October 15: Your special place, the mind

I am riding my bike and I am riding it and I am going places.  And going and going and getting places, not getting places, and one place that I have not gotten to yet is a place special to you.  You may be surprised when I say where this special place is, because it may not be special to you yet, but it should be.  That special place is -- wait, let's not get there yet, this is personal.  This blog is all about you so let's take our time.  Your time.

You can probably guess what I'm not going to say -- I mean, not with any high probability or anything, but there is some probability.  I'm not going to go on and on about how beautiful and/or handsome you are, although we all suspect this is a subject that remains of interest to you, and may continue to do so as long as we agree this is a socially acceptable topic and not yet too awkward.  Nor will we discuss your cleverness, stick-to-it-ive-ness, and your popular attitude and demeanor.  

No!  The subject of you is the mind, where we live today.  I am standing in your mind, hand in grotesquely exaggerated hand of your cortical homunculus, staring around in awe at the thoughts that are conveyed from place to place on those imaginary belts as waves of neurotransmitters vibrate strangely on their quest of cats.  You have many interesting thoughts.  I reach out and take one, and your homunculus checks it out on the tip of its distended tongue.  Your first thought: Is this entry going to continue like this?  Because this is really weird.  But... imagine if the author really did get the canoe trailer rolling, and managed to bike a long ways, like 50 miles...

Why, I am flattered.  For the next thought in your wonderful imagination, instead of all the things that are normally there like bus schedules and little people and the boiling point of mercury -- you are imagining me there!  "I am shocked," I say, "Shocked.  I put this entire blog together to talk about you in particular, and how wonderful you are and special and so on and yada yada yada."  The homunculus nods its massive head.  "-- but it turns out your special thoughts are just going to be about my canoe trip?  Well, then..."  I sigh and sit down.  I suppose it's time to talk about myself for another 40 pages.  Why don't you sit there and imagine with all those special thoughts of yours...

I am riding and I am riding 50 miles today because everything is hunky dory and the wind is in the right direction and even the bike trailer which I made and was specially cursed ahead of time by the angels at creation is actually working.  I did not want to stop for anything, not fame or glory, or 30 pounds of potatoes for only $10 or a restroom break or spare inner tubes (oops) or even a banana.  I mean, the wind was with me, and I wasn't trying to be rude to the reporter who waved me down but that's kind of a big deal.  So I chewed up the last of the amazing haul of apples the Rothkes gave me while answering him with annoyance as he jotted words down in his notebook: [SAFF.  CALGARY.  ST LOUIS.  YOUNG.  HEALTHY.  SINGLE.]  Every tickle of the air as I stood there still was a lost moment of motion --

No, those words of the reporter were not his assessment of me but my assessment of myself, the reasons I gave for the trip.  They were as good as any I could give at the time.  Five years later, writing this, I still don't know what it was about, but I know it was good, and it's over, and I sometimes sorta want it again, but it wouldn't be the same.  Old hat now.  I know exactly where my physical limits are.  It's important, maybe one has to be fully animal before being fully human.  Likely not -- I got no answers here, just a collections of days, stitched together to fill time.  Who am I? is a question that matters more to others than yourself: you're just you.

Day 116 ended: Yogi Lee Trail

October 12: Iron Man

Jeremy H, the uncle of two of the boys, helped me out in an incredible way: he loaded me up with an extra jacket, donuts, canned food, a pair of tennis shoes for cycling, and all the cash in his wallet: $12.  I decided to leave the gopher trap the boys wanted me to have.  I pedaled out hoping for a 50 mile day; the leaves and grasses glowed in the rain, more golden than the sun.

Every crank of the pedals was harder than the rest.  I blamed the wind, which angrily shook trees at me and shoved bugs in my face.  I'll admit in retrospect the wind was blameless at this time... Anyway, only 32 miles later in Newfolden, I found another Wayside Rest that had a little dry patch of earth.  I still don't really know what these are; most are little more than a rest stop on the side of the road, but this one was pretty nice.  Inside it had lights and a fan that worked, running water, and on the exterior wall there was even an outlet I could use to recharge my camera.

