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Written by Andy Goodson Photography by Goodson, Kendall Latimer, Mitch Doll and Sean Hootz

Four days before our first canoe trip of the year, Sean and I stopped at Red Deer Lake to survey our exit point. Our plan was to canoe the Red Deer River (not to be confused with the river of the same name in southern Alberta) from the town of Hudson Bay in Saskatchewan across the border into Manitoba, roughly 120 kilometres in total.

The trip was to be a step up from our first river paddle, which was only 35 kilometres on the Assiniboine River after ending early due to rocks stripping some important bits of wood and fiberglass off my canoe. Still, I was determined to take the next challenge. That's why my guts twisted into knots as we rolled up to the shores of Red Deer Lake with wind blustering at 80 kilometres per hour:

The Red Deer River's exit channels are located 1.2 - 1.7km from the boat launch across open water.

We continued our pre-trip survey and visited the river entry point at Hudson Bay Regional Park and saw a long stretch of boiling rapids. They seethed, practically foaming at the mouth: "DIDN'T YOU LEARN YOUR LESSON THE FIRST TIME!? YOU DON'T KNOW CRAP ABOUT CANOEING RIVERS."

Sean and I were feeling discouraged. We talked to some locals and only got more conflicting information:

"A group just did the trip to Red Deer Lake a little over a week ago and made it in two days. The river was higher, though..."

"Skip the rapids and spend more time in the wild sections. The river flattens out near the lake; you'll be paddling hard."

"You're definitely going to want to start at Hudson Bay. That's the best rapids halfway to Erwood. You'll make good time."


After much deliberation, we figured we might as well dive in and do the whole river—rapids and all.

But I spent that night wide awake, thinking about flipping a canoe on a lake churning with oceanic waves (by prairie standards) and me and my bumbling crew, spinning down rapids in overloaded canoes. I read nearly every post on riskmanagementinscouting.com, scrounging last-minute bits of Internet wisdom and praying fervently for leadership from the almighty Boy Scouts of America. The red flags were piling up.

Our friends were relying on us for sound judgment. We rushed and underestimated our last river trip; we would not do it again.

View canoe route on Google Maps

Manitoba maples reaching into the river near Erwood, Sask. (Goodson)


Day One: Bill's Cabin

Thursday, May 17, 2018  Our trip began at Erwood, Saskatchewan, ten minutes east of Hudson Bay. The light rain that accompanied us all morning was gone leaving the air cool and damp.

Sean, David and I had returned from dropping off the exit vehicle at Red Deer Lake and were anxious but eager to get on the water. It was already past 2 pm, true to our M.O., which was fine considering the logistics of organizing a canoe trip for seven people who live all over the province and refuse to respond to texts on time.

David and Andrew practice-punched eachother's life jackets while I looked for anyone willing to take my case of beer to lighten our jam-packed canoe. The three of us would be sardined in there for the next four-to-five days. The rest of the group, Mitch and Kendall, Nate and Gill, and Sean, were crowded around their canoes discussing the day's plan.

Taking our time to enjoy the river was our objective. But we still had a deadline to make, which was to get to Bill's cabin by 7 pm.

'We have twenty-seven kilometres to paddle today, so we should get going,' Sean said. 'The river current should help, but let's not keep Bill waiting.'

I had only met Bill Lozinski through email after he heard me on the radio talking about the Pasquia and Porcupine Hills a year ago. He was very knowledgeable about the area and its history, so he was the first person I went to when researching a trip on the Red Deer River. He was instantly prepared to give us the shirt off his back to make it happen, offering us the use of his cabin on the riverside for the night and sending us updates on water conditions leading up to the trip. 

He also invited a local reporter to meet us at his cabin – the reason we didn't want to show up late looking like complete rookies.

'We are heavy,' Andrew said apprehensively as we pushed the canoe into the water. I stepped between the yoke and rear thwart and sat wobbly in a borrowed Helinox chair. David sat at the bow, Andrew at the stern. The canoe dipped deep into the river as the current took us ready or not.

Gill, Oats and Nate on their brand new vessel (Goodson)

The high water mark, trees and grass stripped bare by spring ice and meltwater (Goodson)

Get ready for a lot of shots of David's back (Goodson)

There will also be lots of 'shore profile' photos  (Goodson)

We passed fluidly through the first set of rapids, boosting our confidence and untying stomach knots. Except for the semi-industrial agricultural landscape, the river was unlike the Assiniboine which had caused us grief a year ago.

