Returning with the Gas Barge - or - Lessons in Inertia

When last we reminisced on Gohere Bay, I had dropped the gas barge at the Government Dock.  I was soaked from rain and water sloshing between the two boats when I arrived back at camp to taunts of "what took so long?" and "whatcha do, fall in again? Didja swim all the way back?" etc.

The stew I had been so looking forward to was cold and had developed that whitish congealed film that beefy type things get when left to sit too long.  It also had developed a skin strong enough to resist the serving spoon and the carrots were mushier than the gravy.  How about a grilled cheese sandwich instead???

Back in the cabin, I pondered the injustice of developing sunburn during a rainstorm before drifting off to sleep.

KABOOOOMMM!!!  The explosion echoed through the early morning mist of Gohere Bay.  KABOOOOMMM!!!  Another fired off as I tumbled out of bed and crawled to the window.  Outside stood Willard with a 30-06, lining up another shot.  I covered my ears just in time to dull the third shot, threw on a shirt and headed out into the chill.

"Well look who's up.." laughed Brad.  Willard chambered a round, pointing at a piece of driftwood thirty yards or so off the front of the island bobbing lazily in the water, and handed me the gun.  Now for those who have lost track, at the time I was a skinny kid and the last firearm I handled was a .22 target pistol and that had been a while.  I cuddled up to the stock of the rifle and gently squeezed the trigger.  A puff of smoke, a serious boom and a splash about a hundred yards out.  Brad and Willard roared. 

"How's the shoulder, there, eh?" 
"Fine"  I chambered another round, concentrating, keeping the bead on the bobbing target, I spotted a knot sticking above the waterline, cuddled up to the stock, squeezed more slowly, took a deep breath, blew it out. KABOOOOOMMMM!!!!
"Well, damn, Skutr, looks like ya hit somethin'."  Brad slapped my back.  Willard already had the binoculars up, shaking his head. "Yup, I think he hit it."

We spent the rest of the morning shooting cans off the icehouse ruins across the back of the island.  The distance was just about perfect and the grassy hill behind the building was a perfect backstop.  Brad pulled out his .308, which I soon found kicked more than the 30-06 and Willard grabbed a .22 rifle because the rounds were cheaper.  It was an interesting experiment in ballistics and inertia to see the difference between the .308 hitting a half full soda can and the .22.  Cans hit by the larger bore rifle kind of disintegrated and jumped dramatically off the wall.  Those punctured by the .22 just sat there with a hole in them, perhaps leaking if hit low enough.  Usually we had to resort to the binoculars for scoring.

About this time Sandy, the cabin girl, wandered by talking smack.  I offered her the .22 but I guess even women have moments when the hormones get the better of them.  She grabbed Brad's .308 and sat on the hillside, eyeing the line of soda cans across the water.  BLAM, BLAM, BLAM she sent three cans flying.  She handed Brad his rifle and walked over the hill muttering something about an old basketball injury. 

After lunch, the call came that the barge was full. The morning fog had lifted, revealing a bright sunny day with little breeze.  The waters had a shimmering quality as the light sparkled from rippled waves.  I filled my tank (which seems a little odd in retrospect, I'd be carrying 500 gallons of mixed gas) and headed off to the Falls.  The trip was beautiful and I had the barge secured in no time.  I had learned so much bringing the fussy barge in from Split Rock that this trip would be a snap. 

The outboard snapped to life and I clambered over the tanks on the barge to release the mooring ropes, gave a little push and hopped back over the barrels and into my driver's seat, flotation device/cushions arranged neatly in the rear corner of the boat, I nudged the throttle of the 25 Evinrude.  The propeller began to throw up spray and the boat shifted attitude in response, but the barge continued to drift sideways, thanks to my enthusiastic push-off.  I swung the tiller arm toward the barge, resulting in a slow spinning motion between the two watercraft.  I was now sideways with the nose of both craft facing the dock and people's prized boats. On the positive, I had overcome the momentum and they now idled, practically still between docks.  Here began my second experiment of the day on the effects of inertia.

As the barge now carried about 1800 gallons of straight gas, mixed gas and diesel fuel, it rode much lower in the water and had a much stronger sense of direction.  Gone was the penchant for catching the slightest breeze, replaced by a knack for maintaining motion and direction, backed by the weight of the full tanks.  Fortunately, my learning curve was shortening with every day in Gohere Bay.  The barge ran straight and true through the water, but required planning to turn or slow.  So with a little patience, swinging the turn out of the bay a little wide, I was on my way. 