I had hardly been there a jiffy before local pastor Phil Rokke showed up, insisting I spend the night inside.  I did think about it, and my two thoughts ended up being it's raining and I need a shower.  Phil biked with me back to his house and introduced me to his wife Marlene and their friends Jessica and Darin.  I ended up getting not only a shower, but a wonderful pancake dinner, Iron Man on DVD, and a "Minnesota Mom" or two to worry about me on my way.

The next day Jessica and her 3 kids started out on their bikes with me on the way to Thief River Falls.  One of them, Ruby, spent weeks making canoes out of newspaper in my honor.

Day 113 ended: Newfolden, MN

October 5, 2008: Upstream

After the Ste Agathe bridge was a rapid.  It was by no means huge or powerful -- on any other river I would have been through without thinking about it.  But the Red River was different for me, because for the first time on my trip I was working my way upstream.

It wasn't so bad.  The current, in most places, was slow enough I didn't have to put all my strength into every stroke.  But I did have to paddle all day -- gone were the times I could sit in my canoe reading a book and offer a correcting steering stroke from time to time.  This was work.

I had nearly forced my boat through the water when a gust of wind stopped my forward progress in an instant and pushed me straight backwards.  I laughed as I tried again and again until the wind pinned me to a rock, and I had to get out and wade.  This started a pattern.  On most rivers, one side or the other will be so slow that going upstream is little harder than lake paddling.  But in a sharp S-bend, the slow section crosses from one side to the other, and I had to face that strong cross-current, resorting to wading through the narrows pulling my canoe -- it was a rare fast section I could just power through.

In the end that wasn't what did me in for the day.  The river straightened out towards the source of the wind, blowing so furiously that every foot of progress was a major victory.  Clouds were beginning to roll in, and although there were more houses around than I had liked, I had no choice but to find a place to camp for the night, utterly exhausted.

Day 106 ended: 49*30.677N, 097*13.478W

September 25, Part 1: Enter Winnipeg

Winnipeg doesn't seem so big from the river.

If anything, I was surprised how many more places there were inside the official city limits that might have made good camping. Large wooded areas indicated isolated city parks. Islands formed in the river, around bridge pilings both current and past.

The houses and fenced yards gave way to apartment buildings. A man at river left threw a plastic bag into the river, and I saw where it accumulated with his other droppings. He had a tent made out of tarps there, living in the city. Not the first such rat I'd seen, but it seemed so much more wasteful, so blatantly predatory, compared to Calvin of Brandon.

Improvised dirt trails braided around the sides of the river, just missing the litterbug's tent, and grew into paved riverwalks and plazas filled with people, some out jogging, others out on lunch break.

I was in downtown Winnipeg, city founded at the meeting of the great rivers of southern Manitoba. Here the Assiniboine empties into the Red River of the North, which flows on into Lake Winnipeg and then the Hudson Bay.

My route, however, lay south. When I arrived in the city, as soon as practicable I had stopped to buy a map and try to figure out where I could store my canoe. I was interested in seeing the city, and also uncertain how I was going to get south to the Mississippi River. There was some possibility I could find a trucker to take me to Minneapolis, or I could get out of the water and try to bike some distance, or I could head upstream on the Red River.

I would start the upstream trip immediately. I found a listing for a Winnipeg canoe club about two miles south on the Red River, so it was time to press upstream for the first time during my trip.

The Red River is wide and powerful. A wind from out of the south did not help. I paddled hard. I had to cross the Transcanada Highway yet again. This time, the arches tunnelled the wind against me and it took all my strength to keep the boat under control and push through the bridge.

