Following the trail once most-travelled

 When we retired five years ago after operating Bow Narrows Camp for 26 years a lot of our friends thought we looked forward to finally being able to go fishing. I do like fishing a bit but after cleaning about a million of them in my time and listening to our guests talk about fishing continuously for years, it was really the non-fishing things I wanted to do. I think Brenda feels the same.

Like what? you might ask.

Well, I would like to find and put on a map some of the First Nations trails that once crisscrossed this country. When I was a kid growing up at Bow Narrows, the native people could walk from place to place just about as fast as they could paddle a canoe.

One time Brenda, my Dad and I had just come into Red Lake in early May, ready to fly by floatplane from open water at the Chukuni River to a hole in the ice at the narrows in front of camp. It was warm and sunny and the ice in the entire lake was probably only days away from disappearing. 

Ed Paishk, who along with his brother, Tony, worked about every fall at camp as moose guides, kept following my Dad everywhere he went in town. Ed was drunk and was slurring his words so badly none of us could make out what he was saying. In all likelihood, he wanted to bum some money for more drink as this was the custom of most of the guides.

We were in a hurry as the plane was waiting over at the river. It was about 9 a.m.

"Ed, we've got to go but you can tell me all about it next time I see you," said Dad, getting into his car and driving off, leaving Ed weaving down the street.

We got out to camp by about 10 and slowly worked all of our possessions and food boxes up the hill into the lodge. Around 4 p.m., Ed came walking out of the bush from behind the camp.  He might have gotten a ride out to Madsen, but would have had to hoof it from there. This was before the Suffel Lake Road had been made. It was at least a 16-mile walk and would have meant walking completely around Trout Bay, then down the four-mile peninsula that has camp at its tip. Ed had made the trip in about six hours and had sobered up on the way.

"Hey, Don," said Ed. "I was charged for a sleeping bag last fall but I left mine in the bunkhouse."

Ed had his payslip from last fall in his hand. Dad would buy all the guides sleeping bags and charge for them only if they took the bag with them at the end of hunting season. Dad owed Ed $16. He took out his wallet and paid him.

"You want to stay here overnight..." he began to ask but Ed was already disappearing back into the trees.

Another time Dad had all the guides into camp the week before moose season and wanted them to scout around for moose sign. Some of these men had never been to camp before but finding their way just didn't seem a problem for the Anishinaabe.

There was a big map on the wall and Dad pointed to a lake on it and asked two of the newbees to go check it out. A creek ran about a mile from the little lake into Red Lake. One of the guys was tracing his finger along the creek, making a mental picture of the map, when Tony Paishk spoke harshly in Ojibwe to him. I think the gist of what he said was, "Only a dumbass slogs through the swamp and tag alders. There's a ridge right over here. Follow it north until it ends, then go east to the lake." The man nodded.

Tony had been born not too far from this place and probably had been to this and every other lake in the whole region from every direction many times in his life.

I was probably 13 or 14 at the time and somehow managed to weasel my way onto the scouting trip.

When we put our boat ashore at the end of the creek, the two men and I climbed our way up the rocks to the top of the ridge. We hadn't gone far, just picking the easiest places to walk when we hit a trail worn into the moss. The trail would disappear at times but we would eventually pick it up again. Finally we came to the end of the ridge and the men looked around until they found the trail down. From there it was nothing but swamp and tag alders a couple of hundred yards to the lake. It would have been a miserable place to hunt. We retraced our steps and this time, found the easy trail off the ridge, not far from the boat.

Dad asked me later what the trail had been like.

"I'm not sure it was even made by humans," I remarked. "I think it might just have been a game trail."

"Well, they're not mutually exclusive," said Dad. "Everything takes the easiest route."

That lesson came to mind one time when I was hunting with my brother-in-law, Gord, down near Thunder Bay. We were going to take a compass route back into a lake. I was following Gord because he was a whiz with a map and compass, having done it all over Canada since he was a high school kid working for a mineral exploration company.

We were heading straight south when we came upon a moose trail. Gord immediately followed it. It was easier walking for one thing. The problem was it was headed more or less west, right-angles to where we were going. After awhile it swung south again. I was getting worried. I caught up to Gord.

"Gord, I thought we were heading to that lake," I said.

"We are. I think the moose trail is going there," he replied.

"What makes you think that?" I wanted to know.

"Where else would it be going?" he said. "Moose have some place in mind when they make these trails."

Five minutes later we came out on the lake.