Having discovered Disappearing Lake was full and the road free of snow, four of us loaded up our boats and headed into the woods for an adventure. Five of us, if you count Walter Dawg, and really, you must. He has been an integral member of the team from day one, and was not about to be left out this trip.

 

Robert arrived at my place around 10:30. Walter jumped in the truck and the three of us headed north. Andy and Luke were to meet us up there.

 

 

 

Forty-five minutes later the lake hove into view. There was a strong wind blowing from the south along the length of the lake. There were people camped at the launch on the southeast shore, their tent flapping in the breeze. They looked cold and uncomfortable. I had a more sheltered site in mind.

 

 The road was rutted and pocked with potholes. My canoe and tipi poles bounced and shifted overhead, but the lashings held tight. Continuing north we turned right and followed a spur road upstream from the lake. Soon we arrived at what the Forest Service calls a dispersed site, not officially sanctioned or maintained – primitive camping. It sloped up from the road, leveling off in back, a semi-circular opening bordered by tall conifers. There was a snow bank along the left side with a couple of meat poles for hanging game lashed between some pines behind it. This was obviously a regularly used elk camp. Someone had brought in a load of gravel and made a large flat place for their RV, well back from the road. It looked big enough to set up the tipi there.  A short distance away, large chunks of lava had been stacked to form a fire ring about six feet across, surrounded by red pumice. Across the road, behind a thin curtain of brush, was a shallow beaver pond.

 

 

After making a brief inspection, Rob and I got out our chairs, retrieved beer and sandwiches from the ice chest and had lunch before we unloaded the poles and set up the tipi. Overhead the clouds were whipping by, but nestled in the trees there was no wind at all.

Although calm it was chilly, so we got a fire going. In no hurry, we chipped away at setting up camp. By 3:30 we had the canvas up, the carpets down and our bunks set up inside. The rest of our party still hadn’t shown up, so I sent Robert out to look for them while I finished unloading the truck and pegging down the tipi.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rob returned a little while later with Andy and Luke in tow. Apparently, my directions were unclear. Not finding us, they waited at a campsite on the northwest shore of the Disappearing Lake. It was a pretty place to camp, with easy access to the water, but dark and cold, open to the full brunt of the wind blowing up from the lake. Our site, while more remote, was in a sheltered clearing with little wind and plenty of light.

 

It was a happy reunion, except for Walter who expressed his mistrust of Luke loudly and incessantly, without regard for Luke’s feelings. There is no apparent reason for this animosity but Walter brings it up every time he sees him. They eventually established an uneasy truce, but never a rapport.

 

 

 

We had Sloppy Joes for dinner and sat around the bonfire swapping lies until it started raining.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This precipitated a move inside the tipi. We took the fire in with us, continuing to prevaricate and drinking hot whiskey until gravity overwhelmed us and we retreated to our bunks. Walter tucked in between Andy and me, as far away from Luke as he could get. The flickering fire provided warmth and a comfortable glow as we drifted off to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I got up early Wednesday morning, well before the rest of the crew, and walked along the beaver pond. Following the road downstream to another lake, I crossed the road to wander along the edge of the flooded prairie. There was still snow scattered in drifts on the ground.  Mist filtered through the trees on the surrounding mountains. Beaver and diving ducks splashed in the water. Ravens croaked as they glided through the forest. Red-winged blackbirds darted from an osier thicket and a kingfisher dove after a frog. The north shore of Disappearing Lake was clogged with logs and broken branches blown across the water, blocking access. The only good launching site I found down at the lake was on the main road, along the east bank.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Satisfied with my reconnoiter, I retraced my steps. When I got back to camp, Andy was up and had a fire going outside. Eventually Luke and Robert joined us for tea and coffee, and I started cooking. We broke fast with a mountain man breakfast baked in the Dutch oven, after which I made cornbread and some biscuits which we locked in the food box for later meals. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After breakfast, Andy and Robert dragged their kayaks across the road to the pond to see if there was a way to float downstream to the lakes. A brief exploration revealed no navigable passage below the beaver dam. Exploration upstream was curtailed by shallows choked with skunk cabbage. We would need to transport our vessels to the lake to continue our adventure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We loaded the trucks and headed down to the lakes, putting in at the west side of the road to explore the flooded meadows. The small lake on the east side stays full year-round, fed by the stream flowing from the beaver pond. The other side of the road is a series of lush meadows separated by lava flows and towering cottonwoods most of the year. They flood in the winter, forming a chain of four connected lakes or impoundments covering many acres, only accessible after the snow melts off the road. These lakes drain mysteriously just a few weeks later, sinking into the caverns and rivers underneath The Big Lava Bed, resurfacing miles downstream to flow into Lava Creek.