The wind picked up and the river felt bleak and dreary. This, compounded with the bare flat-topped river ledges, made photos appear less than idyllic and more like paddling through oil spillage. It felt great to be back on the water and anticipation for what was to come was more than propellent.

Paddling through purgatory near Erwood (Goodson)

Flag of the Flatlands (Goodson)

Blue means 'social cohesiveness' (Goodson)

'...and the celestial butthole shat blessings upon us' (Goodson)

'There's something about concrete, blue-trimmed bridges. It leaves a man inspired,' Andrew said pontificating about social cohesiveness and public works projects of the late 80s to early 90s.

I settled into the middle seat and had long given up pretending to help by throwing a limp paddle in the water now and then. So I proceeded to drink several beers. Call it confidence in the efficacy of friends.

The river carried us like a conveyor belt and we were making good time. There were several Class I-II rapids that were worth a cheap thrill and useful for learning how to paddle on moving water.

River dressings (Goodson)

The war of species: Manitoba maples on the left, birch on the right (Goodson)

Forests gradually filled the shorelines the further we progressed. An enduring feature of the Red Deer River appeared to be the war of species among trees on either shore. One side would be composed almost entirely of aspen or birch stands, while the other was predominantly Manitoba maple with the odd elm and green ash.

Soon after the clouds cleared, the temperature chilled and we rounded the corner to Bill's cabin.

We boarded the shore half-cut and slightly windburned, where Bill and the reporter, Gene, were ready to greet us. After standing up I got a case of the "mal de debarquement" and took a moment to hold back the urge to puke before introductions.

Bill was visibly beaming. 

'Wow, you guys look like a motley crew!' 

Pabst and Patio Lights (Latimer)


Day Two: "There's No Rapids Past Erwood"

Friday, May 18, 2018 — The cabin was beautiful. Bill had already stopped by early in the morning to drop off a newspaper and an anthropology journal that detailed archaeological finds at the Red Deer River. With the coffee already brewing, I forgot we were still on a camping trip. 

We cleaned the cabin and rehashed the previous night, wondering if we had offloaded enough "potent quotables" to make for a decent story in the local newspaper. But by the time we packed the canoes, our thoughts were on the trip again.

'I'm looking forward to getting into the backcountry mindset,' Sean said. There was a grumble of agreement. 'We've got twenty-five kilometres to do today and the rapids should be pretty much over. We can take a leisurely pace.'

I took my spot scrunched in the middle of the canoe and relaxed while Andrew and David pushed off from shore. The river was placid in the morning sun. I could feel the day's heat eagre to toast my skin, waiting for the ambient temperature to rise and make it happen.

'Would His Highness like a beer to start the morning?' Andrew asked. Yes, His would. 

Leaving Bill's cabin (Goodson)

Cool morning paddle into the wilder reaches of the Red Deer River (Goodson)

The river was still moving at conveyor belt-speed taking us past forests of increasing density. My assumption was that there would be a dramatic shift from maples to conifers, but I was wrong. A quote from the cartoon Bojack Horseman repeated in my head: "You know what they say about assuming – it makes an ass out of you and ming."

Before Sean and I had surveyed the river, we made guesses on behalf of our friends and the river itself. A part of me wanted to do the rapids from Hudson Bay forward to prove something: that we were bad ass risk taking sons-n'-daughters-of-bitches who always came out ahead. But it didn't sit well.

I learned that a group is only as strong as its weakest link. We have gear deficiencies. Experience deficiencies. Uncertainty. It takes surprisingly few missteps to be in trouble. Misjudge your distances or bank on perfect conditions and you could find yourself being pressured to make a potentially fatal crossing over a freezing-cold lake because so-and-so needs to get to work on time.

Having the space to relax on this trip left me with few regrets. That's why, when we turned a river corner and heard the low-level hiss of rumbling water, I felt excitement and not defecation.

Somewhere on the Red Deer, a switch had been flipped.

David, Carpenter and Spiritual Guide, Master of the Laconic Phrase

Light-grey sedimentary rock outcrops along the edges of the Red Deer River (Goodson)

Weathered sandstone below dirt, clay and a stand of coniferous forest uncommon at the Red Deer (Goodson)

Outcrops like exposed bone (Goodson)

Weathered by ice and moving water (Goodson)


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Written by Andy Goodson Photography by Andy Goodson and Sean Hootz

In early September, Sean, Andrew, Adam and I had the perfect window to attempt a trip we had planned a year before: backpacking the Armit River Canyon.

