Sometimes the surprising revelation of embarking on a hardy canoe adventure or the undertaking of a vigorous journey ends quietly by the searching for and the accidental discovery of what the real destination of the voyage is.
It is not about our venture into the vast northern wilderness of quiet thin lakes or the wide windy lakes that are threaded together by fresh rivers that run gracefully east across half a continent to finally flow and mingle with the salts of the Atlantic.
It is not about harsh travel over steep or tree-blocked, muddy portage trails that lead us past the treacherous rapids and falls of the older Ojibwe world that the early explorers and fur traders found to be the center and wealth of their new world.
I count ten long days paddled with hard double-portages, plus, nine settled nights that find us well-fed and warmly bedded with a precious book brought from home to be read by flashlight.
One must trust a simple map and possess a true compass to navigate these old water routes. I can only cast a wild guess about the message of this living signpost, called a trail marker tree that points to a hidden trail, fresh spring or another significant something else unknown to me.
There's a small 'X' on my map near where we land on the beach for lunch. Above the 'X' it simply notes 'pictographs'. Curious, we begin to survey the glacier polished cliff face on the shores of the great Lac La Croix.
We tightly hug the mile long granite barrier paddling slowly south toward our heading by canoe. The cliff rises higher and more cleanly from the water, already wildly painted with mineral streaks and bright lichens. Previous water levels are carved and scratched horizonally into the Canadian shield rock by the winter ice.
Suddenly, a canvas of painted rock unfurls in front of us and our eyes lock on the hand prints of the artist that reach out and call to us from the past. The red faded, time-worn hands point to other panels of symbols and drawings woven in mystery.
Enhanced. I imagine the actions of the artist wiping ochre paint from slathered fingers on the rock below his signature. There is no rock shelf to stand upon here. I wonder how one stands upright in a rocking canoe and paints a masterpiece.
The rocky panel widens to portray a bull moose sheltered under a crag of granite.
Enhanced. The antlers are delicately drawn to perfection. The great bull is being followed by another shadow.
A man with a spear and outstreached fingers stands nearby watching the bold raised antlers of the proud elk walk beneath him.
Enhanced. There are older faded shadows of other beings and creatures behind the ochre, lost now to time.
Hurried animal tracks almost clatter down the path of a lighter band of granite.
Enhanced.
A second bull moose boldly appears charging to the right with tail held high.
Enhanced. A smaller horned or long eared shadow, also follows.
Other treasures are now almost lost to our eyes and understanding by passing time.
A sudden magic happens when a man is found sitting, smoking a pipe and an offering of tobacco has been placed with care beside him. I am in awe at this moment of discovery.
Enhanced.
A closer look at the beauty of the hand prints.
Enhanced.
We are stunned to find refined and meticulous English letters and numerals carved by pecking into the rock, to the left and above the smoking man: L R 1781. The L is carefully traced and painted with red ochre.
I am reminded that these waters hold many stories to be told and others that will be left untold forever.
Enhanced.
Even at the end of a long day, camp cooks don't cry over spilled peas.
The kitchen help cheerfully volunteers to clean up my mess.
Dinner will be served tonight with a side dish of joy and sweet memories.