The Tent Dwellers, circa 2015

“If you are willing to get wet and stay wet — to get cold and stay cold — to be bruised, and scuffed

and bitten — to be hungry and thirsty and to have your muscles strained and sore from unusual taxation; if you will become these things, not once, but many times, for the sake of moments of pure triumphs, and that larger luxury which comes with the comfort of the camp and the conquest of the wilderness, then go! The wilderness will welcome you, and teach you, and take you to its heart. And you will find your own soul there; and the discovery will be worth while.”

I first read the tent dwellers when I was 16. Bought my copy at a yard sale. At that younger age i enjoyed the book for the story it was, without the conext experience provides.

You see The Tent Dwellers is a story of 4 men on a three week long canoeing/trout fishing trek through the wilderness of my home province of Nova Scotia in 1908. The Nova Scotia described and the Nova Scotia today differ widely as you might imagine. In 1908, the unspoiled waters of Nova Scotia teemed with trout, big and small. The woodlands untouched. The Acid Rain not yet scorching the pristine waters.

This post though is not about that exactly. You see the book is a story of respect and love for the outdoors. The toughness and dedication of those who fished it. It is about the feeling of connecting with the outdoors, a group of friends, the fsh and it is a chronicle of all of it.


So this year, the group of us who May Fly fish together decided to do our own tent dwellers trip. We don't have time for three weeks, so three days will do.  So in early May we will pack our gear, lift out canoes and travel to some remote lakes. Sleeping by the shore, eating under the stars and photographing and chronicling it all. Our own Tent Dwellers circa 2015. There is still special fishing in Nova Scotia. We have done a lot of it already, but this May we will get it all in word in pictures and save it here for posterity.

We have done these trips before. The formation of our now camp started with week long trips in tents, in rain, in snow, in the cold. Wet for a week straight. We have never done it with the idea of keeping it in detail for future reads or looks.

I am neither a writer nor a photographer and certainly not Albert Bigelow Paine, but the motivation is the same, and the results, whatever they may be and for us at least, will be special.

How The Toronto Maple Leafs Ruined May Fly Fishing (For One Day)

May 8, 2000

I know what you are thinking. The Leafs don't play hockey in May. Usually, you would be right, but once upon a time, they did occasionally. For me, a Montreal fan, I could care less. Derrick however was a huge Leaf fan.

It had been a long day on the water. Sunny in the morning, cloudy in the afternoon, and the temperature satyed at about 7 degrees for the better part of the day. The conditions though, were perfect. A light breeze was just enough to carry fly across the lake and the fly were thick. So we did well, right? Well, not exactly. You see the small lake not far from the camp is not your typical lake. You have to work it hard to get fish, but it holds the biggest fish in the area. So it is a risk/reward lake. My favourite kind.

For Derrick though, tonight was Game 6 of the conference semi finals and his goal, was to leave the lake before dark (prime time) to watch his Leafs stave off elmination. So shortly before game time, he came to us and asked if we were going to go back to the camp and watch the game. Our reply was swift. "It's prime time". Derrick nodded and told us he would get the camp warm.

Now it is almost dark. Stephen and I caught nothing so far. Seen a few big fish move, but that was it. So we decide to go back and join Derrick at the camp. As we paddle back in low light, in the North side of the lake we see a raise. then another, then another. There is a big fish getting spent fly in the cove, and Stephen decides to go after it. As he is paddling to it, I see a raise just 50 feet of the shoal. I paddle out. It moves again. Another big fish. As I drop my anchor to move the boat around. As my anchor hits bottom, Stephen hooks his fish. It is large and the rod bends deeply. I check to see if he wants help, he says fish mine. I cast, and as the fly hits the water, the fish takes.

The next few minutes, we are landing our fish near the shoal. Derrick arrives as we do. He watches us bring them in. "Holy shit" was all he could muster. We measure the fish, both are 18 and 3/4 inches and close to four pounds. Almost like twins. We ask Derrick about the game on the walk to the camp. "It's over. The Leafs had 6 shots on goal, lost 3-0."

Stephen and I laughed. Like true Habs fans, our team missed the dance, we found our joy in the relative failure of the Leafs, and the biggest double header either of us will ever experince, for Trout at least. As for Derrick, we got back to the camp and he poured a drink. He took a snap of it, looked at us and said "The Leafs Ruined The May Fly". You can only laugh.

A Long Walk Home

I have written about our trips the camp many times. I usually keep them light and focused on fishing but the truth is the camp was and is always about more than that. My wife calls it the he Man Woman Haters Club and while that is not true, the sentiment that it is a sanctuary where us, as friends take a week and do what we like to do best, May Fly fishing. We have done it for a lot of years now. 25 maybe as a group.

