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PostPosted: August 1st, 2007, 7:49 pm 
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Joined: July 14th, 2002, 7:00 pm
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Location: Windsor, Ontario Canada
Here's a detailed trip report of the Lower Missinaibi River, June 2007.

Hope you likes it.


Lower Missinaibi River

Mattice to Moosonee: 320 Kilometres in 8 Days

David Burke
Rob Girard
The Jacksonian Institution

Swift Dumoine

Monday, June 18th, 2007

By Car: 910 Kilometres

Our trip begins at Yorkdale Mall, Toronto, 7:30 am. Not much to see here, but I scan the empty parking lot for Rob Girard, a friend, known him since pre-school but have spotted him only briefly in the past ten years. Chatted him up online, guided him through his first solo trip, and now he’s dumb enough to venture on a 10 day canoe trip with me. Some people just don’t get it.

We drive. What else would you expect? Can’t launch a canoe at Yorkdale. My green Honda takes us across the 401, up the 400, and onto Hwy 11. We yak until Huntsville, pull into town for gas, then search for a place for breakfast. Everything’s closed. We settle for McDonald’s.

Late lunch at Englehart. Farther north on this highway than I’ve ever been. Past Algonquin and Temagami and a thousand rivers and lakes, but not the one we’re looking for. A few hours later we pull into Cochrane, and begin our search for a car shuttle to Mattice, our launch pad for our Missinaibi River journey. No luck at the touristy trading post, but we meet a guy named Truman at the train station who offers us a lift for $150. Soon as he’s done work.

Mattice is farther than we expected, but at least Truman’s good for conversation. He’s got a lot of theories, let’s say, and he’s not afraid to share them. It makes the time go fast, and before long we’re in Mattice, with storm clouds rolling overhead.

The Empire Motel is our only option for a room, but Collette, the owner, won’t let us stay with a dog in tow. It’s off to the campground for us, on the banks of the river, and Truman drives away after a hearty handshake. We set up our tents, and wander up the hill for a beer and a view of the river.

Shortly after we hear a car honking, and spot one circling the gravel road near our tents. Wandering back down to see what the fuss is, a local tells us she spotted a bear sniffing around our food barrel. Nice. We were hoping for a hotel room, our last before launching into our journey, and now we’re dealing with bear problems. The bear, we notice, is hiding in a tree nearby. Luckily, the mayor of Mattice, wary of nuisance bears and wanting to keep us tourists happy, waltzes down with a few bear bangers and sends the bruin scurrying.

We watch television and swill beers in the Empire Hotel bar, chatting with Collette about the river, and flipping through the log book, a hefty tome filled with 6 years of canoeists on their way through, or beginning their journey, from this very place. A gold mine, that.

Collette kicks us out well before we’ve had our fill.

- Day One -

Mattice to Bare Rock Point (42 Km’s)
Portages: 3 (1245 Metres)

Rob’s never done a lick of white water before. Today will be a steep learning curve. After breakfast at the Empire, and a round-up of a wandering Jackson, we depart, and let the mighty Missinaibi float us towards our goal. Moosonee. 320 kilometres downriver.

Swifts here and there, nothing special, but enough to get us accustomed to the flow of the river beneath us. After a few bends we pass a small trailer park, and then hit the woods. And Rock Island Rapids. We’re not in the mood for a wild ride, with the river as high as it is (“Perfect water levels,” the locals tell us), so we opt for the walk. A clean trail, with only one knockdown to traverse, and after we take a few pictures we drop into the water on the other side.

We walk Black Feather rapids as well, though if we weren’t embarking on such a long trip we’d probably run it. The weather is nice, armies of fat clouds whipping past us from the southwest. That’s right, a tail wind, and we motor down the endless swifts and C1’s, working on our draws, our teamwork, and our river-reading skills. We scout Beam Rapids for a good long while, then decide to take the plunge. We get down into the thick of things, and the water jostles us to and fro. Jackson watches the waves go by. We tilt, and take on a wave, the water sloshing around our knees, but we are spit out at the bottom, laughing uproariously. A fun, safe ride. We wobble our way to Kettle Falls and pull out for lunch.

Quite a view here. We dawdle, snap some pictures, write in a journal, and relax. After a quick portage we drop back in the H2O and carry along. We pass Isabel Island, our goal for the night, and stride past Alice Island, content with the tail-wind. The harder we paddle today, the more time we get at Thunderhouse tomorrow.

