Spirit River

In Canada, even if you live in a city, the wilderness is never too far away, particularly if you are willing to canoe or hike off the beaten path. With care, you can find still isolated areas within a few hours drive, where you can get away from the internal combustion engine for a day or a week - the trick is in finding the spots.

In the winter, one of our favorite activities is paper prospecting for potential new routes. On cold winter nights, we pour over our maps, selecting promising areas, then go to the topo maps to make sure we avoid those lakes ringed with black dots signifying cottages. (and yes children - this was in the days before Google map). Finally on to the aerial maps and letters to the Ministry to make sure the route is doable. Then in the spring and summer, we would try the routes. Oftentimes we make mistakes, we have many tales of walking for kilometers through a mosquito infested mash with a canoe over our head, only to discover a short portage, and HORRORS motor boats just around the bend. Another time, we took the wrong portage and paddled back to the highway. But we've found some gems too. Places where you can watch otter, beaver, snapping turtles and, more often now, falcons and eagles; where the call of the loon at sunset isn't interrupted by the insistent put-put of an outboard motor, and where sometimes there are big fish just waiting to be caught.

The Spirit River system is one of those gems. More than 50 kilometers of river and lakes extending between two cottage lakes, with almost nothing in-between. We explored it gradually, first going into the upper lakes for trips in and out, then finally biting the bullet and going down the river. It wasn't large, all flat water, except for the portages, those long hikes with canoe and gear between sections of passable water. As my father-in- law used to say of nearby provincial park famous ofr its canoeing and portages "Algonquin is where I learned that a canoe is something you carry over your head like an umbrella." Even the names, Long Falls, High Falls and Middle Falls were daunting, and rightly so. But it was worth it, the isolated river valley, the transition from coniferous to deciduous oak forest, the wetlands with their carnivorous plants and hidden orchids. And in the middle of the trip there were the Twin Lakes.

You approach the lakes right after the railway bridge, looking down the valley, past High Falls to the two lakes below. The waterfall plunges into a pool at the base of the upper lake, then it's about half a kilometer across to the short reach of fast stream which connects the upper and lower lakes. Both portages are rugged but passable and not too long (not nearly as long as Long Falls further downriver). In the summer, the lakes stratify, and the upper waters of the lakes are warm, but below a depth 6-10 feet the waters are at least 5o C colder. You can hold on to rocks in the middle of the stream, letting the warm water caress your portage weary body, then let go to be swept into the lower lake, where the current brings up cooler water. Then too, there are some good fish in the lakes, both large and smallmouth bass of over 20".

The trip had become our hidden jewel, one we kept to ourselves, and over several trips the only people we ever saw downriver were at the small hunt camp just off the railway bridge. I'd made the trip several times with friends and family, each time was special; then one year there wasn't anyone else to go with me so I soloed.

It had been a hard year, another corporate reorg and I was tense and irritable, an irascible old bear, who needed to get away from everyone. It was early fall, the weather still warm and the water up from summer low but nowhere near flood levels. Nonetheless, I'd taken the portage small pond series into the upper lakes rather than trying the upper river which can be a rock garden. I'd made good time, into Tuttle Lake the first evening, and Birch the next day. Both of the upper lakes had been quiet, the weather fine with warm days and crisp nights, and no bugs. I was hoping to see the first autumn colors as I moved downriver from coniferous to deciduous forest. I'd taken a few decent fish, but nothing really big. I made good time going down to Twin Lakes the next day, set up camp on the lower lake at noon, took a swim in our famous whirlpool stream, then dressed and carried the canoe to the upper lake for an afternoon fish. Four days out and I hadn't seen a soul - glorious.

You can imagine my annoyance, when at the top end of the upper lake, the pool at the base of High Falls, I saw a person, wailing like a banshee. Coming closer, I could see she was a young woman, Oriental judging by her babble, covered in a shawl that was probably white, once, but now was covered with brown and red stains. I came around the corner of the lake and started to paddle through the bit of fast current to reach her, as I came into her view, her eyes grew wide with fright and she fainted dead away.

I beached the canoe, tied it off, and went to her. She had a pulse, but her breathing was shallow and she felt deathly cold, She had obviously been mistreated, some of the red marks were blood. There were no obvious broken bones but her feet were clearly deformed. Shock and hypothermia were obvious possibilities, so I wrapped her in my emergency space blanket, and gave her an orange flavored drink from my bottle, which she drank eagerly. I lifted her up and laid her in my canoe, she was light, not much heavier than my Kevlar canoe. I paddled across the lake, carried her to my tent, laid her on my sleeping bag and went back to fetch the canoe. Back at camp, I looked in on her, she was sleeping soundly, but I knew I should get her to proper medical authorities. If the trains had been running, the track was a possibility, but it was between seasons. The summer trips were over but it was too early for the fall color trips, so it was unlikely that there would be a train until the weekend. I'd have to try and take her with me downriver, but first I should let her rest.