I met my friend Derrick Gage, oddly enough, fishing. The first time was at a meadow stream in Stewiacke. He was friends with another friend of mine and we hit it off right away. Derrick and I fished on a regular basis from that point on. Many trips yearly, leading into the time we decided, along with Steven and Stephen to build a camp.

In May of 2010, at the camp Derrick informed us he had cancer. He told us, and to this day I think it was for us, it was skin cancer. He would take drugs for it, some Chemo and all would be good. It was treated by him as minor and we fished, drank, told our stories and moved on from it. Over the course of the next two years though, things got worse. We rarely spoke of it, respecting his space and how he wanted to deal with it.

In May of 2012, we brought Derrick back to the camp. His health had deteriorated, so we wanted to make sure that he made this trip. Unlike the other trips in the past, this one was not about the rum, and the laughs, and the stories. This one felt necessary. It was about making sure that our friend got to spend May Fly at his favorite place in the world.

Sadly, Derrick never fished there. The walk to the camp was hard for him. A 10 minute walk for a healthy man, took us over 30 minutes. Derrick sat and caught his breath, got some sleep, but never really got his legs under him. Over the next 24 hours, fishing was not important. We ate, we talked, we kept our friend in good spirits. We talked past trips, the best catches, the funniest stories.

The next morning all went fishing except for me and of course Derrick. He slept, and was clearly uncomfortable. When he woke, I offered to drive him home. We agreed that the next morning we would make our way out.

The next day we all walked Derrick out. The trip took longer than the way in. Frequent rests, many stops, slow movements and a lot of pain. Once we reached the car, things got difficult. Long time friends, all saying goodbye. It was a difficult time. Everyone tried to keep a brave face. When Derrick and I got in the truck, he turned to me and said " I am never going to be back here again." I bit down hard and patted him on the shoulder. Sadly, he was right.

Derricks last fish was caught on the Bonaventure River, in September of 2011. It was his bucket list trip and he got the fish on the last full day of fishing. A large Hen Salmon that any fly fisherman would have been proud of. He passed away on August 18th, 2012 at the age of 48.

Four Friends, Forty Ounces, And The Funniest Tarp I Ever Met

It's May, 1999. Steven F and Derrick have already made the trip to the camp, before there was a camp of course. They will set up a campsite, and Steven B and I will join them. Work, once again, has gotten in the way for us.

Steven and I take off Friday at 6:00 pm. Our only stop is the liquor store. A pint and a forty of rum and we are on the way. Now keep in mind. We had no camp. No set meeting spot, no cell phone service. We got there at 8:00 pm, and it is dark. Too dark to walk anywhere, and we didn't even know where. Steven cracks the pint and in a few short minutes, it is only a memory. From there we are unsure of what to do. My Toyota truck was a single cab. Can't sleep there. We could set a tent up near the truck, but we have no fire, no stove, nothing. I honk the horn of the truck, hoping someone hears. I honk a few more times. Ten minutes later, Steven F. comes out of the path with a flashlight. We are saved. Sort of.

We get to the campsite. It is a tent, a portable table for the stove, and a big campfire. A tarp was placed from tree to tree to give cover from the rain, which has fallen all week long and continues into the weekend. We open the forty. It is gone almost as quick as the pint. Needless to say, we are not sober. Not at all. We stand and tell stories under the tarp. Rain collects on it as we speak. From nowhere, the edges folds down and dumps a gallon of water on Derricks head. Laughing is not a great description of what we did. We lost composure. We laughed until parts of us hurt.

We fix the tarp, and Derrick wisely moves to the other end. Another 40 minutes or so pass, Derricks cigarette gets dashed by more water than dumped on him the first time. Again, we lost it. Worse this time.

That is about the last thing I remember from that night. Steven B and I set up our tent. I know that because we woke up in it. I also know we put waders on to keep us dry from the downpour. I know, because I woke up wearing them. We wake at about 5 AM. It is first early light hitting the tent. I can feel it tearing through my not yet opened eyes. I give Steven a nudge. "Time to get up". I get a mumble in return, and then a "yeah, lets go fishing".

I move my feet. I hear splashing. Steven moves his feet. We hears splashing. I move mine again. Same result. We look down, and we laugh harder than we did the night before with the tarp. We set the tent up near the edge of the lake. The lake has a marshy side and the bottom edge of the tent was down into a wet hole. When we looked down, water was over our sleeping bags, up to our waists. Our state the night before ignored or simply never noticed that.