We push on to Bare Rock Point, find it not nearly as bare as expected, and lay our tents down on a tall carpet of weeds. Meanwhile, the army of clouds collects and hovers above us. It rains, hard and steady, while our tents are open, bare, and vulnerable. We’re soaked, and huddle in our rain jackets on a small pinnacle of rock next to the river. And the bugs, for the first time, announce their presence. We’re just shy of miserable, not looking forward to crawling into a wet sleeping bag, but dancing around to stay warm when the sky peels back to reveal a brief flash of sun. We throw together a quick meal and call it a day.

- Day Two -

Bare Rock Point to Thunderhouse Falls (15 Km’s)
Portages: 1 (1645 Metres)

In the morning we’re greeted by a fisherman in an aluminium boat. He’s got a camp just past Alice Island, and we’d met him briefly in town. He’s one of the only Mattice folk, we’re told, who’ve actually been down the entire river.

“Be careful ‘round T’underhouse,” he says. “After that it’s easy. Just crawl in yer sleeping bag and float to Moosonee.”

He is the last person we will see for six and a half days.

We’ve read the book, and heard the legends. Thunderhouse is dangerous, and deadly, and we know it. It’d been on our minds the whole drive. Collette even told us a story of a woman who’d wandered into her hotel about 15 years past, looking for a cup of coffee. Her whole face was swollen with bug bites. She’d
been out on the rocks for three days, waiting to be rescued, looking for her husband who had been swept over the falls.

There’s a few swifts and C1’s on the way, potentially fun but more serious with the falls looming in the distance. We take extra care, keep a close eye on the map and the GPS, and heed the warning sign tacked onto a tree. Portage left. We take it.

With a few extra whistles to warn bears of my approach, I take to the trail, Jackson following at my heels. I feel the rumble in my feet and in my gut before I hear it with my ears, and keep trudging on. I wander up to the Gorge campsite, drop the pack, and with relief, marvel at the wonder before me.

It’s the most breathtaking place I’ve ever been on a canoe trip, to say the least. Self-propelled transportation makes the reward so much sweeter. Perhaps the road into this place, two days on the river, isn’t as difficult as the road out, another six days at least, but the remoteness of this place, and the legends and stories behind it, do leave you wowed in a big way.

The river constricts into a jaw-dropping gorge, the water pounding itself into a white froth of nastiness, spilling towards the sea. As we arrive, an army of black flies spirals up in clouds from the rapids below.

They are relentless. The only way to avoid them is to keep moving, which we do, cooking up cheese quesadillas and admiring the view, but not from one spot and not for very long. I wipe fleets of them off Jackson’s nose on a regular basis, and watch as he squirms and runs and tries to shake them. The only real refuge is the tent, but it’s too beautiful here to hide all day.

We find some relief dropping lures into Conjuring House Canyon, rock-hopping and smoking stogies and chatting, having a long, reflective conversation that only happens in a place like this.

Rain forces us in just after dusk.

- Day Three -

Thunderhouse Falls to Kilometre 235 (28 Km’s)
Portages: 2 (3225 Metres)

It’s spitting as we depart, early, for the next stretch. A few swifts and we’re at Stone Rapids. Judging by the name, the wimpy “Stone” sandwiched between Thunderhouse and Hell’s Gate, you’d think it’d be a cakewalk. Not so. It’s a monster C4, and the portage is no breeze either. 700 metres, plus a 150 metre downhill back to the river. Waiting for Rob, Jack and I explore the rapids, scurrying up the right side of the river and admiring the water washing through boulders in a torrent of white. I’m sure someone’s run it, some time, but it ‘aint gonna be me.

You need your wits about you in this section as well, for a few shallow C1’s separate you from Hell’s Gate Canyon. If you miss the portage here, I’m told, it’ll be a couple of long days before, and if, you ever get out. We chomp down a power bar and load up a pack. This is a 2.3 kilometre stroll, and we’re told it’s a doozy. A picture we spotted on the internet just before our trip of a canoeist up to his waist in muck doesn’t help our mood.

But all said and done, it isn’t as bad as expected. Steep at first, level in the middle, very steep at the end. The bugs relentless as always, even as we find a trail through the bush to a high bluff lookout over the canyon itself. It’s a good ways down, and just as mean as Thunderhouse. Great spot for pictures, but keep an eye for the ledge. You don’t want to go down the hard way.

