case it was a long run, the river opened up and CJ determined we could press further because it appeared to be nothing but open class I whitewater ahead. We turned a bend, eddied-out against the bank and realized that we were now out of site. We ferried across the river to a rock outcrop so we could see Paul and Red. But when they came around the bend, they assumed we paddled straight to the rock. We hadn’t. They hit those big haystacks in the middle of the river dead-on. In a different canoe they probably would have faired better, but with each successive wave they took more and more water. They managed to horse it close enough to the rock where I could throw them a rope. Just as the canoe could be considered officially swamped, Red saw his red dry-bag with his beloved camera take its own course down the Albany.

“Red!!..RED!!!...Dammit Red!”

Red was out of sight. He swam around the bend and gone down a visual horizon that signified a waterfall. The roar of the river made it so we had to virtually yell to each other to communicate. CJ, Paul and I were stunned. What’s the plan? We had no idea where Red was or if he was hurt. After a brief discussion we decided to portage one canoe around the rapids and try to get a view from below and see if we could locate Red. Paul grabbed the canoe. CJ (being a nurse and hence the resident medical expert) grabbed the first aid kit, and I grabbed the satellite phone. We all took off into the bush. I’ve already described Paul as the Brawny Paper Towel guy, and when he sets his mind to it he can smash through brush that would stop a Sherman tank. Along the way we would split up and get views of the river yelling “Red!” The river split around an island and we could not see the other side. We then arrived at the confluence of the upper branch of the Albany and looked down river and could see nothing. Crap. We were exhausted, we could not see Red. And then Paul began to wave his PFD over his head, and way, way down stream we saw a flash. “I think he’s waving at us!” Red was a speck on a rock along the far bank of the river.

We decided that CJ and I would paddle downstream with the phone and first aid kit, while Paul went back for the other canoe and packs. The river was extremely fast, and we closed the distance at an alarming rate. In a few moments, we arrived at the rock where Red was standing. And there he was with his fishing rod and camera -- in perfect health. He was rather astonished at the level of our consternation. Red is a very athletic guy and in his mind this was no worse than a water-slide at Wisconsin Dells.

The three of us got back in the Spirit II to paddle upstream to rendezvous with Paul. The river was so fast we could not make a bend, despite three of us paddling. We had to portage the canoe over a rock outcrop to resume forward progress. To reach Paul, we then had to ferry across the river, which took every ounce of strength to move sideways instead of backwards. We were finally four again. Red had his camera, and we had Red. We then returned to the rock where Red had landed to pick up his camera and other gear. Just then, a storm rolled in, a big storm. We were already wet and cold. We retreated into the woods and stretched out my 10 x 12 CCS tarp (the circus tent as CJ calls it) between some poplar trees and began to discuss our next steps. I changed into dry clothes. Some power bars, jerky and M&M’s fired up the internal furnace. We then discussed what to do about our food barrel.

Oh…did I tell you we lost a food barrel? Silly me. Yes, when Red and Paul’s canoe swamped we lost the camera bag and a food barrel. Red told us he saw the food barrel in front of him as he was swimming for his gear so we knew it wasn’t hung up in the rapids behind us. I was not too worried. It’s doubtful it would make it to Hudson Bay. I surmised the barrel would float high and wash along the shore. The map showed a series of large lakes ahead of us, and we were sure it would find quiet water in a bay. In an hour or so the wind died down and we headed for the canoes. Paul and Red took the right bank, CJ and I took the left. As we searched for our lost barrel, it continued to rain. All sorts of things look like floating barrels from a canoe in the fog and rain. But they all turned out to be logs or other debris along the river bank. A couple hours into our search Paul and Red found the barrel, and it was bone dry inside. Paul told Red, “That’s where your body would have washed up.” I think Red got the gravity of the moment.