We fished hard the next two days, and we did well. The rain hampered us but in the times it stopped, the fishing was hot. Occasionally this story still comes up around a drink at the camp. Four younger fools, who are now four older fools. A lot has changed since then. Some good, some not. I think another trip for all four of us at the same time is in order. It has been too long.

A Foggy Wednesday

My alarm goes off at 5:30 in the morning. I am not in the comfort of my own bed, yet I am still strangely comfortable. The camp at this hour is still dark, and with the overnight fire gone, the air is crisp. The kettle slips on to the just lit burner and the water on it's bottom hisses. Within minutes i am on the front deck, a steaming cup of tea in my hand. The sky is just warming with some light, but the air is damp, and foggy. We have been in since Sunday, and every day has been the same. Today appears to offer nothing different.

It had not been my best trip so far. In 2 full days of fishing, i caught one fish. A 10 inch monster whose catch and release took 30 seconds of my time. I saw many. I had spread fly over the water and was rewarded with moving fish. I just couldn't catch them. While Steven and Derrick were at another lake getting fish each day, my stubborn side kept me at the small lake. Looking for that elusive "lurker" i saw move the first morning in the water. My tunnel vision has taken over.

I arrive at my canoe and look over at the far shore. There is a slight breeze from the diagonal at the shore. Like Tuesday, I release fly and let the breeze take them to the shore. Nothing. I do it again. This time a nice trout moves. Not a "lurker" but a good fish. I cast and my fly lands a foot shy. I leave it and the trout takes. I miss it, and it is gone. Those seven words have been my week. I paddle to shore, and as I am about to get out and head for the camp, I decide to reload with fly and try once more.

My fly make it to shore untouched. The breeze takes them along the shoreline past the white crown land marker. As it does, a raise. Then another. Then two more. I cast into the middle of it. It seems it is another small fish but right now I'll take it. The fish takes my fly and to my surprise, my rod bends heavily as i set the hook. The size of a fish while it is in the water is hard to guess. All I know is it is the largest trout I have ever had hooked. It's tail breaks the surface and sends water flashing to the rocks. It goes deep again and takes line from the reel. As it gets close to the boat it nears the surface. It is huge. It's belly is dark red, and the fins a stark white edged in black.

In the end, 17.5 inches and about 3 pounds of native Brook Trout. A prize any angler would be proud of. Amongst the small talk at the camp in the evenings are the stories of the one that got away and the one that you will hook tomorrow. On this night, my glass of rum warmed me a little better. The foggy morning that did not impress me when i awoke, was the sky i hoped for the next day. After three days of fishing i had caught two trout. One 10 inch monster that took 30 seconds to land, and one a little bit bigger. I couldn't have been happier.

Camp Trip 2009 - Day One

May 5, 2009 was the beginning of the Mayfly trip for 2009. Every year we speculate on the timing. Too early? Too late? Right on time? The good thing about the may fly, is you can make any of those situations work. This year, we were right on time.

I fish a small lake near the camp. Three small connected bodies of water with a unique structural layout. Rock bars, drop offs, weedy coves. The lake is nestled in between two hardwood hills, and gets a natural windbreak because of it. The winds prevail most of the time from the south, and in this lake, as long as the wind is manageable, it serves as a fly feeder to the trout. The nice thing is the lake is deceiving. Many an angler has passed it by without even wetting a line in it. It is small and shallow around the shorelines, and nearly impossible to fish without a boat. Yet it holds Brook Trout over 3 pounds. In Nova Scotia, that is trophy quality. A few years back, Stephen F and i had a double header. Both Trout over 18.5" and 3.5 pounds. It is truly a special piece of water.

We arrive around noon, canoe strapped onto the truck, and begin the process of hauling in food, gear, etc for the week. It can be an arduous task but on day 1 there is always a spring in everyone's step. By 5:30 everything is done, supper is eaten, and it is time to hit the lake. The winds are up and the air is pretty cool for early May, but the fly are thick on the bush and with a little work, I fan them out over the upper end of the lake, and wait.


Fly fishing is a game of patience. Especially around the camp. They are tough lakes to fish. The Trout do not rise without good reason. They do not rise in great numbers, and they do not rise consistently. We have to work these lakes. That means we send a lot of fly out to cover a lot of water, and then if you wait long enough, the fish will move. On night one, about a half hour in, and the first fish is moving. It takes 10 or so casts before i hook up with a fat 13" trout at about 1.5 pounds. Before dark, another one moves, and in two casts, a 15" male comes to the boat, about 1.75 pounds. Both caught, both released. A good start to any trip

First Trip - Let There Be Light

The first trip into the camp every year is one part anticipation, one part trepidation. After a rough winter there can be any amount of bad things that can happen to a camp deep in the back woods. So this year Steven F and I made small talk and made the walk. The last section of the walk is over a hill. At the top of the hill i took a look, and saw the chimney and commented to Steven it was still standing. I followed that up with an "Uh-Oh".