I’m hoping for a swim after the portage is over, a chance to wash off three days of sweat and grime, but the flies won’t allow it. The second I wade in they attack, and I scramble to put my clothes on with the incessant hum circling my ears, the tiny gnawings at every inch of exposed flesh. They’ve gone past the point of “bites” in some places on my body and gone straight to “welts.” I push off, frantically swatting, miserable, and in no shape to tackle the C2 rapids below us.

But I’ve got no choice. With the river running this fast, it takes some quick manoeuvring. Good thing we’re well practiced now, for there are no portages. With equal shouts of both orders and encouragement, we dodge a few boulders, holes, and curling waves, and land in Bell’s Bay, a wide section of water where we can relax and catch our breath.

Or so we had hoped. A headwind greets us here, the first of the trip, and one that will last until we beach at Moosonee. We bow our heads to the wind, lean into our paddles, and ride a few more swifts until we reach the wide, shallow section of the river we’d expect to ride until the end.

We pass Coal River, the going good, and beach at a gravel / sand bed at the mouth of a creek at Kilometre 235. This isn’t Algonquin camping. There’s no fire pit, no picnic tables, and no trees to protect us from the elements. We haul up our canoe to give us some wind break, and throw up our tents as another rain squall approaches. We crawl in just before it begins to pour. Again.

- Day Four -

Kilometre 235 to Soweska River (45 Km’s)
Portages: Thankfully, None.

Every trip’s got a beginning, a middle, and an end. The way I pictured it, the first three days of our trip would be spent reaching and navigating the rapids and excitement around Thunderhouse. The middle three days would be spent lazily sailing down the remainder of the Missinaibi, dappled in sunshine, loving the tailwind, and watching the river go by. And the final three days would be spent approaching civilization, touring the wide Moose River and dreaming of the beers we’d have when we got to Moosonee.

The tailwind doesn’t exactly work out. We carry a tarp along with the idea of sailing, but instead buck a headwind most of the way, or whenever our path lines up directly with the northeast, which is often. We wake up early to a cold snap, the mosquitoes, hundreds of them, frozen like statues on the outer walls of our tent. We brush them off like crumbs from a bed sheet. The river fogs up, creating an eerie mist down the length of the river. After a pancake breakfast we pack up and push off, the mist enveloping us then disappearing as the sun rises.

We stop at the Pivabiskau River and search among the weeds and shrubs for the remains of fur trade posts. With this much undergrowth we don’t see a thing, but can tell that the land has once been cleared, and we imagine the rest. What a place it would have been, then.

On we push, digging hard, occasionally drifting when the wind doesn’t push us back upstream. Some sections, according to the map, will be long and potentially dull, but there are always a few unmarked swifts or bald eagles perched high in the trees to make the time go by. And we tell jokes. Lots of jokes. Each one jolting a memory of some other, heard long ago by a campfire or while bellied up to a bar somewhere. After this long together, Rob and I realize even the dumbest conversations have merit. Topics that would isolate you from all but the nerdiest groups in civilization work wonders here, just to pass the time. And the bad jokes seem to work best, too.

We push on to the Soweska River, Kilometre 190, and decide to call it a day. It is early still, but we can use the rest. A short walk downstream lies the remains of one Joseph Marten, born and died 1924. You’d never see it, high on a bluff next to a birch cross, unless the map pointed it out to you. It’s good for a hike and a solemn wonder of the cause.

There’s an official campsite here, in the woods, somewhat littered and rampaged by bugs. We camp on the beach instead, sea-kayaker style, and Rob fashions a level spot using a piece of driftwood as a rake. Sad that we bypass an official campsite in favour of gravel, but we’ve come to learn that while the paddling on the Missinaibi is A+, the camping experience leaves something to be desired.

- Day Five -

Soweska River to Kilometre 140 (50 Km’s)
Portages: Thankfully, None

Rob takes over the stern duties for the first time. It’s nice to mix things up a little. Suddenly I have something else to look at besides the back of Rob’s head. No word on whether or not mine is fun to look at.

Bald eagles are cool. By the end of the trip we’ll have seen about 25 of them, some circling the sky in long, graceful arcs, others perched in trees and keeping a sharp eye on us. Just when we think the river might get dull, we spot a bear nibbling at berries along the shoreline. We watch, paddling slowly and silently by, until he spots us and rumbles off into the bush.