With the barrel found we spent the next three hours looking for a campsite. EVERYTHING was flooded, everything. We were paddling over 5 ft trees! The bushwhacking options were looking slim at best. We finally found a section of beach at the far end of Achapi Lake that still had a few feet of sand that was camp worthy. Apart from the savage ants, it was a dream. That night we ate a very big dinner, and had a frank discussion about river safety and protocol for navigating the rest of the Albany. The hope was that now we were off of the lower branch of the Albany the portages would be clear and travel considerably safer.

Day Five:

The next day was our first day on the main river way of the Albany. This was very big river moving very fast. Again, at times we were paddling over trees. We were able to run the first few rapids, but as was the case the preceding day we encountered more extreme sets with no portage to be found. We searched deep into the bush, but could find nothing. It was another day of hugging the shoreline and bushwhacking.

Finally, after several kilometers fun swifts and canoe scout-able rapids, we came across a small falls. This time there was orange tape signifying a portage trail. Halleluiah! Ah, an actual portage trail! We skipped and hopped our way down with our gear. By this time it was getting late and we were looking for a place to camp. We looked for flat spot, to no avail. There was nothing but swamped willows brush on either side. We paddled, and paddled, and paddled, and paddled. It became the Baaton death march of canoeing. Dark areas or green that looked like grassy knolls from a distance turned out to be scrub brush once we approached. We began to see mirages. “Hey CJ, is that a White Castle?” or “Hey Red, lets pull into this 7-11 and grab some Doritos!” After some cold water on the face we paddled on, until finally the dark spot in the underbrush actually was a campsite. It was 10:30 pm. We set up camp with military precision. We ate, we slept. At least we were back on schedule.

Day Six:

The following days were the most enjoyable of the trip. Three sets of spectacular falls punctuate the Albany on its way to Lake Minimiska. We portaged Upper Eskakwa Falls on river right, and took time meander and enjoy the view and spray. Five kilometers downstream is Lower Eskakwa Falls. Again the portage was on the right, though the landing was uncomfortably close to the falls in this high water. At the end of the trail was a beautiful campsite nestled against the falls. It was 3:00 in the afternoon. After yesterday’s long day in the saddle, we were happy to call it quits. We had the luxury of time to clean-up and put our camp in order. We placed our overturned canoes in the sun and draped them with various wet articles of clothing to dry. Our sleeping bags were hung out on pines to air-out in the breeze. As Red went on another redventure®, CJ and I were in the Bügen-hüs™ making camp pizza. As rain set in again, we all huddled in the Bügen-hüs™ creating little 8” pizzas and cutting them in fours. When we ran out of Baboli pizza crusts, we used the remaining Pita bread (none for you Clayton!). We had everything you could imagine; fresh kalamata olives, onions, garlic, goat cheese, Gouda, salami, pepperoni, and peppers. We ate until we were sated. Even Murphy got pizza. The rain began to sag the tarp, so we soon shared the space with extra paddles that propped up the sagging canopy. We retired to the tents with the pitter-pat of rain fused with the roar of rushing water from the falls. I slept like a baby.

Day Seven:

We had about 20 kilometers to travel from Lower Eskakwa to the beaches at Lake Minimiska. This was a leisurely travel day. There were no rapids ahead. Everything from here to Minimiska was flat water paddling and hence, fishing. We arrived at Snake Falls in the late morning. We had time to kill so we all took a hand at fishing the falls. I finally got the opportunity to get out my trusty Fenwick and angle for some of those legendary Albany brook trout. I never did catch a trout, but between the four of us we quickly caught enough Walleye for a shore lunch. After a nap in the moss, we decided it was time to make our way down to Minimiska to camp on the beach and wait for our flight out in the morning. I envisioned a relaxing evening, drinking scotch and having a horseshoes tournament bare foot in the sand. As we approached Minimiska we found a hunting camp with some cached boats and fish drying rigs. It was a mosquito infested hell. We got out in the main river and thought, “Glad I don’t have to camp there.” We paddled on to where the Albany meets Lake Minimiska, only to find there was no sand beach. There was nothing but flooded willows on both banks of the river. We got out of the canoes and walked into the bush, but everything was soggy wet. No place to bushwhack. We decided to call Pete Johnson and see if we could get an early pick-up since none of us felt like sleeping in the canoes and hunting camp didn’t look to inviting. The satellite phone would not connect. Try and try as we might, the phone could not find a satellite. As it got darker, we decided we had to go back to the mosquito infested hunting camp and make do for the night. The bugs were crazy as a Balrog in heat. The Bügen-hüs™ became our sanctuary. Just doing your business was an act of courage, as the mosquitoes would attack your privates like stink on a skunk.