Our camp is built in the middle of a small nestling of trees. A couple of those trees are large. The largest, a Spruce too wide to wrap your arms around, was no longer visible. At least not the top of it. Visible over the camps roof line, was the snarled broken trunk of the giant tree. The rest of the tree was no longer visible. We were relieved when we came alongside the camp and saw the branches had hit the roof, but the trunk went two feet to the side of the building. Avoiding destruction of our roof, if only by a matter of inches.

So now we have some work to do. A large tree will have to be limbed, cut up, and hauled away into the woods. It will be a lot of work, but it beats the alternative. On the bright side (pardon the pun), the camp is wired the generator is working, and i caught my first fish of 2009, a beautifully coloured 14 inch brookie. The big trip starts on May 4th, and the timing in terms of the hatch looks dead on, and the water level and temperature is right on. If everything holds true, we are in for a hell of a fishing trip.

What Do You Mean They Are Calling For A Hurricane?

At 12:19 on September 29, 2003, Hurricane Juan made landfall near Halifax as a category 2 storm. For most of us still able to feed ourselves, this marked the first time in our lives we had seen a storm of this magnitude. The funny thing was, even though we were all told about, hardly anyone prepared for it, hardly anyone really believed it was coming. It was a frightening storm. houses shook, trees fell and bent to 90 degree angles, pieces blew off cars and roofs got torn off. Sadly a paramedic lost his life. What does this have to do with fishing? A few things.

First of all, the storm brought a ton of rain and gave us a September with swollen rivers, and some of the best September trout fishing i can remember. It also brings to mind story about our camp. In 2003, the camp was done for about 3 years. The fishing there was incredible each year, without fail. The camp is also about an hour from Halifax.

Steven F lives across the street from me. The morning after Juan, i walked out onto our street. There was no power. No kids running on the street, no cars driving around. It was eerily quiet in some ways. I stood in the middle of the road and looked around at uprooted trees, siding strewn on the ground, pieces of leaves and grass plastered against homes and vehicles. Steven walked out of his door. He came over and said hello, and looked around with me, Everything was a mess. The whole city was shut down. For three or four minutes we just looked around, somewhat in awe of it all. Steven then looked at me. "I hope the camp is OK" he said. I laughed at the seemingly stupid comment, and then agreed with him.

Container Ship

I found this going through some old pictures the other day. This picture really captures the feeling of what we did to try and finish a camp we wisely decided to build in the middle of nowhere. After a few weeks of building, we had a roof tight shell. We could sit inside, (on the floor), we could sleep in it, (on the floor), we could cook in it..... you get the picture. So it is late spring, and we want to get this thing ready for the next may fly season.

Once again, our trusty 8 foot punt became a commercial shipping liner. Loaded many times over with chairs, rugs, dishes, cabinets, counter tops and countless other household type goods we made trip after trip. When summer began we need only the bunks and the wood stove back there. Those are stories worthy of their own post.

Day 4 - A Requiem

For the third night in a row, it rained. Tents, sleeping bags, every piece of clothing i had with me was soaking wet. We woke up groggy but took a bit of energy from the fact that all of that wood was now here. We also now had a floor, and one standing wall, studs only of course. Every muscle in my body ached, my shoulders felt like someone had sanded them and my back was more sore than i ever imagined it could be. But, we did it. We stood all four outside walls and braced them and decided it was time to go.

After two trips in and out to haul gear and garbage, we climbed into the 1985 Chevy and drove out to where the van waited. In the van, i left dry boots, clothes, and socks. The smartest thing i did all week. As i changed, on the heel of my foot i found a blood blister the size of a golf ball. It almost seemed alive. It made me queasy to see it. I covered it with a sock, and my work boot, and we drove home, very quietly. We all were equally tired, but i think equally satisfied in what we accomplished.

When i got home, my wife said hello and simply pointed me to the shower. It lasted 45 minutes. Never did a shower feel so good. Now it was 8:00 pm and i am laying on my couch. My wife is rubbing my shoulders as we exchange stories about the days i was away. At that moment i thought i might never go back to the camp again. This was so much better. This was home. It took a few days to shake that off. In two weeks, we were up there again, although this time was all building and very little hauling.

As i read back about what i wrote about these four days, i realize it sounds like i am whining. A lot of people would give their eye teeth to have a place like this, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by some of the best stillwater fly fishing to be found in Nova Scotia. All i had to do was lend my shoulders and back for a week or so. It was a small price to pay. It still will never be forgotten.