Shortly after, a beaver scatters down the river’s embankment, landing with a hard belly flop on the river below. Jackson wants to chase, but we hold him tight.

Later, as we tend to do when Jackson gets antsy, we find a level stretch of shoreline and let him out to track us along the shore. Here he can sniff and run and burn some energy, and for a kilometre or so he carries what looks like a dead squirrel in his mouth, then drops it as quickly as he picked it up. We hit some shallows though, and turn to the middle of the river to charge through a swift. Jackson, sensing this change in direction, follows us. The hard way. By swimming. We meet in a shallows in the middle of the river. He hops in, and shakes the water free from his coat. I have my rain jacket ready. Rob is not so lucky.

Lunch on a gravel bar next to the Rabbit River is delicious: smarties and peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Drifting downriver, we light a stogie and smoke it happily in honour of passing the 160 mark, the half-way point, distance-wise, of our trip. We talk, for some reason, about dentists.

We burn through 50 kilometres by day’s end, and camp on the gravel shores of an island at Kilometre 140. Just before that site, however, we spot an aluminium cabin on river left, and wander up for a look. It’s an old Government of Canada building, a cabin and a shed, left there as some kind of research station, no doubt, and totally empty [It’s the Waboose Hydrological Station, the book tells me.] Rusted bed frames and propane cylinders litter the grounds, along with fallen trees and scraps of plywood. We’d love to sleep indoors tonight, but the building itself is nearly in tatters. Only in desperation would I seek shelter there. Instead we sleep outdoors and fight the bugs again. But the gravel is surprisingly comfortable.

- Day Six -

Kilometre 140 to Portage Island, Moose River (50 Km’s)
Portages: Thankfully, None

The sky is getting bigger. The trees smaller. We’re paddling further north, and loving it every minute we’re not harassed by bugs. Neither of us have been anywhere close to this far north in Ontario. By tomorrow, this will be my longest canoe trip. Rob passed that mark two days ago.

All this swinging a paddle has left my right elbow feeling like it will seize up at any moment. I pop a few Advil’s to keep the inflammation down. All the torque of being in the stern is relieved by the occasional stretch in the bow. I suppose my baseball career is to blame, for before I left a two inning stint on the pitcher’s mound and a few curveballs left me in elbow agony. Not sure if Rob’s going to like the idea of paddling to Moosonee by himself. Especially with this headwind. So much for the guy who said we could just crawl into our sleeping bags.

Shortly after breaking camp we reach Deception Rapids. The name itself causes worry, but there’s nothing to do but cinch the packs tight and run ‘er. This we do, sneaking around the corner to see the white stuff tumbling, and then sploosh! We’re in the middle of it.

And it’s a lot busier than you’d expect. “Hard!” I yell, seeing us getting pushed around by the big waves. “Draw!” I yell, seeing a rock that could cause some discomfort.

By now, the blackflies had left us alone and a horde of horseflies had come in their place. They aren’t biting, but they buzz Jackson’s ears and send him scurrying for a tasty treat. All the protein he could want. So as we tumble down this truly deceiving C2 (I’d give it a C3 based on the wave-height), Jackson lurches back and forth until we splash into a wave, and fill the boat half-full of water.

Much like Beam Rapids 170 kilometres upstream, however, there is nothing to do but laugh. We wobble to shore and dump the canoe, while munching on snacks and a Tootsie Roll pop. A fun ride, and if there was a quick and easy portage, I’d love to do it again.

We cruise down the last of the Missinaibi. Nothing on the maps to suggest anything exciting, but a few swifts nonetheless. The river is beautiful here, the blue sky hanging above and the shoreline spruce trees hovering darkly above the horizon. Lots of forest here. Once you go in you may never come out.

We say good-bye to the Missinaibi at Km. 90, and hello to the Moose. We also spot the finish to the Mattagami before we limp, tired, into our Portage Island campsite. Just as many bugs here as before, and though Jackson chases squirrels through the woods I scorch a pizza on the Outback Oven and make myself sick by hauling too exuberantly off a celebratory stogie (my last). I’m thankful it’s not food poisoning, or something worse, for even though we’re only 20 kilometres from our potential “out” at the Moose River crossing, the wilderness is no place to be sick.