As we were eating dinner, Murphy let out a woof to indicate the perimeter had been violated. Two Lund fishing boats approached the camp. Paul and I went out to greet them. Each boat had a guy and gal. They were very pleasant and asked what we were doing. We explained we were waiting for a scheduled pick-up in the morning. They seemed satisfied with that and were on their way.

Day Eight:

The next morning we finally made contact with Toad at the airbase in Pickle Lake. We put our 10x12 CCS tarp over the willows so we would be more visible from the air. The single Otter passed over a few times, and eventually flew in front of our camp and tipped its wings. It landed on the Albany downstream of our camp. It was clear that Pete wanted us to canoe out to him, so we broke camp and paddled after the Single Otter. As we strapped the canoes to the floats, we were drifting into Minimiska Lake. Murphy took a little convincing to get into the plane. Paul eventually grabbed him by the collar and lifted him onto the float. We were all silent as that workhorse of a plane rumbled down the river and lifted us and our gear off the Albany and onward toward Pickle Lake. We gazed out the window as Pete flew us past Snake Falls and Eskakwa Falls. The extent of flooding on the river system was even more apparent from the air. Huge sections of lowlands were completely washed out.

By noon we were back at the all-in-one convenience store/chicken shack/gas-station in Pickle Lake stocking up for our drive home. Red took the opportunity to clean them out of Doritos and Gatorade. That evening we once again swaggered into the Portage Bar in International Falls. It was still dead, but the rain had stopped. We had quite the adventure, and frankly, more adventure than I care for at my age. As I look back I realize that it wouldn’t take but a slight change in circumstances for this trip to have ended with very different outcomes. But somehow we made it there and back again, which is all that matters in the end.


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Loading at Osnaburgh.

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Nice Tripod Red!

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CJ (in the back) resting from his epi shot.

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Red and Murphy searching for the tri-pod.

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From here on skipper, its smooth sailing.

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Murphy vs. Northern Pike.

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Bushwhacking.

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Leaving camp at Achapi.

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Murphy.

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Portage trail!

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Red at Snake Falls…nice tri-pod!

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The sand beach near Minimiska.

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Last supper in the bug house.

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C’mon Murphy!

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PostPosted: March 26th, 2009, 10:38 pm 
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Wow.

:clap:


How many zeros in a bajillion any way?



Barbara

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PostPosted: March 27th, 2009, 6:47 am 
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+1 . Good stuff. How about sharing the shuttle and pick up prices and the pilots contact info

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PostPosted: March 27th, 2009, 7:03 am 
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jjoven wrote:
How about sharing the shuttle and pick up prices and the pilots contact info
Certainly.

Pete Johnson's Pickle Lake Outposts,
Pickle Lake, Ontario POV 3AO
1-800-461-2547

The cost of the flight was $1357.00 USD. The fee included use of a satellite phone and park permits. Pete Johnson did not charge for the vehicle shuttle to Osnaburgh or for vehicle storage. We did give Toad a tip for driving us though. Everyone on the trip really liked Pete - so I'll give him an official canoeist endorsement.