The two miles took 45 minutes of paddling, which isn't too bad, considering. When I got to the canoe club I parked my boat out on the dock, got out and walked up to the club. I walked all around the club building and checked out their dragon boats before deciding that they must be closed. So then it was back north on the Red to the canoe club neighbors, the Redboine Boating Club. There I received permission to leave my canoe out by their blue shed.

I would have to find someplace to spend the night in this city, so I filled my backpack with clothes and books, and was securing my food in front when I saw something crawling around in my oatmeal. It scurried into a plastic bag, which I tied up and pulled out of the boat, coming face to face with a giant rat.

I should have just stabbed it there but I took it out on the docks where a worker was repainting the white stripes. He said we should just try to drown it, and so he took the rat bag from me, and held it under the water, under the dock. The first try was no good so he pulled it out and retied it, then submerged the rat again. The creature went wild under the river, thrashing it around. When he pulled the bag back up there was nothing in it but holes.

We had just released a rat in this dock with all these expensive motorboats, my gift in exchange for letting me stay.

I wished String was there. She would have known what to do.

Day 96 continues.

Day 80: The birth of sand

I saw a snapping turtle sitting high on some island bar, and unlike the turtles I had been seeing on the river he didn't flee at my approach - didn't jump into the water and trade precious solar heat for increased safety.

I supposed he was dead, like the motionless beaver I had photographed on the Qu'Appelle. Out of perhaps a morbid curiousity I paddled over to take a closer look at him.

He had an enormous shell, larger around than my pith helmet, and extending from it were those fearsome, armored, bear-like claws. His tail had plates sticking up like a stegosaurus, and his little yellow eyes were motionless over the monstrous beak.

I reached in front of him with my paddle, luring him to snap, but got nothing. When I tapped the top of his shell the head retracted an inch and the tail flinched. He was fearless. His armor had gotten him through so many years, it would be a worthwhile surprise to him if there was any predator capable of finishing him off.

He was sitting high on a patch of sand a couple feet triangular. It was the first sand I'd seen on the Assiniboine since that misleading initial island at the Qu'Appelle confluence.

Not much further the river cut out into a sandstone bank, a nearly vertical cliff sixty feet high. Atop the cliff were spruce, a pleasant change from the still green deciduous trees dominating the river. Of course, most of the spruce were green as well, but one in twenty were grey, corpses standing among the living before being laid out over the river.

I was becoming an island snob. I dismissed many nice gravel islands for the usual trivial reasons: it's too early, too small, too noisy, too grassy. The sun made a blessed appearance, early, giving a warmth that lasted the day. The sun draped itself in clouds as it fell towards the horizon, reminding me it would not light my night as well.

That is when the islands gave out. I thought it was going to be another "Casey-at-the-canoe" story, where I'd reject several decent sites only to end up camping on mud. I saw a bank that looked gravelly, but the approach was predictably shallow and muddy. I would have needed to drag the canoe through twenty feet of mud to get to the cramped dirty shore. I relieved myself and moved on.

The wind temporarily with me, I let it push me backwards over the water. I looked up from my book and saw a long gravel bar. I had to paddle hard against the wind, against the current to get back to it. The filling between the gravel rocks was brown. I dreaded the thought of another of these muddy gravel campsites. It may be better than pure mud, but it disappoints when I was expecting gravel's cleanliness.

I dug my paddle into it and it was sand. I stepped my foot out and it was real sand. Real real, real sand.

Day 80 ended: 49*36.824N, 099*22.492W (?)

Day 25: The pelicans are never wrong

I have been paddling, making good progress all day on the lake, but evening and the next storm are closing in.

Now my aim was to make it to at least the regional park in this area. I don't know exactly what distinguishes these from their more grandiose brethren, provincial and national parks, but on my maps they are very small and I can't imagine them being much more than a nice, paid parking lots for campers. So while I stop at every provincial park that I can, I generally bypass these, figuring that I am not missing much by free camping on the shore instead.