Armit River is fed by the Porcupine Hills' largest waterbody, Armit Lake. Flowing north along the Saskatchewan-Manitoba border, the stream cut deep valleys through the escarpment regarded as canyons by those who explored them. Armit River was not only topographically interesting, but ecologically important as a home for rare plant species and the most northern and isolated fescue meadows in Manitoba. The only problem for us was how to get there.

Sean and I had spent hours poring over maps trying to strategize how to reach the canyon, which was roughly 20 kilometres upstream from where we would enter the river in Saskatchewan and hike across the border into Manitoba. Knowing that hiking the river would get us nowhere slowly, we searched for trails that could bypass the meanders and get us as far as possible.

The path to Armit River Canyon was uncertain as the trails could easily be defunct, flooded or overgrown. All we could do was try and hope for the best.

Old-growth forest near the Armit River Canyon. (Goodson)

 Part One — Armit River, Porcupine Hills, Saskatchewan

"Just hold it still," Sean said as he sawed back and forth. A fallen aspen was blocking the road, only metres away from where we would leave the vehicle for the next three days.

Adam and Andrew took turns cutting through branches and clearing the road while I observed, pretending not to be completely useless. At least we were on the right side of the road block; I never thought to bring a saw.

After removing the debris, we drove through and reached the end of the road where we packed and prepared for the longest hike we had ever faced.

Sean took the navigator role for the trip and, according to him, we had to hike roughly three kilometres before we would even see water. There was a path straight south from us where we would eventually cut east through the bush and find the river. From there, we would walk upstream until finding another path Sean had located.

My backpack felt light, there were few bugs and it was a refreshing change of scenery to be surrounded by quiet woods instead of running water. Tracks of hardened mud were spotted with animal prints, most of which I couldn't identify, except for the obvious black bear.

"You're going the wrong way, dipshit." (Hootz)

Hiking a trail south of Armit River Road (Goodson)

Animal tracks (Goodson)

At an indistinct juncture, Sean checked his maps and said it was time to head through the woods.

Entering the forest was like walking into a greenhouse compared to the dry heat of open sunlight. It was lush and humid as we stepped through patches of waist-high ostrich ferns until reaching a large thicket of alder and maple. This was, as usual, a maze with no clear direction that rewarded passage with whips, scratches and hornet stings.

Being a slow walker, I fell behind. I heard a rustling in the bush ahead, followed by the echo of Andrew yelling, "Are you okay?" But he wasn't talking to me.

Finding water (Goodson)

Jean-Paul, Sean and Andrew reaching the Armit River valley (Goodson)

We found water, apparently. Sean had walked straight out of the bush, then fell down a dirt cliff into the stony riverbed. Other than a scraped knee, he was fine.

The ground disappeared over the steep drop-off and I saw the river for the first time. Adam and I decided to find another way down.

Once in the riverbed, I took off my backpack and got some much needed water. Even with a filter it was gritty to drink and somewhat unsatisfying. Sean said that it must be due to the rainstorm that hit the area the night before our arrival, so there was a chance it would clear up over the next few days.

We marked the location with some trail tape, then proceeded to walk upstream. Stepping on invisible rocks beneath turbid water made our progress extremely slow compared to the trail and even bushwhacking the forest at times.

Mullet Man Adam (Hootz)

Hiking the Armit River after a rainstorm (Goodson)

Rubes (Hootz)

Before the trip, I had read an article about indigenous trails that existed in the Porcupine and Pasquia Hills for over a thousand years. They were used for hunting and as a shortcut between major river systems, such as the Saskatchewan, Red Deer, Swan and Assiniboine Rivers. However, their exact locations were unclear, and I assumed most had either been converted to roads or were virtually unrecognizable. Still, it was fun to imagine that we had somehow stumbled on one of these important pathways, which sometimes led to camps in distinct sections of forest or spiritually charged places.

Not long after we started hiking the river, Sean directed us back into the woods on the east side of the valley. The next trail was only a few metres in just like he said it would be, but we were still several kilometres away from being remotely near the canyon.