Day Three - "What I Wouldn't Give For A Cellphone"

I wake up groggy to a comforting sound. My wife and i like to lay in bed and listen to the rain, and it is raining hard. I turn my head. That ain't my wife. Steven B. is waking at the same time. We get up and light the Coleman stove and start cooking up 2 pounds of bacon. The others join us. It's 6:00 am. Hungover, tired, sore and most of all, wet, there will be no fishing today. All of us agree we have to finish that woodpile today, because we have nothing left inside of us. We are now running on willpower and stubbornness. Breakfast tastes great, although moss would probably taste great in our current state.

So we start. We are wet all the way through from three days of steady rain, and today is the hardest rain yet. We haul wood all day long. We overload our shoulders most of the time because we are finishing today, come hell or high water. Finally, we are making the last trip to the wood. It is close to dusk and Steven, Stephen, Derrick and I are heading for the last of it. There is one piece of pine siding left for each of us. We each grab one and we carry it in a parade of sorts. A real life parade of fools. We walk proudly to the campsite, and dump off our last pieces onto the new woodpile, and then open a celebratory beer. There will be no more walking today, no more tripping in that path, now more sloshing rubber boot noises. We are done.

Steven F. then looks at me. "Did you tell your wife you would call her?" The colour drains from my face. Quietly, i say yes. "I told mine too" he says. Without speaking, we both get up and prepare to walk yet again. Through the path, tripping more than ever because it is dark. We get out to the 1985 Chevy Diesel and start it. In minutes it is warmed up and the heat is on and feels better than anything i have felt in three days. Steven is driving and he is running an Indy race on a logging road. We are getting sucked into ruts, plowing through soupholes. I have a lit smoke hanging out the window and brown muddy puddle water splashes up and drenches it. About half way out, we see lights. Lots of lights. We pull to the side and agree it must be a logging rig, but it is really moving. As it gets closer, we see it is a Ford F-350, almost brand new, with lights all over the cab, and it is hauling a trailer behind it. That trailer is bouncing and rocking back and forth as the truck blows by us without even slowing down. He coats the front window of the Chevy so thick with mud, we had to get out and wipe it off before the wipers could do the rest.

When we get to town and we have to drive to three pay phones before we find on that works. We make our calls. I wanted to be home right then. I would never have admitted it, but i wanted it bad. We drove back quicker than we drove out. We trip through the path but as we do, the rain stops. The winds die down. The heat of the truck has made me realize how cold the air really is. When we got to the camp, the woodpile is done, neat and tidy. The fire is blazing, and on our new camp floor sits a bottle of rum, a Coleman lantern, a bottle of Pepsi, and six glasses. A celebration of sorts. The six of us sit down and pour drinks. The air is now vividly calm. We all start our drinks, and then it begins to snow. That's right, it is snowing on the 5th of May. Our defense mechanism kicks in and we all start to laugh. It is either that or cry. A few drinks and we are all off to bed. Wet beds that offer little comfort, but when you are as exhausted as we were, it doesn't really matter. Beyond any other feelings we may have had, two brought us some comfort. One, we had a finished floor for our camp, and two, we are going home tomorrow. Thank God.

Does A 40 Ouncer Really Ease Pain?

Day 2 Of Four Days I Will Never Forget, Even Though I Want To

Of all of the guys involved in the camp, i have known Steven B. the longest. We were friends since i was 16 or so, and we have fished together ever since then. On the morning of day 2, we did what we have done so often before. Out of bed at 5:00 am, make some tea, and off to the lake. At 6:00 am we are on the water, at 8:30 we are back at camp cooking trout for breakfast. Our walk to the lake was over the hardwood hill, and far from the woodpile that both of us pretended didn't exist, even if it was only for a moment.

After breakfast, Day 2 went like this. Walk, get wet, haul wood, trip, drop wood, pick it back up, keep going. Repeat. From 10:00 am till dark, breaking only for the odd beer, a smoke, or something to eat. By the fire, Steven and i started to feel it. A burning sensation on both of our shoulders, from the weight and friction of pine siding and tongue and groove flooring. Everyone feels it. As the rest of them head for their tents, Steven brings out our pain killer. A 40 ouncer of Captain Morgans Rum. It's an old standby, also dating back to our early days as friends. We crack it open, and drink it. Quickly. The rum makes lots of things disappear. Quiet, intelligence, even common sense. To our regret though, not pain.