Now the sun is setting, and now I have big storm clouds on three sides of me. On my left, which keeps me to shore, on my right, which wants me to stay on the lake, and behind me, pushing me onward.

Some motorboats put in at the regional park, making good fishing out of the time and the weather. But I push on. I see what look to be two large outcrops of shore ahead of me, which could indicate bays. According to my map, there is a very deep bay poorly serviced by roads, which ought to mean good camping. But there are also a number of very shallow ones, where I will be exposed to the lake.

I stare at my map and try to compare the features I see there to the ones before me. But it is hard, my Saskatchewan mapbook is an older version than my Alberta one and it does not include the topographic data which greatly aid this. My naked eyes suggest that the large bay is behind the second outcropping of land.

I turn on my GPS to try to pinpoint my position, and then find those coordinates on my map. This again suggests the better bay is further on ahead. But the wind is getting rough, and I might not make it there. I may as well peek into the first one which I must pass anyway.

And as I do, I see a flock of pelicans sitting at the far end. Pelicans are my harbingers of good camping. They sit in nice, clean locations which are relatively undisturbed by large animals, other than me. I immediately wheel into the bay and land on the soft, rocky shore. There is here a hill of mud, weathered like the badlands and bearing at least a ton of quartz, if the fragments I could see poking out were in indication. There is a beautiful, flat secluded spot in the bay and I set up my tent there as the storm nears. The wind is getting quite fierce but my place provides a little protection and I cook my dinner for the evening, and take photos of the sunset torn apart by the storm.

The next morning I pass by the next outcropping of land. There is nothing there, no deep bay, no flat spot for a tent. I do not know which is wrong, but the GPS coordinates given by my unit increasingly disagree with those given by the map in this area. But fortunately, the pelicans are never wrong.

Day 25 ended: 50*41.322N, 107*21.034W

Day 20: "You're fired", or "Rudd'er, I don't even know her!", or "Dem bones, dem bones, dem cold, cold bones"

It rained during the night.

There is something about rain that makes it harder to start fires the following day. I do not know what it is, but will continue to research this issue. I did finally manage to start one, but it took a mess of fuel and toilet paper, and ruining my lighter with the sand. The eggs rotted in my mind. My potato yearnings overgrew with vines.

It may not have helped that it was also extremely windy. And since this is Saskatchewan, the wind never stops, but chooses some random direction in the morning, and builds all day, until by evening you cannot stand against it, the trees bow before, and all the land gets swept flat.
This is why there are no mountains in Saskatchewan. None have been able to stand up against the wind.

But in any case I alternated between fighting the wind, and walking about on sandbanks wondering what to do about it. I drew a free-body diagram which finally explained why the wind tries to turn my boat sideways. It is because considering the water as still relative to the wind, the greatest drag is at the center of the boat, and so either end facing the wind is only in a metastable position.

I thought I could attach a small sail to the front of the canoe, which might help keep me righted in a tailwind. In a headwind, the motive force of the paddle helps considerably. I got so far as to screw in a board just below the bow deck and was looking for something to use as a mast when the went laid off a bit so I could move on.

Back on the water it was clear what I really wanted was a rudder! Move the drag to the back when traveling cross to the water current, but nearly no drag when proceeding straight. And clearly I had often used my paddle to rudder the boat to keep it straight, in allkinds of winds, it would be extremely useful.

But a rudder is a thing which is very hard to build with such limited tools and materials as I had. I had considered adding a rudder back home, but thought it too much work to design and build one before my departure. Now I think it would have made better time if I had gone ahead and built it. And not only for wind - I imagined having a lot more time to read and write even on a clear river current if I did not have to worry so much about keeping the boat straight.

The next beach the wind and rain forced me to stop at was littered with bones from some long-dead bovine. I imagined that a vertebra could act as a kind of fulcrum through which I could put my favorite paddle, my ottertail, as a rudder. I'd have to saw off the paddle grip, and secure the rudder through means of, I don't know, some mess of rope and bungee I'd figure out later.