We hiked for what felt like a long time on that trail, climbing higher into the hills. There were subtle changes in the forest that caught my eye, particularly the dominance of large stands of old-growth spruce and balsam fir. When we got another glimpse of the river, I couldn't believe it was still Armit; it was shallow, narrow and crystal-clear. I didn't think it could change so drastically in only a few hours.

While the river improved, the trail did not. It was becoming overgrown and degraded by wash-outs and fallen trees. The group was silent and focused on getting as far as possible. Sean unknowingly crossed paths with two moose, cow and calf, which huffed loud and deep in our direction before trotting off into the woods.

Further into the hills, the woods were dominated by large stands of spruce (Goodson)

You are now leaving Saskatchewan. (Hootz)

Hiking through a forestry cutblock, the path was somewhat difficult to trace (Goodson)

By mid-afternoon we crossed the border into Manitoba and the trail broke away into a large cutblock. There was no forest canopy, only stubby brush and a few standing but long-dead tree trunks. We managed to spot an opening in the woods where the trail was likely to continue.

We needed to take advantage of the easy hiking, but even through forest the path was becoming poorly defined. Most of us wanted to keep hiking until dusk, while Sean reluctantly agreed after spotting an entry point to the river where we could have searched for a place to camp.

The sun was past the treeline and making it difficult to judge how much useful light we had left. Then, the trail split into two directions: one veered into thick bush that was virtually impassable, the other went up a steep hill that was washed-out by floods and littered with wood debris.

Sean checked his GPS, and for the first time he wasn't sure where we should go. We decided to take the hill, but made it only halfway up before running out of breath and collapsing in a pit.

We were moving farther away from the river and wondered if the trail was leading us in the wrong direction. Andrew offered to scout ahead and see if it was worth continuing, while Adam, Sean and I discussed another issue: whether we would have multiple campsites over the next three nights or just one. 

Andrew returned and said the trail was completely flooded, but there was something we should see. 

There was a plateau on the hill where a multi-level complex of beaver dams and ponds was built. While not much to look at from ground-level, it was a bizarre sight with large, still ponds descending into the forest like a giant staircase.

A flooded pathway (Hootz)

The Multi-level Beaver Dam Complex (Goodson)

I crossed the dam on the upper level to see if it was promising, but it seemed to continue out of the valley. We were running out of time to take chances on mysterious trails. The sun was about to set and we had reached our limit of exhaustion.

We agreed to backtrack to where the trail was close to the river and start looking for a place to camp. Through the bush, we reached an opening in the woods where we could see upstream.

Spotting a high beach of gravel and sand, a perfect place to camp when the weather is right (Goodson)

The end of a long day's hike (Goodson)

The perfect campsite was only a few metres away. It was a high, flat beach with access to water and a sheltered patch of spruce trees if the wind or rain kicked up. 

The forest coughed us up onto the riverbed of gravel and sand, where I peeled my backpack off like a shoe stuck to a bathroom floor. According to Sean's GPS, we had hiked roughly 12 kilometres and climbed an elevation of over 1,500 feet. I felt completely weightless and floated around the beach like a marionette.

After setting up tents, we decided that it would be our only site for the trip. We needed an extra night to make multiple camps practical and not be in a rush to get home, so we would attempt to reach the canyon the following day, by river, without trail.

◈◈◈Part Two — Armit River, Porcupine Hills, Manitoba

When I finally slunked out of my tent, I was not as sore as I imagined. The morning was bright and sunny and the cards appeared to be playing in our favour again.

The rest of the group came alive and joined me for breakfast shortly before starting our off-trail journey upriver. It seemed unlikely that we would make it to the canyon, while the fescue meadows were still impossibly out of reach. We agreed to simply enjoy the hike, keep a moderate pace and see what we find.

View of our camp from the ridge of the river valley (Hootz)

A completely different river than what we started with (Goodson)

Rock-hopping (Hootz)

I immediately began snapping photos. Something about everyone walking upstream together seemed quaintly spiritual, like a postcard in a Mormon giftshop.

"It feels as if we're walking toward something important," Andrew said.

"Like we have information to return to the Federation, or we're returning an artifact to the fire—you know, from what once it came."

Stepping through crystal-clear water with my..

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Written by Andy Goodson
Photography by Andy Goodson and Sean Hootz

The summer of 2017 was an uncertain time for me, but unlike last year it wasn't spent flipping canoes or wading through flash floods. It was spent in an office scrambling to finish a large project, while at home Teisha and I packed boxes and sold half our belongings before moving to Saskatoon.