- Day Seven -

Portage Island to Kilometre 52 (38 Km’s)
Portages: Thankfully, None

Let’s face it. The Moose River lacks a certain charm. Though I would, someday, paddle the Missinaibi again, I would gladly take the out at the Moose River Crossing rather than trudge on, but we’ve signed up for the whole trip to Moosonee and nothing’s gonna stop us from getting there.

Kind of a downer, though. We are all excited to have finished the Missinaibi, but didn’t realize we’d lack the energy to start a new river. We’re sluggish all day, lazily paddling without a whole lot of effort. There’s brief excitement as we slip under the Crossing, and we’re happy we made it through without seeing anybody, which will stretch our feeling of being the only two people (and dog!) on earth for another day.

We pass gypsum caves on the left shore, and lunch on another gravel bar, mid-river, away from blackflies but not from horseflies. Jack nabs a few. Our shoulders are crispy from a long stretch of paddling shirtless. We’re quiet much of the time, perhaps musing along with the wilderness or just having run out of things to say. The wind shifts to our tail for some sections, not long enough to hoist a sail, but when we round an island around Km. 52, 7 shy of our plan, we are struck by a monster breeze kicking up whitecaps in the river’s wide stretches. We walk along the shore, admiring the purple-turning sky and the tracks left by Sandhill Cranes, then set up our tents again and call it a day. A beautiful island, with a fresh breeze keeping us cool and bug free. Only on the Missinaibi can you call 38 kilometres a slack day.

- Day Eight -

Kilometre 52 to Moosonee (52 Km’s)
Portages: 1 (200 Metres)

It’s a brisk wind, baby. And a little bit cold. But what are we to do? Sit in our tents and let the wind howl through the guy lines? Let it rain on us all day? Or are we here to paddle, and paddle to Moosonee, where we can get things to reward us for all our hard work, like cold beer, a hot shower, and a cheeseburger?

Amazing the amount of effort it takes to paddle into a headwind. A few days ago I could picture us floating gallantly down the last section of the Moose, singing the theme song to Bonanza as we approach our goal, but that’s not reality. Instead we’re ducking behind islands (Baby, Wikikanishi, Nipiminanak) for a brief respite, and pulling into shore for a brief walk and to warm our chilled hands and hearts.

This is exhausting work. By the time we reach last night’s goal of Km. 145, we’re already tired, but still the thought of reaching the finish line drags us out of our waking slumber. We admire the Allan Rapids of the Abitibi River as we slowly push past it, figuring on more water to float our canoe, but that isn’t the case. It’s shallow here, and we wiggle and scrape before finding the deep stuff where we can sink our paddles all the way down.

We lunch on shore, across from the Negobau Islands, finding we still have at least three days of food left to sustain us should we need it. But we’re two days ahead of schedule, and hoping to tour Moosonee and Moose Factory before we take the train back home. Kwetabohigan is our last major obstacle, a potential C3 we’ve been thinking about the last few days, it being the only substantial rapid left. It worries me more than it should, partially because I don’t have the nerve left for any whitewater, and also because the wind is cold, and getting colder. A dunk here would make us miserable indeed.

We approach from the left, as the guide book says, avoiding the heavy flow of centre and right. But we quickly learn that there’s nothing here to float us on. Separating us from the deep stuff below is a long stretch of shallow, rock-studded, impassable water. And then we finally spot our first fellow member of the human race in six and a half days: a fisherman roaring his aluminium boat upstream through the rapids. We are stuck in the shallows to his right, and he doesn’t even look over to wave.

So after I throw a fit of epic proportions, swearing and cursing at everything and everyone in sight, caused, I would think, by fear and exhaustion, we stumble, drag, and somewhat float over the rocky stretch until we join the flow half-way through.

It’s not nearly as bad as we expected. We avoid the bigger waves and trickle down the left side.

The Moose gets wider here. Impossibly wide, so we stick to the left and slug into the wind. It’s a bit of a mirage in places, the land diving down toward the sea, and in places we can’t quite see where the land ends and the sky begins. The horizon line is blurred.

We think about stopping at Tidewater Park, but opt for a hot shower instead. We’d camp if the weather was nice. After our wading and lining we’ve become cold, and near-shivering in the wind. But we keep paddling. We glide over a few rapids, hugging the left shore by Minahik Point, and push on. There’s a wide open stretch under a power line, and we’ve got to paddle up the gut, into the wind. The only thing that gives us a brief rest is the amusing gronk of a Sandhill Crane wading along a reedy shore.