I also imagined writing a short story about finding this beast's scattered skeleton in the wind. I'd find all the pieces, and put them together with some mess of rope and bungee, and then sprinkle some magic ingreient on top, like dillweed or sweet'n'sour sauce. The bones would stand up, alive and at my service. "Master," the creature would say, "you ought to have given me a skin to wrap myself in. This wind, it cuts cold, sir, it cuts cold."

And I'd tell it (and this is true) that when the wind blows this hard the water feels warmer, because it doesn't pull away the heat so quickly. And the creature would lumber down into the water with my canoe's bow line in its jaws, to pull me along.

When finally it would be time to stop, I'd give three yanks on the rope and the skeleton would crawl back onto land. "The fish", it'd say, "tell me you have been traveling this way for quite some time."

"That's true," I'd say. And then curious, "What kind of fish were they? Do you suppose they'd taste good cooked over an open fire?"

"I cannot say. They are different kinds from when I last walked."

And then I don't know what would happen, because I never developed an actual plot for the story.

So at the end of the day, all I had for a sail, a rudder, and a short story were a board and three cow vertebrae. And it took a mess of fuel and toilet paper to get my fire started, again.

Day 20 ended: 50*58.160N, 109*33.631W

Day 18: Meandering

While some industries might prefer rivers to be stuck in a rut, rivers, like people, prefer the freedom to explore their opportunities. Chief among the methods a river employs is the "meander" which works like this.

A river acquires somewhere some slight bend or crook. Now as water goes through the turn the faster water is not so easily swayed from its purpose as is the slower water, water tends to be faster towards the outside of the turn. Faster water erodes the earth faster than the slow water, so it tends to cut towards the outside of the turn. Contrarly, slow water is more likely to drop the sediment it is carrying, on the inside of the turn. So the turn gets more and more exaggerated, pushing into a loop towards the outside.

Eventually, the river gets so twisted in on itself that it cuts through the loop entirely, leaving an oxbow lake.

I was still feeling crummy from the previous day, and decided to race into Saskatchewan, zooming in on my GPS as the border got closer and closer. To no purpose, of course, I could see from my map that the river here forms a huge meander, looping into Saskatchewan for a few miles, before looping back into Alberta, and then finally returning once and for all to Saskatchewan.

I did not keenly monitor my progress back into Alberta.

The wind picked up and the river got choppy. I pulled aside onto an island to wait it out. The island was gorgeous, I thought, probably tended. It was the most perfect island to have the property of existing on that portion of the river. I looked over and saw a motorboat moored by a home a mile away. I imagined the wife of the house packing the boat with gardening supplies every weekend and straightening out the island so she could maintain the perfect view from her bay window.

Now, don't get me wrong, these were wild, native plants on the island, just very tastefully arranged.

I cooked up a meal from one of my cans and sat down to eat it as the wind sandblasted my face. I remembered that I hadn't cooked up any hot meals at all, yesterday. I felt a bit better.
The wind died down a bit and I decided not to stay on that family's picture island. But it was not long after setting out that the water got choppy again. But it was almost fun, fighting against wind and wave. Sometimes I had the upper hand, making slow progress downriver. And sometimes it did, battering me against the logs on shore. But yesterday there was no wind at all, and not even a storm at night to relieve my boredom.

I crossed into Saskatchewan for the final time and spent awhile trying to scope out a good campsite, on a place my map named Ebenau Island. The channel that used to separate the island from the right shore has silted up, however, and so it is an island no more. Finally I found where the pelicans were hiding out, on a rocky sandy beach. As the pelicans reluctantly moved on to their second best spot, a great double rainbow filled the sky.

It did storm that night, but I was securely tucked away in my tent under some good old trees, finally feeling happy about my trip again.