We had planned a canoe trip for August with some friends to paddle down the Sturgeon-Weir, our first shield river. But the area had received record-breaking rainfalls causing the Churchill River to overflow into the Sturgeon-Weir. The 430-square-kilometre Amisk Lake, which both drains and feeds major sections of the Sturgeon-Weir, had risen by nearly four feet.

Being inexperienced in paddling rivers, we lost confidence in the original plan. I suggested we return to Amisk Lake, same as our first canoe trip, where we would paddle the 50-kilometre route around Missi Island instead. See Map

Water levels on Amisk (Beaver) Lake had risen by around four feet due to heavy rainfall in 2017. (Goodson)


Sunday August 13, 2017, Denare Beach, Saskatchewan

We were parked outside the resort office when we saw the owner, Gerry, driving a side-by-side through the water where his boat launch used to be.

He pulled up next to us. "You guys lost?" he said. People always seem to ask us that. 

We told Gerry about our plan to canoe around Missi Island, while helicopters carrying large buckets flew overhead. The air was dry and smoky with a pleasant incense of spruce needles, coupled with the troubling uncertainty of where it was coming from.

"Hope you guys brought stoves 'cause you won't be having any fires. It's real crispy out there," he said. All I knew about was the high water and I did not think to check for fire bans. Most of us had brought food that was better cooked over a campfire.

I asked about the rain we had seen in the forecast, but Gerry said there hadn't been a drop in over a week and he only seemed concern about lightning strikes and the potential for more wildfires. The ban was not ending anytime soon.

We let him know that we would still require three canoes for departure early the next morning. He said "okay," then drove off, shirtless into the sunset, leaving us to the same cabin we had rented two years before.

Leaving the boat launch (Hootz)

Monday August 14, 2017, Denare Beach — Day One around Missi Island

I was rattled out of my sleep by the sound of more helicopters flying over the cabin. Whether it was because of the smoke or stress, I did not much feel like leaving bed, let alone dry land.

Sean and a few others left for Flin Flon to pick up some last minute supplies and a hibachi stove to cook on instead of an open fire. We needed to paddle an exceptional amount of kilometres that day if we were to stay on schedule. Still, I went back to bed with fatigue and a scratchy throat, hoping everyone else was taking their sweet time.

By noon, we were packed and ready to leave. Teisha and I were sharing a canoe though neither of us were skilled at paddling, and I had virtually destroyed my canoe earlier in the year. I wondered how long I could fake my steering skills as we fishtailed our way out of the sheltered channels of Denare Beach.

Nearing the south end of Missi Island, we found open water accompanied by wind and waves. A haze of wildfire smoke descended over the lake and whitecaps emerged as far as we could see—which was only a few hundred feet, give or take.

All smoke and no scenery (Goodson)

Choppy water (Goodson)

Taking a break from the waves on a crispy island (Goodson)

I struggled to correct our direction as Teisha wasted her energy on my bad steering. After a challenging section, we docked at an island to stretch our legs where I walked on a carpet of dry lichens crunching like potato chips. The mosses and leaves appeared pale, faint and uncomfortably stiff as the woods crackled in the heat.

Teisha remarked how the lake was not as breathtaking as she remembered, unless we accounted for smoke inhalation. I wondered if it was less spectacular only because we had seen it before, with or without the haze.

We returned to the water focused on recovering lost time rather than sightseeing. Strong gusts coming off the lake were becoming difficult and we needed to reach the west side of Missi Island to avoid being trapped if the water became impassable. We had paddled for hours and still had ways to go.

My strokes became automatic functions I had little to do with, and soreness was less pain than robotic defect. Matt, who had become somewhat seasick and dehydrated, led his canoe in a haggard chanty of Rob Zombie’s Dragula. This was about it for conversation.

We made it to the west end of Missi Island with only a couple hours of sunlight left.

“I feel like I’m gonna puke,” Matt said. “Can we please find a place to camp?”

Nate, whose canoe had led the group for most of the trip, was annoyed. “Look around,” he said, “the shores are all flooded. We’ve gone this far, we might as well keep going.”

I could feel Matt’s frustration, but Nate was right. After a day of intense paddling we needed to reach somewhere worthwhile.