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PostPosted: March 27th, 2009, 7:08 am 
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Stathcona :
I am not sure if you found this link, while researching your trip, but if you want to read a description of another Albany trip with the river in flood go to:
http://www.wilderway.com/
which is Andy Smyth's website, where he describes one of his long Albany trips.


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PostPosted: March 27th, 2009, 7:18 am 
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Mac wrote:
am not sure if you found this link, while researching your trip, but if you want to read a description of another Albany trip with the river in flood
Mac, that article actually was part of my research prior to the trip. Funny, on that trip even in flood they found trails and commented on how heavily used the route was - that was part of my consternation. Their trip was in 2001 and its possible the route simply saw more use then. Lynn Cox quite taking canoe tours down the Albany a few years ago so it really isn't serviced anymore by an outfitter.

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PostPosted: March 27th, 2009, 7:51 am 
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Strathcona:
My wife and were on the Albany in early July 2007 travelling from Osnaburgh Lake to Gowie Bay. The river was filled to the brim but not in flood, as you found it. We were able to locate most of the portages when we decided not to run a rapid. Some were a bit difficult to find and on one ocassion we found ourselves on the wrong side of the river and had to bushwack around the drop.
Some portages were barely useable and we had to cut our way through before carrying. These were the ones where the natives could run their boats up or down river effectively bypassing them. The portages where they can not run their boats were pretty well maintained, except for the copious amounts of garbage left about.

There is no portage maintenance done on the river anymore, so it is pretty much up to us, as canoeists to flag and clear off those portages that are becoming hard to find or difficult to travel on.....

But the Albany is still a great river trip in spite of it's problems and I hope to do it again someday....


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PostPosted: March 27th, 2009, 7:14 pm 
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Thanks for that report, i enjoyed it quite a bit. Water in the north was extremely high last summer, and you hit it right at a peak. Most of our rivers around here were flooded well past their banks, and portages were often underwater and not discernable. As you mentioned, there were also many areas where portages do not normally exist that had turned into very scary stretches of water.


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PostPosted: June 20th, 2009, 8:50 am 
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Can anyone give me an idea of the distance and/or number of days from Osnaburgh to Ogoki? And is this a remote enough stretch that I could expect to see few if any people? Thanks!


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PostPosted: July 25th, 2009, 4:40 pm 
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Well I can now answer my own question .... none. In 14 days we saw no people from Osnaburgh to Miminiska (it was a leisurely trip in that amount of time).

I have Garmin Mapsource files, converted Google Earth files, camp notes/coordinates, and portage notes/coordinates (on the 10 portages we made) for our trip during flood stage (11-24 JULY 2009) for anyone interested.


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PostPosted: July 25th, 2009, 8:36 pm 
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mlockitski wrote:
In 14 days we saw no people from Osnaburgh to Miminiska (it was a leisurely trip in that amount of time).
Did you take the lower or upper branch out of Osnaburgh? How was the water?

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PostPosted: July 26th, 2009, 8:52 am 
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We paddled the main channel (upper) and had three portages, with Kagami Falls being the third (10 total portages for the trip). Pete probably gave us the same warnings about the choice. We went with the main channel for the shorter distance but mostly to see Kagami Falls. Due to wind and waves we didn't even make it off Osnaburgh until day 3. The river was definitely flooded. The worst part was just finding camp sites. We were trying to just take it easy but ended up paddling 25 miles one day and 27 miles another day just to get past the marshy, swampy areas, and find a suitable camp site. That was too much distance in two days considering a 14 day leisurely trip! There was one island portage trail and camp site (we got lucky and landed to scout rapids on both sides of the island) that we realized shouldn't have even been an island!! The rapids on BOTH sides were unrunnable and the island was even partially flooded. Pete said the river was up at least 5 feet and there should be 20 more feet of land on most of the river shores. He also said that it is unusually buggy right now. I have never been on such a buggy trip. Towards the second half of the trip we were always wearing bugshirts when not in the tent or under the net ... even on the water! Oh well, it was still fun, but I still itch!


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