Day 18 ended: 50*54.326N, 109*58.362W

Day 16: My curmudgeon

I do not know how I would do on my trip if left to my own devices, but I am fortunate to have an old curmudgeon along, courtesy of my friend Ed. This curmudgeon, Cliff Jacobson, knows everything about canoeing and camping, and deigns to tell me some of it, all the while being ashamed at the silly mistakes that I make along the way. Fortunately there is a paperback cover between me and his wagging finger, which makes the criticism easier to take. For all I have of Cliff Jacobson is his book, Canoeing and Camping.

Curmudgeons usually become curmudgeons, because they have lived a long time. They have lived long enough to make a lot of mistakes, but have done things right enough to last.
I had several times to this point, after finding myself in some basic error, referred to this book to find out what had gone wrong. And surely if things had ever gone wrong, they had the previous night, much of which was spent shivering in my underwear, watching my tent roll away. So I picked up the book, and reviewed his chapter "Weathering the Storm".

The next night the sky looked clear, but I thought it best to rig up my tent as securely as possible, just for practice. I set it up on high ground. There were no trees around but I set it close to the cliff face for lightning protection. I set up pegs everywhere I could, and weighed them down with rocks. I found that guy lines on the ends of the tent weren't as effective as on the sides, where the panels are larger. Tighten everything out, and it is taut as a drum.

I went to bed in my over-secure tent, believing no storm would come that night. And yet, I began to hear a rat-tat-tat of rain on my roof, and then wind came up, and then flashes of lightning. But the tent holds.

Day 16 ended: 50*19.858N, 110*36.950W

Day 15: What are you going to do about... Storms?

It was long in coming.

I spent the morning blissfully repairing everything that had gone wrong so far with my canoe. There were inwhales to screw in place, ends to be patched, bicycle hardware to be replaced, and so on. In Medicine Hat I was sure to stop at a hardware store to pick up everything I could to make the repairs I would need. Now my canoe seat was higher, my bicycle well tuned, and everything cleaned and reorganied.

It was sure to come.

I saw a dragonfly just beginning to emerge from its nymph state on the beach. These amazingly large, bright green insects have been little friends of mine on the journey so far. And all the more so knowing that they hunt my enemies, mosquitoes, in water and in air. For the nymphs of the dragonfly live underwater, feeding on insect larva and other small things, and then with no pupal state they simply crawl onto land and emerge as dragonflies - air out their wings, expand their tails, and then fly off to chase what insects they missed in the water. These nymph shells are common on the river, but I rarely get to see the dragonflies make the actual transition.

But I didn't think it would come.

"We don't get real storms here," I told Marty at the Police Point Park interpretive center just the day before. "Not like in St. Louis." Several times that day in Medicine Hat I had assured people that storms were no issue. And they hadn't been - not on any camping trip I have ever taken, nor on my journey so far. One mentioned the storm of the previous night - but that was nothing where I was. Half an hour of weak rain, a flash of light, and then a bright double rainbow to finish things off. At no point did I even think shelter was necessary.

After fixing up all my stuff and staring at the dragonfly, I took my time getting to a large island that wasn't much further on my map. There was no great place for my canoe, but I trudged over a ditch of mud and rocks, and a field with more mud, to find a sandy patch to plunk down my tent. The sky wasa bit busy so I took a step back to read it out.

"There is a thunderhead there, but it is incomplete -- probably too cool for anything serious. There's no visible rain anywhere. It doesn't look like much to worry about, but I'll go ahead and peg out the tent, put up the rain fly, just to be safe." Having done so, I retired inside to strip for the night and read.

It was strange. One whole side of the tent just lifted itself up and then sat back down. And the wind picked up. The corners had ripped out their pegs and were flapping about, as the top of the tent wanted to lie down on top of me. I had to get out to try to get my tent standing up again, properly. So I crawled out, and that's when I saw the lightning. Big in the sky.