We complain as we drink. The more we drink, the more expletive laced tirades we give about how sore our shoulders are. ("more marks on my shoulders than a whores headboard", that sort of thing). As we drink the last of the rum, my arms hurt to even raise the glass. The tent is looking better all the time. We got into the tent, and Steven asked what time it was. My wife bought me a Timex Hooks watch, which was awesome, with an Indigo backlight. I pressed the light button, and influenced by fatigue and rum, the light seemed like a spotlight, burning our eyes, and causing us to erupt in laughter. I press it over and over, and each time we laugh harder. Then the novelty wears off. It's 11:30 pm, and we have been up almost 19 hours.

We are both laying down now, and both very impressed with how quiet it is. I am almost asleep within a minute. Then it happens. From Derricks tent, a loud snore. Steven and i erupt in laughter right away. We quiet down, another snore from Derrick. Again we laugh like fools. After the fourth snorting sound, the novelty wears off of that. Derrick snores again. No laughter. Robert belts out maybe the loudest snore i have ever heard. We are now roaring with laughter, stopping only long enough to hear the next guy let one go. Derrick, then Robert, then Stephen F, the Merle. After five minutes we have laughed ourselves to tears. I figure we fell asleep finally around 12:30, with guts that hurt almost as much as our shoulders.

On day 3, we wake up at 6:00. There will be no fishing today. Sore arms, shoulders, stomachs, and a hangover talk us out of it. Steven tells me we have to get that wood finished today. If we don't, he may never come back. I couldn't agree more.....

A Camp Is Made Of Wood Part 5,

Steven Makes A Giant Steak, Even A Coyote Won't Eat It

The first day of hauling lumber seemed fairly easy. Although it rained almost non stop, a fishing break netted some large trout, and the lumber was traveling nicely on shoulders that were not tired, at least not yet. In fact the first day and night is more remembered for our sleeping in the woods in tents. We went to bed around 10:30 pm in three tents each sleeping two guys. The tents were covered in orange tarps to try and keep the contents dry, and on the first night that seemed to be working fairly well. A few shots of rum served to warm up your insides, and then it was off to sleep.

I tossed and turned for an hour or two, not able to find the rhythm to get to sleep. Between snores from some of the others, i hear something shuffling through the woods. Keep in mind, we are in black bear country. Black bears don't like humans so much, but are known for liking their food and garbage. With the protection of only a tent, the thought of a bear is less than comforting. So i am quiet. I figure there is no reason to let a bear know i am here. I next hear something shuffling through a plastic bag. The bag is tearing and things are being more or less tossed around. Still quiet, Derrick whispers from the tent next to me. "Dave, you awake?". "Yes" i whisper back. "Do you hear that?" "Yes i do" was my reply. As i am whispering back, i am thinking how Derricks eyes are likely popping out of his head from his fear of Bears.

In a few minutes, the sound is gone. Derrick and i both get up and get out of our tents. I shine my flashlight around the campsite, and everything looks fine, except our garbage bag. It is torn apart, and it's contents are strewn. Derrick and i examine the damage. The mess includes wrappers, and pop bottles, and cigarette packages. They are torn apart, and the plastic pop bottles have punctures in them from fangs. About four feet away from the mess is the rest of Steven's steak from supper. The steak was a round steak, maybe the biggest cut of round steak i ever saw. Steven cooked it that night over the fire. He used no marinade and cooked it too long, and like any round steak would be in those conditions, it was as tough as wood. Near the steak, was a pile of shit, full of hair, the true mark of a coyote, not a bear.

So the Coyote took the risk of coming near our camp, tearing through our garbage while we were asleep. He tore through cigarette packages, he punctured through pop bottles, he even ate paper towels that were soaked with fat from cleanup. Then he found what should be the best prize. A big piece of steak, cooked very very well done. He picked it up and started to walk away with it. This should have been the very thing he wanted. Four feet later, with only a small amount eaten, he dropped it, and took a dump. We like to think of this as an editorial comment on Stevens method for cooking steak. "Maybe he will tell his friends about the steak, and they will stay away" i said to Derrick on the way back to the tents.

We crawled back into our tents to get some sleep before Day 2. The woodpile still sits in the path 10 minutes away, and although we hauled a lot today, it looks almost unchanged. We notice that the morning of day 2.....

A Camp Is Made Of Wood Part 4

What The Hell Were We Thinking?

It's a Sunday Morning, May 3, 1999, and on a logging road in Nova Scotia, a Green 1985 Chevy Diesel, and a 1989 Dodge Caravan pick their way through soup holes and tire ruts, making a 12 kilometer trek take almost 40 minutes. It's raining lightly with an occasional peak of sunshine. Inside the vehicles, 6 of the most naive and demented men seen in many, many years. Parking in the clearing, they pile out of the vehicle, eager to get to work to make their mark on the backwoods of Nova Scotia. A fishing camp. We walked hurriedly down the path, across the rock bar on the first lake, and into the path. On the right of the path, a sight that would punch them in the gut and knock the wind out of them. A horrible, almost unimaginable sight.......... a pile of lumber.