We dragged our boats down the embankment to the water’s edge. Walter required some encouragement to board the canoe, but at last he acquiesced and hopped in near the bow. Good dog, Walter!

 

 

 

We launched in the shelter of a shallow, tree covered point.  Walter splayed his front legs out, bracing himself against the motion of the boat.

 

 

 

 

 

It was a cold day, with intermittent rain and a blustery wind blowing from the southwest. Cats-paws across the water announced the arrival of each fresh gust.  With its high bow and freeboard, my canoe was almost unmanageable in the wind; it was hard paddling, even for the kayaks.

 

Our destination was the next impoundment, requiring a course quartering the wind across open water. As soon as we paddled out from the shelter of the trees the wind caught the bow of my canoe and swung it around. It required huge effort to round up and resume my heading. Paddling as hard as I could on the leeward side, I could barely maintain my course. If I paused to rest, the wind would spin the boat around a carry me off downwind.

 

 

 

I had a kayak paddle which was too short, requiring such a steep angle that water ran down the shaft and soaked me. When I used my canoe paddle I had to switch from side to side, splashing Walter. I finally settled on paddling on the downwind side of the boat, using a J-stroke to maintain a straight course. It was inefficient and tiring, but drier.

 

We crossed the first open expanse, and enjoyed a brief respite in the lee of the towering cottonwoods marking the entrance to the second impoundment before forcing our vessels across open water again to the opposite side. Here we rested in a placid inlet, marking the channel to the next lake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We found this lead impassable, packed with flotsam and downed trees. Gliding along the shore we worked our way north until we got to a passage through the mud and weeds which might provide access to the fourth and final lake.

 

Alas, after following the twisting channel several hundred yards we found ourselves thwarted once again, blocked by woody debris, hemmed in by banks overgrown with Hawthorn.

 

 

 

 

Paddling back into the second impoundment, we again fought the wind to cross the open water. Walter lay down in the bottom of the canoe to get out of the breeze. Passing once more through the sentinel cottonwoods to the main lake, we completed our circumnavigation and returned finally to where we had launched.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It had only been about three hours on the water, but we were cold, wet and tired. It was time we hauled boats back to camp, dry clothes and a warm fire.

 

 

 

Safe and dry in camp, we braced ourselves with hot chocolate laced with rum and snacked on smoked sturgeon on biscuits while we waited for dinner to cook.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sun was setting when we dined on pea soup and cornbread.

 

 

 

 

 

Robert and Luke did the dishes while Andy and I got a fire going in the tipi. It was a beautiful evening but we did not spend as much time enjoying it as we had the night before. Bedtime came relatively early.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday morning dawned with the nicest weather we had enjoyed during our stay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After a light breakfast, Luke and Andy took the kayaks back to the lake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Robert and I remained in camp, striking the tipi and getting things loaded on the truck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Packing did not take precedence over visiting, and there were plenty of rest breaks taken, two old friends sitting in the sun reminiscing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walter’s barking alerted us to Andy and Luke returning. Together we loaded the tipi poles on my truck and strapped them down. We drowned the fire, policed the camp and said our goodbyes. It had been a good camp and we all look forward to our next adventure together.