We’re too tired to even stop for a rest. Finally we dive behind Maidman’s Island, and all is calm. Houses and cottages line the channel, and we slide past a float plane getting ready for take-off.

In the open bay by the docks the headwind reintroduces itself. We push past it however, and glide against the wood.

Wednesday, June 27th, 2007

By Train: 299 Kilometres
By Car: 5 Kilometres

There ain’t a whole lot to do in Moosonee. We learn this early on, content to lounge in our beds and watch sports highlights, trying to figure out a way to sneak Jackson out of the hotel room. We’d snuck him in late at night, after a few beers and yes, a cheeseburger, at the Sky Ranch Restaurant. The hotel owner wanted us to tie him out back, and we would be fine with this were Jackson not an inveterate howler, scratching at the window until we let him in. It’s been a while since he’s slept on a bed, too.

It’s raining, and it’s cold. Glad we pushed on and finished the trip, otherwise we’d be miserable. We hit up the Sky Ranch for bacon and eggs, then take the tour. Founded in 1903, Moosonee is a northern town of 2500 souls, and carries with it an air of hibernation. You can picture February snow drifts up to the eaves, and thick, three-day squalls blowing across the street lamps. No one in sight. When we arrive, however, the streets are alive. Summertime. Pick-up trucks tear through town with dogs, cargo, and fleets of kids loaded in the back. They burn down dirty, unpaved side-streets, and pull into the grocery/department store parking lot, where the native Cree – who comprise 80% of the town’s population — idle under the porch smoking, chatting, and watching a cloud of rain roll in from the Bay.

There are a great number of cars and trucks in Moosonee, which is funny because everything in town is within walking distance. Unless you count your friend Joe who lives by the airport, and Joe’s cousin Pete who lives in Moose Factory, an equally sized town perched on an island in the middle of the Moose River. Just head to the docks and slip $10 to any of the waiting water taxi services, and 10 minutes later you’ll arrive, unceremoniously dumped at the docks next to the Moose Factory hospital.

Founded in 1673 by the Hudson’s Bay Company, it’s quite obvious the hospitality industry needs work here. By the time we arrive it is raining steadily, and the dirt roads are awash in a six inch layer of slop. No one, not even the many taxi cabs speeding by, offers a lift or directions. We follow a tourist map to the old Hudson Bay Company post and peek through the windows. Not much to see. Tourist season, we’re told, doesn’t start for another three days, and all we find for entertainment is an old cemetery, there since 1834, or longer, judging by the leaning, moss-covered headstones that afford a great view of the fog-cloaked bay.

For a price, you can talk a shuttle into taking you out there, but there’s not much to see. Just Ship Sands Island, nesting ground for Canadian Geese, and the bay itself. Salt water. Miles upon miles of it, desolate and cold, with even less hospitable Hudson’s Bay on its back. We buy our tickets for the Polar Bear Express instead, and spend an hour portaging our gear down the sidewalk, not receiving as many awkward glances one would expect when carrying a canoe on one’s head. In a few hours it will depart, with scores of locals heading south to hit up the Cochrane Wal-Mart or visit relatives in Timmins, and we’ll sit beside them in the beer cart and watch the scenery go by. Otter Rapids, a monstrous dam and 40,000 kW generating station on the Abitibi River, is a highlight, if you’re unconcerned by environmental disasters. As are the endless rows of spruce trees, growing thicker and stronger, and giving way to red and white pine the further we go south.

While we wait for our train, we while away time at the Sky Ranch, swilling beer and eating pizza.

“Rainy out there,” I say to the waitress, a Newfoundlander, we’d learn, who transposed her entire family of husband and three teenaged kids to work here. It’s sad to think there’s more work here than on The Rock.

“At least there’s no bugs and no dust,” she says, as another customer tramples in, his work boots tracking a thick layer of mud across her tiled floor.

Thursday, June 28th, 2007

By Car: 735 Kilometres

We wake in Cochrane’s Chimo Motel next to a pile of empty beer cans. The sun streams in through the window, and the rumble of trucks along Highway 11 urge us on.

8 hours of driving later, the trip is complete.

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PostPosted: August 1st, 2007, 8:32 pm 
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Joined: June 20th, 2001, 7:00 pm
Posts: 7514
Location: Scarbados, Ontario Canada
Good report - thanks for sharing!

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