Not just any pile. Enough to do the studding, floor, roof trusses, siding and roof for an 18 by 24 lodging which would later be known as the Chateau. Normally a pile of lumber is not a scary sight. This one however, was a 10 minute walk from it's final resting place, and would have to carried there, over our shoulders. After a walk to the site, we set up our tents and gear for a 4 day stay. The sun was shining and the air was warm. That would be the last time we would see that for the next 4 days.

Standing in front of the pile, Steven B. simply asked "what the hell were we thinking". The reply, was a quiet "we weren't". And so it started. When you felt good, you take 4 lengths of pine siding, or 3 studs. When you were sore, you could handle two studs, or maybe two lengths of siding. We stumbled over roots, walked through mossy bog, tripped and fell more times than we could count. Stopping only to eat, smoke or drink the occasional shot of rum to warm your innards. For 4 days straight, from mid morning until last light, the four of us hauled wood, while Merle and Robert built a floor. The story of those 4 days doesn't stop there. Over the next few entries there will be mentions of Coyotes eating pop bottles, strange noises in the woods, red raw shoulders, a 40 ouncer of rum that led to a snoring contest, the worst drive in my life to a pay phone, an early May snowfall, and a blood blister the size of a golf ball.

These four days were the defining moments in the journey to a backwoods haven, by four guys who didn't know what they got into, and were too stupid to care.

An 8 Foot Punt, An 18 Foot Timber, And A Windstorm - A Camp Is Made Of Wood Part 3

From the clearing we park the vehicles in, we found the easiest way to get wood into our land. Sort of. You see, it is a 500 meter walk to the side of the small lake, and it is all downhill. Until you have to go back up of course. From there, you have to go across the lake, and meet up with the path on the other side. Then it is a kilometer or so to the actual lot. Sounds easy, i know. During the winter, with the infamous 85 Chevy, we got most of the wood across the frozen lake, and left it next to the path, to haul it the rest of the way in the Spring. One of the bigger challenges was roof trusses. We decided we would build them, and through the good fortune of a demolition project, we found 18 foot timbers in excellent shape, perfect for our roof.

Now the challenge. It is spring and we want to start building. You can't have a camp without a roof though. So the solution is simple. Very simple. We will bring them over on the boat. The boat being an 8 foot punt, more than 15 years old. So Derrick got elected to drive, since it was his boat. On his first trip, we load 2 18 foot timbers onto the punt, from front to back, one on each side of Derrick. On the back of the punt, a 1 &1/4 horsepower Johnson, older than me. We push Derrick out from the shore we he can drop the motor and start it. One pull, two pulls, three pulls. Thirty pulls, even more cruse words. There is no motor sound yet. None of us ever saw what would happen if you put two 18 foot timbers across the length of an 8 foot punt, and then started to gust the wind, until that day.

It looked harmless. The wind grew slowly at first, then the gust got strong. By this time Derrick has pulled 100 times or more, and still no start. He is in the middle of the lake, and has no oars because they were in the way. The boat slowly starts to rotate counterclockwise. Then gets a bit faster. Then faster still. Within a minute it looks like a carnival ride. Spinning at a good clip, with Derrick still pulling away on that motor. Then, he gives up. He is a prisoner of the wind, the boat, and the wood, and can only watch. The wind spins him still and now is leading the boat into a cove still on our side of the lake, with a rock shoal jutting out ahead of him. The next 10 seconds is an excruciating mix of scraping noises, bangs, and crunching sounds, followed by the proclamation, "Jesus Christ!".

A perfectly sound old boat now had three leaks. They were slow, and manageable, but still leaks that weren't there 5 minutes ago. The boat sat on the rocks until the wind subsided. We walked down, handed the oars into the boat, and pushed it off into the now calm water. Derrick gave the motor one last pull, just for the hell of it. It purred right away. If Derrick had looked back, he would have seen three guys sitting on the shoal, laughing to piss themselves at the dance of the 18 foot timbers, and a motor with a personality of it's own.

The punt still sits by that small lake, on a homemade boat stand. It is heavily fiberglassed, and the sides feel mushy. It leaks at a pretty steady pace, and more or less looks like hell. Every year though, we take it across to the shoal on the opposite side of the lake, where it once crashed like our own version of the Exxon Valdez, and we get out and fish what we have discovered is one of the lakes best spots for large trout. It was like the boat, the motor and the 18 foot timbers all conspired to lead us there. The punt sits in the woods like a trophy at lakeside. If you walked by it you wouldn't dream of putting it in the water. For us though it is a landmark for the best trout fishing any of us have ever been lucky enough to find.