Now, once you leave the bay at Nestor Falls, there's about a five mile run that's pretty uneventful to the mouth of Gohere Bay.  I hunkered down with the lunch I'd packed and began to hum as the motor purred along.  The water sloshed between the two boats in a steady gurgle as we sliced across the mirror-like waters of Sabaskong.  I was pretty proud of my developing skills and feeling as if maybe this summer on the Rock wouldn't be so bad after all.  Wolf Island drifted past, majestic pines throwing long shadows across the channel as I adjusted course toward the rocky outline at the opposite end of the island from the camp.  Passing cabin 6, I leaned on the tiller to make the left hand turn toward the docks.  The barge, however, had a full head of steam and continued down the bay, dragging my little boat along with it.  I cut back the throttle, then threw the motor in reverse which accomplished little except to throw a spray over the transom, soaking my shirt, pants and the last sandwich from my lunch before the barge came to a grudging halt.

By this time, I was a hundred yards out in front of the camp, the two craft lashed together spun lazily in the afternoon sun.  Willard appeared from the store and began waving as if inviting me in.  Brad popped his head out of the motor shed and began calling out to me "Don't stop there, bring it in!!"

The trip from the Government Dock to the island had taken about an hour.  Landing the barge took nearly as long as the bulky thing over-reacted to every input or attempt to control its motions except, of course, those involving stopping or slowing.  As I finally nudged the barge up to the dock and clambered over the tanks to secure the moorings, Willard's voice boomed, "How the HECK do you manage to get wet on a perfectly SUNNY day?"

Happy Birthday and a Sad Anniversary

I love fall, perhaps because I am a November baby. Happy November 7 Birthday to me.

The chill in the air and smell of fires and heaters, soggy leaves on the ground or blowing on crisp breezes bring me to life as I layer wool sweaters or flannel shirts. The weather is moody, often dark or mysterious then, suddenly, calm and easy, much like the temperment of the the lake once referred to as La Mer des Isles.

This brings us to November at Cyclone Pointe in 1932, when the Peterson family met Dennis Chabot in Nestor Falls en route to our beloved camp. The story is among the first posts on this site and you may revisit those early posts for all the details. The Petersons and Chabot would take their last journey that November, all save Christine, wife and mother, who would survive to relay her harrowing tale.

A little simple math, working backward from the November 9th publishing date in local newspapers stating Mrs. Peterson had been in the wilderness overnight and allowing a day to reach press, place my birth on the theoretical date of the accident. If news was published in Fort Frances and Kenora on the 9th, she was probably rescued on the 8th and the party would have sailed the evening of the 7th.

I'm sure Dianne will correct me if my details are askew, and I welcome the correction, but it can put one slightly ill at ease to note the convergence, if one were to note such coincidences.

For now, I offer a sip of scotch, I don't know if either of them actually drank the stuff, to the first generation of the Camp at Gohere Bay.

Rain and the Gas Barge

I arrived at the Camp for my second tour of duty fresh off completing junior high school. To say I was a skinny kid would be an understatement at 6'1" and 125#. The first week I spent carrying insulated panelling in 4x8 sheets that weighed about 130# each. Every gust of wind threatened to carry me off the island.



Fresh off a growth spurt, I struggled with coordination and balance like all teenage boys do. I found myself constantly wet from plunging into the still chilly waters of Gohere Bay. The docks were wet and slick from the week of rain that arrived as I did. The fact that the next chore, after insulating cabins, was to re-plank the main dock, didn't help. The main dock is over 90 feet long and consists of a series of deck built atop previous decks. The nature of the glacial drag on the south side of the island necessitates the length of the dock. The sandy bottom of Gohere Bay continues to swallow cribs and decks year after year. We had to do some realignment and cut away some previous crib platforms that had shifted, creating hazards to boat motors and hulls. I don't know if you've ever seen a chainsaw used in the water, but it is a spectacular sight.



The lowlight of my greenhorn experience came when I broke my first hammer pulling nails. I was taken to task for using a hammer to pull nails, seems I should have known that's what crowbars are for. The fact that Raj was, at that very moment, driving nails with the crowbar in question, only added to the teasing.



Figuring that I would be a little more helpful with a job that require less finesse and ballast, I was sent off to collect the gas barge. (cue Arlo Guthrie guitar riff) The gas barge was a converted SteelCraft cruiser. The SteelCraft was a 1940's contraption and extrapolation of the sturdier is better approach to boat building. This thing was 23 feet of steel with gunwales about 5 feet high. It had been gutted and fitted with two 500 gallon tanks and a 250 gallon tank. On the back was a bracket meant to hold an outboard motor but the adjustments were frozen by rust and layers of paint. My assignment was simple, pick up the barge, take it to town and dock it at the Government Dock where the tanks would be filled.



Nothing on Lake of the Woods is ever that simple. The barge was moored in a bay that was so full of reefs as to be non-fishable making safely securing it a challenge. The cove was sheltered and calm so I chose the safer technique of paddling in, making note of the location of reefs and shallows. Once the barge was secured side-by-side with my boat, I cut it loose from the buoy to which it was tethered and headed slowly out of the cove. No sooner did I clear into Split Rock Narrows than the wind gusted pushing the barge which was riding high in the water as it was empty. Being tied side to side with the barge limited the steering as well as speed. I resigned myself that the ten mile trip to the Falls would be a long one, but once I sorted out the steering issues, I relaxed and began to sing, a habit of mine on long boat rides. If only I had packed a lunch.



