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This forced us to hug close to the string of islands along the northwestern side of Saganaga. Eventually we would have to cross open water to reach our destination of the Quetico Provincial Park ranger station in Cache Bay, but our Lake Superior experiences had taught us to respect the wind. After several hours of back-breaking paddling I realized that I had left my fishing rod at the cabin where we had said goodbye to Don. Frustrated, we returned over the distance we had struggled so hard to cover.

After we crossed the place where the remnants of the old highway crossed Grand Portage, the trail leveled off, but the footing became worse. Though seldom traveled, the narrow path was a series of ruts worn deep into the soft moist ground. Now it began to rain, and our already damp spirits plummeted to new depths. Up and down we traveled, forging through mud and muck and even plowing through a beaver pond into which the trail descended. Although we had no way of determining how far we had come, we did know that the path branched somewhere before the river.

An aluminum boat, as if to tell all the world of its agony, screams and whines when it runs over some submerged obstacle. Then, as a lasting remembrance, it paints a silver monument to its pain as it passes by. Kevlar stands the test with nothing more than a murmur, leaving only a slight trace as it sheds its skin in the interest of progress. With the murmur of Kevlar in my ears, I shifted my weight and pushed with my paddle against the current, trying to dislodge our stranded vessel. Steve pulled, and soon we were free and gliding once again.