A Camp Is Made Of Wood - Part 2

Another Use For A Sled

With the land in place and cleared, the process of building was set to begin. We got the materials from all over. Studs from a Christmas tree stand (Thanks to the Tree Man), pine siding we bought, windows from old construction sites. Whatever we could find, from wherever we could find it. Of course now we had to get it there. That took a lot of twists and turns, and about two years. Here is one twist.

Robert's truck was a 1985 Chevy 3/4 ton diesel. It looked as bad as it sounds. It wasn't pretty, it wasn't four wheel drive, and all of us smart guys thought what better way to get the wood there than in this truck, in the winter, sliding the wood across the ice to save carrying time. Actually, it was a good idea for the most part. At least until we left to go home. You see, none of us are known for knowing when to stop. It is January and we haul wood until 8:00 PM, and pitch black. Robert leads the parade out, with Steven and me behind in Stevens truck. The old Chevy catches some ice and the wheels spin. Robert revs, they spin harder. He revs more, and then we hear the snap. That is the sound of a broken rear axle. One problem. We are 10 kms back a logging road. In the winter. On a hill. We have about a kilometer to go to have any prayer of getting a tow. We hook the old Chevy up to Stevens truck and try to tow it that 1 km. Move 10 feet, and the axle starts to come out of the sleeve. In the back of Stevens truck was a wooden sled. In the front, an idea.

Picture this. A 3/4 ton Chevy truck. On the rear passenger wheel, a 6 foot wooden sled lashed to the tire with rope, with the idea being the tire would slide easily up the hill as we towed the truck. It worked, sort of. We made it up the hill. The sled wasn't so lucky. It is now 11:00 pm. 10 kms back a logging road in the middle of nowhere. A drive to a payphone and we find a tow truck driver who is brave (fool) enough to come and get us. I got home at 2:30 am. Remarkably, i am still married.

That old 3/4 ton Chevy was ugly, crude, rough and on that night earned itself a $1500 rear end job after a $350 tow. It also holds a special place in the lore of the camp. The sled was the first of many sacrifices, that also included a chain saw, a snowmobile, an 8 foot punt and more hand tools than i could count. The 1985 Chevy is gone, and sadly, so is Robert. We couldn't have done it without either of them.

A Camp Is Made Of Wood,

And Wood Doesn't Grow On Trees - Part 1

Part 1 In The Story Of A Backwoods Haven Built On Equal Parts Of Passion And Stupidity

Like a lot of things, it started innocently enough. Four of us on another one of our day trips. Tired, wet, cold, it's early May and we are still exploring for that elusive place where the big fish are as plentiful as the small. It's 1994 and we all agree we should find a piece of land to build a camp on. A warm, dry resting place. After a lot of walking through the woods, and driving logging roads, we find it. We spend the year fishing the area. The results are more than we even imagined. Before the year is out, the land is ours, and the work is ready to begin.

On the final weekend of the 1995 Mayfly season, the four of us are camped out near one of the lakes. Sleeping in tents, we are still wet and cold. We cleared some wood from our land, for what will be the resting place for our camp. On a Coleman stove we have some canned beans, and an old kettle, hanging from a branch, over our fire. With a full plate of warm food, and a cup of hot tea, we talk about where everything will go, what it will be like to have a warm place to call a backwoods home. We are all very proud of ourselves. We will get this thing done, sooner rather than later, and it will be our own private refuge.

While I am drinking my tea, a thought came rushing to me. I drove 90 minutes to get to a dirt road. I then drove 12 KM on that dirt logging road to get to a place to park. I then walked 15 minutes, behind a lake, over a hardwood hill, loaded down with gear, through the wet path. Twice. Now i am sitting here, in the middle of trees, a rock as my cushion, with a view of a lake. There isn't a stick of lumber here yet. Not a window, a door, a stove, a bed, a mattress, nothing.

Four of us sit there, quietly. We drink our tea. I can't speak for the other three, but we all admitted later to having a similar thought that day. "A camp is made of wood, and wood doesn't grow on trees." Everything that would be needed for this camp would get here the way that kettle did, in our hands. Not one of us would want to ruin the moment, but the events of the next couple of years would be the basis of our backwoods legend. To this day, the lucky few who have been to our getaway, always seem to ask the same first question. "What the hell were you guys thinking?" I first asked that question about 12 years ago. I still don't have an answer.