Memories of Magical Waters. Gord Deval
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began the trek across Buckshot in the wee hours just as the sun was creeping above the horizon. There was a decent crust on top of the snow and few watery areas, but with the prospect of the slushy conditions on the lakes, we had wisely decided to use backpacks instead of the heavy sled, so both Skidoos travelled the length of the lake only kicking up slush in two or three areas. The crust that had formed overnight stood us in good stead, providing support for the machines in all but the worst places. Occasionally we would break through, but only momentarily, as our momentum carried us on without our becoming stuck.
On this trip I was partnered by another old fishing buddy (who shall remain nameless for reasons that will become obvious later in this story) and my Brittany Spaniel, Jamie, who loved to tag along with us whenever possible. Where appropriate, Jamie would run behind us on the track the machines created in the snow, or if not, he would sit on the seat in front of me with my arms around him while I steered the machine.
There was a swamp to negotiate leading to a large ridge that we had to climb before working down the other side to Brule Lake. Unfortunately no one else had recently crossed between the two lakes so it was left to us to break trail in the deep snow. On another earlier trip through there, my Skidoo’s track, the rubber belt driven by the motor that propels the machine, had been torn up by an unseen sharpened base of a tree trunk, whittled into a weapon by a beaver. Beneath the snow, it had lain there just waiting to inflict its nastiness on a wayward snowshoe or carelessly steered snowmobile. Remembering that incident when we were forced to limp all the way back to camp with the snowmobile track barely able to function, we proceeded cautiously with Jamie leading the way this time and seemingly able to determine the trail’s correct path beneath the snow. Other than once again breaking through the surface several times in low, wet areas where the suspensions took in a load of slush, we made it through the swamp. Up the hill we sped and down the other side to Brule, passing Jamie who leaped out of the way.
Before striking out across the next lake, the machines were tipped on their sides and as much slush as possible was scooped out of the tracks. Then, with the dog firmly seated in front of me, we raced across the lake towards the final lap, the trail leading through a half mile of bush to our goal, Lucky Lake. The lake appeared virginal, untouched by other snowmobiles. Startlingly beautiful in the bright sunshine now creating the illusion of a million diamonds sparkling on its unblemished, pure white surface, the lake was inviting. But unbeknownst to us, a trap lay in store, one which I know will never be forgotten by either of us.
The shoals where we wanted to set up were three-quarters of the way down the lake. Driving the more powerful and heavier machine, I volunteered to lead the way in order to compress the track. That was the second mistake (the first was getting out of bed that morning and planning to go and fish Lucky Lake). Because of the deep snow, Jamie would ride with my buddy a cautious distance behind my machine, in case I bogged down or whatever.
In very short order I realized that we were in rather serious trouble! Less than a quarter mile from shore my track was no longer riding on top, but digging in to an awesome layer of slush. Knowing that I was about to become completely bogged in, with one hand I waved furiously attempting to halt the second machine’s progress before it, too, fell into the trap. Too late! The roostertail of slush it was discharging out its rear was proof that we both were in dire straits. When the Skidoo sputtered to a stop, Jamie jumped off and damn near disappeared in the depth of snow and slush. My buddy, now enmeshed like me (our lower bodies rapidly soaking up the freezing water), picked the terrified dog up and sat him on his Skidoo where he seemed quite content to wait until we extricated the machines. I looked at my watch. It was not yet nine o’clock.
Looking beyond our position, further down the lake, we felt that if we had had a good head of steam we would probably not have bogged down. Also the remainder of the lake looked so inviting it didn’t seem possible that there would be other areas as precarious as the one we were stuck in. We set about freeing the machines from the clutches of the slush. The first thing to do in these situations is to get the machine up on to a firm, higher base of packed-down slush and snow, then allow it to drain its excess water and scoop the slush from the suspension.
This sounds easy enough but calls for much patience and hard work. The machine is left where it is until a ramp is constructed as moving it out too soon exposes it to the freezing air causing the compacted mess in the suspension to freeze, whereas if kept down in the water it won’t solidify. The ramp is constructed by shovelling (we always have a small collapsible one strapped onto the side of the Skidoo), then kicking the snow and slush into a pile before stomping it into submission. The process is repeated many times until we have constructed a launching ramp of at least twenty, but preferably thirty feet, high enough to clear the snow-covered lake surface. Such a ramp would normally supply one with sufficient room to accelerate smoothly, but rapidly to escape the slushy area.
A couple of hours later, both machines were draining on their newly constructed ramps, Jamie was de-iced to the best of our ability and the lead machine, mine, revved up for the launch. Avoiding the temptation to apply full throttle, otherwise the track would simply dig right in and we would be back to square one, I got it moving smoothly and firmly accelerated until it shot ahead off the launch pad. Triumphantly I raised one fist in the air as I shot at least a hundred feet down the lake—then bogged down once again.
Impatiently, my buddy had already begun his own launch and, driving the lighter machine, he roared past me for a few feet then also bogged down. Jamie somehow fought his way up to us and desperately attempted to climb up on the seat of my Skidoo on his own. All three of us looked at each other in disgust, before the freezing temperature spurred us into action once again. A formidable layer of ice had already begun to form on our exterior clothing and we chipped the ice that had built up between Jamie’s toes. His incessant licking in attempts to warm them only made matters worse for him as it melted the accumulated snow and slush that promptly froze in place.
A glance at the watch showed we were now well past noon hour and approaching two o’clock. Needless to say the three of us were not happy campers! Throughout the ordeal there had been a dearth of conversation with the concern, pain, extreme effort and exertion all taking its toll on our brains and bodies. Finally we agreed to call it a day, forget the fishing, the thoughts of which for all intents and purposes had already been shelved, and get our asses out of there while we still could and before darkness overtook us. At that time of year, the sun sets around five.
Forcing our sore and tired muscles into action, we once again almost drained the last bit of energy left in our systems, but before the exhaustion completely overwhelmed us we had both machines up and draining on new rapidly freezing compacted slush ramps and pointing in the direction of the trail that had brought us to this frightful situation. Sore, tired, half-frozen and probably already hypothermic, we had taken until darkness to complete this last set of launching pads.
On these trips I almost always wear a down jacket over top of a down vest, a heavy, woollen Jack Shirt and insulated underwear. Of course I was still cold, but only my face, hands and head were worrisome. Hence it was an easy decision, when my buddy pointed out that Jamie, scrunched up in a fetal position on my Skidoo seat seemed to be in big trouble—bigger than we were. We chipped the ice off his feet and wrapped him snugly in my big down jacket.
It was then that we realized that the lake was so badly chewed up by all our machinations and efforts to overcome the slush that, in reality, all we had done was draw more of the surface water off the lake and into the area that we had already butchered. We were now faced with more than two feet of water and another foot or so of slush that would have to be conquered if we were to escape the clutches of “Lucky” Lake. Just walking in the mess was scary, but with darkness and the temperature now plummeting, a solid crust was gradually forming over the entire football-field-size mess. It would have been impossible to negotiate the quarter mile or so that was still left to us to get off the lake, and then there would still be the sections we had chewed up just getting there from Buckshot Lake. With nothing left with which to build more ramps, even if we were somehow able to muster the necessary strength and energy to do so, there were absolutely no alternatives if we were to survive until morning when a group of machines would be coming out to look for us. We had to remain in the area until they arrived.
While I only briefly pondered this