The group split up as some investigated islands on the opposite side of the kilometre-wide channel using radios to communicate if a suitable camp was found. Everything was either too steep or too wet until we found our place to stay for the night, much further than we had hoped.

We were sitting around a sad little fire in the hibachi stove when Sean announced the day’s trip total from his GPS: 26 kilometres in eight hours. This was an accomplishment for us, though I assume it was an average day for people who know what they’re doing and wake up on time.

“We’ve nearly done half the trip,” Sean said. “Huh.”

Relaxing at camp after paddling 26 kilometres (Hootz)

Sunset on the western shore of Missi Island (Goodson)


Tuesday, August 15, Amisk Lake — Day Two around Missi Island

Everyone had turned in early after an onslaught of mosquitoes made life without a real campfire unbearable. On the bright side I was well rested–a complete turnaround from the day before.

I unzipped the tent, letting in a cool draft and blinding myself in the overcast light. This was the day it was supposed to rain, though only a few millimetres. It started to come down minutes before we left our camping spot and set forward.

The previous day's efforts paid off as most of the southeast winds blew overhead, blocked by Missi Island. However we did not consider what we would do if it stormed. The sky rumbled just as we were paddling out of the bay. 

"We shouldn’t stay on the water if there’s any more thunder," Sean said. I agreed, being paranoid of lightning ever since Killdeer.

"We can't canoe within five kilometres of any cloud," Kyle said, imitating Sean’s voice. He gave us a sour face. "I hope you guys are kidding." I felt embarrassed. At some point, I had forgotten how to be outdoors.

The wind was at our backs and we were able to cross choppy sections without taking on much water. Still, Teisha and I were struggling to keep up with Nate and Gill who were setting a faster pace than my shitty J-stroke could match.

Nate, Oats and Gill paddling by a steep island (Goodson)

Sean mentioned that we were getting close to an abandoned mine site. It was no challenge to find, spotted by a clear opening in the woods next to an old building.

The site appeared to be used recently, though most likely for reasons other than mining. There was not much to see except a few old trailers, a tree infested with carpenter ants and hordes of mosquitoes. I left with nickel-sized welts all over my neck and face from whatever mutant breed lived there.

Happy to be back on the water, we set forth toward a long, sheltered channel that was a perfect oasis to remember why we came out in the first place.

I stopped paddling and refreshed my beer supply. 

"Why are they going so fast," Sean said. "This is the best water we've had all day and we're rushing right through it." Teisha and I were getting frustrated with the pace as well, so I tied on a lure and threw out some line.

After about a dozen casts that day, I hooked into something. It took off with my lure like a log down a river, so I suspected a northern pike. I saw the iridescent flash of its sleek body before it snapped my line and was gone forever—the most fishing action I had all year.

"Are you getting your fishing bug back?" Teisha smiled. I didn't want to jinx it.

Carpenter ants removing sawdust from an opening in a spruce tree (Goodson)

Overgrown mine site on Missi Island (Hootz)

Paddling through a calm channel (Hootz)

Fishing for northern pike (Hootz)

Jean-Paul, tired old sea dog (Hootz)

By the time we broke for lunch, the sky had cleared and the heat returned. Nate and Sean were comparing their GPS maps. We were not only ahead of schedule, but had blown through most of the trip and would only be a day's paddle away from familiar water.

"There's a bunch of islands coming up where we can shop for a camp and set up early," Sean said. But just as we reached the turning point on the northwest corner of Missi Island, the channel became a wind tunnel blowing directly against us. There would be no shopping. Thankfully a perfectly good campsite was within reach.

Approaching the northern edge of Missi Island—which quickly became our second camp (Hootz)

View from our second camp on the northern tip of Missi Island (Hootz)

Strong winds - just on the other side of the peninsula where we camped - prevented us from going further. (Hootz)

The wind didn't calm down, but we spent the rest of the afternoon fishing from shore and exploring the woods nearby. It turned out to be a better campsite than we could have asked for. 

By evening, storm clouds rolled in once again and showered us with rain that lasted throughout most of the night.

Raindrops falling on Amisk (Goodson)

Rejuvenating rain (Goodson)


Wednesday August 15, 2017, Missi island — The End of the Trip

The weather had cleared up nicely, giving us an opportunity to finish the trip around Missi Island and ride out the rest of our vacation. We had little difficulty paddling through the north channel and were browsing..

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