Jackpine Journey (1950)

...is the magic carpet of the 20th century. Streaking across the continent, mating town and country, reducing distance to a matter of time and space, it whisks the laborer to his work and the holiday seeker to his hunt. To the woodsman, it brings relaxation and excitement, a place to pursue his favorite sport. Close to the heartland of America, an overnight trip from the great eastern city, lies a land where the rivers flow cool, silvered with fish, where the forests are deep and filled with game. Its name is Ontario, a siren call to fishermen and sportsmen everywhere. In its northern recesses, the forest curtain parks to reveal a myriad of crystal lakes and beckoning rivers. To thread their course is an adventure, an adventure hung heavily with the scent of pine and tasting of the unknown. The rivers of northern Ontario are strange, haunting thoroughfares, hiding their secrets with tortuous channels, masking the mystery of ages in their black, opaque depths. They are best known by men whose forefathers bore names that once filled the heart, Ojibwe and Cree. Today, these natives, with their knowledge of the wilderness and its ways, serve a better purpose, guiding the fortunes of adventurous sportsmen. Right of way, there are countless places where a canoe party can leave the train, meet their guides, and start their journey from the railhead. The secret of a successful canoe trip lies in proper planning. Adequate equipment, good food, a thorough familiarity with the territory are necessities if the cruise is to be a happy vacation. The long, lonely look of the Jack Pine, the gleam of white water against dark, green walls, the cushioned earth that deadens all sound, these are first impressions. But first, too, comes a reminder, what man can enjoy, fire can destroy. A canoe trip has an evergreen fascination. The passing panorama of rock and pine, the challenge of rapid and waterfall, the gamble for fish and game, these are incentives to excite the eye and flail the spirit. Of prime importance is the selection of a suitable campsite, for this is both shelter and shield in the wilderness, a place to laze in the sun or swap yarns by firelight. Woodsmen find their pleasures in many ways. For some, it is the strike of a finny battler, the savage, smashing fury of a river warrior, spoiling for a fight. For others, the pleasure of a camping holiday comes in a more passive form, the pride and joy of securing a worthwhile picture. Whether the holiday be active or passive, it must be comfortable, and herein lies the true art of being at home in the woods. Pine boughs and air mattresses will give a man rest, but it takes fresh fish and bannock, cooked over aromatic embers, to make a man question the virtues of civilization. Of all supplies tracked into the bush, none is more vital than first aid. In the isolation of deep forest, medical treatment rests squarely upon the canoe party. Their foresight in preparing for contingencies, their initiative and skill with makeshift remedies, will determine the extent of any misfortune to befall their members. Fishermen are optimists. They view each body of water with a speculative eye. If it be liquid and capable of floating a canoe, it should contain fish. This is the philosophy, and no one is more pleased than the fisherman when it proves fruitful. It must indeed be an unworthy member of the species to suffer the ignominy of being thrown back to the fishes. Specifically in fish lore and proper equipment. It is not by luck that fish are caught. It is by lure, rod, skill and weather. But when two anglers meet, the question is always the same. What luck? If fish be food to the housewife and a vertebrate to the student, to the angler it is a dream come true. Whatever its future, whether it ends on a dinner plate or a trophy wall, one thing alone is certain. The fish will be an innocent bystander in a tale of daring do that will grow with each telling. In quiet pools, lakes or rivers, whether his creel be full or empty, his blessings will be counted in his heart and his memory. If successful, there will be one last foretell, one more thrill in a full packed day. Until the low slanting sun and the work sharpened appetite say, it's time to make camp again. As day follows day and the campsites march progressively downstream, the river unveils its true character. A tyrant more generous than demanding, more considerate than reckless, more helpful than obstructive. Visitors to camp are rare. Forest and river highways are peaceful pathways. But when a stranger appears, the excitement, the curiosity and conjecture is that of friends expecting friends. For woodsmen have an affinity that transcends mere sociability. The great solitude is an irresistible host, binding the great and small, the newcomer and veteran. The Ontario Department of Lands and Forests has one of the finest conservation and fire control organizations in the world. Their rangers, over a thousand strong, are supplied with the best detection and fire control equipment. The lessons of breaking camp are never forgotten. One small, smoking, live ember left behind to work with the wind will take its toll in timber, time, life itself. No silent musician is the paddle. Its music sings of velvet forests and satin streams. It sings too of high piled cliffs, advanced guard of a bold land downstream that one day will challenge passage. In the leisurely miles of happiness, the days of wholesome living, the workaday world falls away. Unrelated to past or future, each day is a life unto itself. The shadows of the great pines are home to many of nature's magnificent creatures. But over them all, the moose reigns supreme. With river vegetation for food and the pines for shelter, the great animal rests content. It is man who is the trespasser here, the intruder and alien. A dead end, a wall of rot, the portage is bluff. A river crossing is necessary. This is not the place for doubt, nor the time to question. Daylight is precious, and this is not camping ground. Strong arms, skill, and experience are needed. The frail craft must seek a sheltered bay where a portage can be effected over the great fog. A blight lies on this land. The birds are gone. Neither is there fish nor game. Only black, charred trunks testify to the holocaust which passed before. It is a magnificent country, a spectacular setting worthy of a homage due all great works of nature, but a land without trees. Who can say with honest heart, standing before the beauty that is left, that care is not worth the price. Below the great falls, the river is an unleashed fury of telltale white water. The thrill of fighting fast water, the fascination of defeating the river demon and putting him to work is a goad to experienced canoe men. At heart, the paddle and portage brotherhood are explorers and nomads. But all too soon, as the strong eddies dissolve into quiet currents, journey's end comes in sight. The sportsmen, be they explorers, nomads, or plain refugees from a business world, re-enter their normal pursuits healthier, happier, and better fitted for living. The forest is generous to those who seek its embrace. Magic carpet. It peers into land, sweet, and where it comes to rest, there will start adventure, or there will end a wondrous tale to be long remembered.