There being no shelter in my tent, I ran over to the ditch and laid down in it. But I kept looking up and noticed that my tent was slowly walking across the hill. So I got up,ran over, and dropped some large rocks on it to try to keep it still. I alternated between lying down in the ditch to protect myself from the lightning and dropping rocks in my tent to stop it from flying away. Once I noticed the rocks were successfully holding down my Thermarest mattress while the tent was letting it go so it could fly off. I put the heaviest rock I could carry inside the tent and zipped it closed, and then ran back to my ditch.

Now, I was sure glad this storm only had wind and lightning, and there was no rain to go along with it. But there I was lying nearly naked in a ditch as the wind went howling over me, stealing heat off my back as the muddy stones I was lying on took heat from my front. I didn't know how safe I would be from lightning in my tent, but hypothermia was a sure thing lying in this ditch.
So I ran back to the tent, and arranged the rocks at the inside corners which seemed to stand it up properly. I closed my -12 mummy bag tightly around me to warm up, as I huddled near the middle of the tent in fear of lightning.

It was a real storm, and I did not sleep until it had passed.

Day 15 ended: 50*11.241N, 110*34.317W

Day 7: What are you going to do about... Shelter?

I quit the day early because I was fed up by the wind. After about eight hours out on the water, I had only gone 12 miles (20 km) or so, constantly being whirred around one side or the other while I tried to keep the boat's bow generally downstream. I would have understood, and perhaps been able to adjust better, if the wind simply flipped me backwards. But it seemed the wind was intent on turning me to a right angle in relation to it, which is a situation I still don't understand, physically, so I was unsure what to do about it. The next day seemed to be improved by adjusting the loading on the boat.

The wind at this point had been an occasional enemy for several days, seemingly always in opposition to my goal. I turn left, it would turn left to keep going against me. I turn right, it turns right. My guess is this wind was generally about 20-25 mph (30-40 km/h), based on the wind scale index I found in one of my books. At least once, while I was trying to set up my tent before a storm, the wind reached such speeds as to nearly knock me off my feet. I should write a letter to the tent manufacturer asking if they have a wind-tunnel in which to try erecting their tents in gale-force winds.

In any case, since not much exciting happened this day I will take some time to discuss shelter and how I select a campsite.

My tent is an MSR "Hubba-Hubba", a dome structure intended for two people. This means that I can easily fit myself and all the stuff I want inside during the night, and I cannot imagine being comfortable in a one-person structure for this length of time. This kind of tent can be set up multiple ways - you can set up just the bug mesh, just the rainfly, both, or, I suppose, neither. This two layer construction is almost essential for keeping dew and condensation off of me.

In Canada, generally river islands and land below the "usual high-water mark" are "Crown lands", similar to the American concept of public property (which also applies in similar situations). So legally, one should try to keep to these areas as much as possible. However, other factors often come into play when selecting a campsite. I have come to the conclusion that generally, if an area is not posted; has no signs of human usage such as fences, buildings, or livestock; and is difficult to access from any nearby roads, it's reasonable to camp there even if it is unclear whether you are below the mythical high-water line. With these considerations, no one will know you are there, and if you are tidy, no one will even know you _were_ there, nor care, since the land is unused. However, it is especially important to keep a clean campsite if you are uncertain about the land's legal status, so as not to disturb the property owner, and keep the area open for later travellers.

Take all of that with a grain of salt; I am neither judge nor property-owner so cannot predict how either will react toyou camping in a certain place. So far, all of my campsites have been in apparently unused areas -- either islands, clearly legal, or in thin strips of land between the river and the bluffs, probably legal, depending on how the high-water line is defined.

At this stage of my journey, I do not ask much of a campsite. The less mud I have to deal with, the better. Anything else, like a flat place to lay out my tent, trees to dry clothes from or tie my canoe to, or a nice angle for the sun to wake me at the correct hour, are pure extras.

End day 7: 50*18.098N, 112*09.994W