Of course the ride was not smooth, the wind was blowing straight up toward Cyclone Pointe. As soon as I cleared the narrows at the western end of Wolf Island, the waves began rolling, pitching my boat while the wind played havoc with the barge. To make the ride complete, the rain started. I have not had many rides take as long. The rain was blowing at my back, so at least I could see. I inched along the angry waters of Sabaskong toward Cyclone Pointe. I figured when I made the turn to head toward Par-a-dise Island, I would pick the shelter of the Alneau Peninsula, however this was my first solo experience with the changing weather of the lake. As I rounded the point, clearing the ring buoy with a wide berth, wind and rain met me head-on. I couldn't see through my glasses for the rain, but if I took them off, the rain was blowing hard enough I couldn't keep my eyes open. Finally, I found an angle where the brim of my baseball cap kept the rain at bay, if only slightly.



Heading into the waves, the water splashed between the boats, soaking whatever was left dry on my body. I pulled in, past the Falls, to the Government Dock and parked the barge, just as the rain ended. I peeled off my soaked windbreaker and sweatshirt, hopped back in the boat and headed to camp for hot coffee and beef stew when the realization hit that I'd be back the next day to pick up the loaded barge.

Lay of the Land

In my recent correspondences with Ruth at the Camp, we have been discussing the layout of the buildings and numbering systems.  Out of this discussion grew the question I ask on nearly a daily basis and for which I continue to seek an answer.  Why?  Why would anyone build such a camp on such a remote island?  The island is 35 acres, though mostly unbuildable Canadian Shield granite covered with thick moss that anchors the mixed forest of pine, aspen, bambigalia and other evergreen and deciduous trees.  The Camp sits on about five to seven acres that are low enough to be accessible and have enough soil to hold buildings and a septic field. 

The question I think I can start to answer is 'How was the camp built?  Which building was built first?'

I'm going to begin on the north side of the island.  Today the south side of the island in the 'front door' of the camp, but instinct says this was not always the case and the evidence seems to support this. 

The Chalet was a large log cabin that stood on a high rocky bluff, the high point of the camp parcel on the water, at the northwest corner of the camp.  This high point offered spectaular views across the mouth of Gohere Bay to Wolf Island or the mainland where bear and moose fed along a steep embankment and otters are still seen sliding down muddy spots along the bank.  The Chalet was often referred to as the original lodge building with a large central room featuring a stone fireplace and lofty ceiling.  Off the northeast and northwest corners were small bedrooms, each a few steps down.  One was later converted to a kitchenette.  A large screened porch along the western end of the building looked over the bay and was probably a great place to catch the sun sinking over the northwoods.

I do not, however, think of the Chalet as the oldest building, or even the oldest cabin.  For that, I believe, is what I knew as cabin 7.  This cabin sits at the crest of the hill overlooking the cove on the north side of the island.  I would say this was the original face of the camp as the glacial cut gives deep water right off the shoreline.  Legend tells of steamboats visiting the camp that would have needed plenty of water for their deep draft.  The cabin featured multiple rooms, a screened porch and stone fireplace. 

The current front door of the camp was most likely built later as the southern shoreline in front of the store is a shallow glacial drag.  The current pier is more than 90 feet long out of necessity.  The area that is currently decked was previously the site of a stone retaining wall, built in the 1960's to cure the mudpit that formed every spring and threatened to take the old store building into the lake.  The retaining wall allowed the addition to be built onto the old store building that made that building into the owner's cabin.  The icehouse beside the lodge building then became the store and office and the icehouse at the north side of the island, across the cove, fell into ruin.

I would say the real log cabins were built next, far enough apart to give them each a sense of isolation.  Cabin two and three atop a bluff looking south over Gohere Bay at twin islands further down the bay.  I would say the last of these is what I knew as cabin 6 at the south east corner of the island sitting beside a tiny cove on a rocky point.  This appears to be the most refined and largest of the log cabins aside from the Chalet. 

This is just conjecture of course.  Wouldn't it be great to find some great narrative from the time the camp was built in the 1920's to answer all the questions?  Was it a loggin camp or always for tourists, hunters and fisherman?  Why that island?  Why so big?  Splitrock Lodge appears to be a contemporary but is only a few buildings and is at a narrows on the main channel.  Green's was built on the mainland as a two-story, perhaps even as a hotel.  Helliar's, built when the bridge went through in the 1930's, has more of an autocamp feel next to Nestor Falls.

Today, all we can do is look and try to imagine the thoughts of the builders who first carved a settlement from the forest and laid the groundwork for the Camp we know today and be thankful for our time on Gohere Bay.