While she slept, I fished a bit, where the stream entered the lake, catching two medium bass. I filleted the fish for our meal, then went down to the lake for a swim and wash and the hydromassage of the inflowing stream. The water was still warm and it was oh so pleasant to be suspended in the current with the water rushing around you, then to let go and drift out into the deeper, slightly colder lake waters. I had taken off my glasses, and was most surprised, to look up and see, my foundling standing blurry on the near bank looking at me. I motioned for her to join me; she took off her shawl/dress with nothing underneath, then stepped awkwardly to the water and dove in. As she entered the water, she transformed into the most graceful swimmer I've ever seen, sleek and graceful, almost like an otter. I showed her the stream and the hydromassage and for about an hour or so we played in the water. I gave her the soap, and she washed, her back, thighs and buttocks were bruised, but the ugly welts, though red were closed. Even with my glasses off, it was apparent that she was a most attractive young woman with her light golden skin set off by her thick raven hair, dark aureoles and thick black pubic bush. Unfortunately, she didn't speak English and as I don't know Chinese, we could not communicate verbally but she smiled brightly at my attempts. I kept my trunks on and strayed mostly in water over my waist so as not to upset her non-verbally.

Finally we went to shore, I rummaged around to find her my extra towel and some of my clothes, which hung on her small lithe body, but I had nothing for her feet. Her feet were most peculiar, deformed almost more like hooves then feet, as if they had been restrained from a very early age. She limped as she walked, but seemed in no pain as she took her garment to the stream and washed it by hand. She hung it in the trees, where it dried quickly in the warm afternoon breeze. I was relieved that she seemed OK for the most part, although I was unsure if she could make the portages on the way out with those feet.

I split some wood, started a fire and cooked supper - fish, rice and dried peas. She ate hungrily, obviously enjoying the meal and afterward insisted on washing the dishes in the lake. She came back to the fire, looked at me and motioned to herself saying "Maja." At first, I thought she was saying "mahjong", the game, but then it dawned on me that was her name. I motioned at myself "Roger", which she pronounced as "Raja." I poured myself a brandy, the one luxury I allow myself on these solo trips, and offered her a drink, she sniffed at it wrinkled her nose and looked a little frightened , then threw it on the fire. I tried unsuccessfully to hide my anger, I don't appreciate wasting brandy at the best of times, but on a trip like this it was almost criminal.

Then it was getting dark, and a bunch of late mosquitoes made an appearance, so we went into the tent. I gave Maja my sleeping bag and mattress; spread out some of my outer clothes on the other side of the tent, lay on top of them and surprisingly enough was soon fast asleep.

I awoke, sometime in the middle of the night, dark, unsure of where I was. More unsure as I felt light butterfly kisses, eyelashes rather than lips, across my cheeks, shoulders, legs, stomach and chest - a touch and then gone, almost never returning to the same spot, sometimes in rapid succession, other times inexorably delayed. I realized it had to be Maja, and I stayed very still so as not to break her magic spell. Next alternating lips, cool, and butterfly kisses, sometimes nibbling, I gasped as I felt another touch, her lips on my nipple, and something - her hand, a feather?? - stroking my thigh. But never my sex, my cock hard and quivering, my balls tight within my scrotum, twitching in mounting anticipation and continuing disappointment.

Then her small cold hands lightly feathered my shaft, her mouth and tongue slid over on my balls and perineum, but cold, so cold, almost like ice. Her tongue and hands switched positions, the tongue lapping up my shaft, round my rim probing at my cumhole then down and around, the cycle almost but not quite repeating, growing more insistent, till she took my cock fully into her mouth and bobbed her head up and down. Her hands, so cold, one on my balls, pressing my cock through my scrotum between my testis, the other moving across my perineum, butt cheeks and asshole. With my cock deep in her mouth, and her tongue moving up and down my shaft, my orgasm rose from the base of my spine, and spilled into her eager oral cavity. As I started to come, her frigid finger passed my sphincter and rubbed my prostrate. I came and came and came, the longest orgasm of my life, each time I felt myself beginning to ebb her mouth, tongue, or hands would do something new and the flow of cum would continue. So hot - so cold. Years ago, at my stag, my father-in-law, who like the rest of us had had too much to drink, told me of his most exquisite sexual experience, not with my mother-in-law, but away in Korea. A whore who gave him a blow job with ice cubes in her mouth and shoved an ice cube up his ass as he came - my experience was of the same magnitude. At last my infinite orgasm subsided, and I fell back to sleep my diminished cock still twitching in her delectable mouth.

That morning, I awoke, alone, no trace of Maja. The tent smelled like a two-bit whorehouse on Saturday night but no cum was on my clothes or sleeping bag. Going outside, too, no sign of yesterday's foundling. I shook my head wondering if I'd been alone in the bush too long, then went to the lake for a swim, relaxing in the hydromassage, I realized my nether parts were sore, looking closer, I saw my ass, balls and shriveled cock were all blue, although in the pulsing water their color was returning.

I fished that morning and caught and released the largest smallmouth bass I've ever caught in my life - 22." I broke camp and a bit further down, in the big pool called Deadman's Elbow, caught and released the second biggest largemouth bass of my life - 21." Then the big portage at Long Falls and the slow easy paddle down the endless meanders of the lower river to the lake, where my wife and family were to pick me up, still wondering at the reality of yesterday's, last night's dream???

Just before the main lake, under the first set of transmission wire, I passed an man paddling upstream with smooth liquid strokes in his birchbark canoe. We paused and chatted. He said he was going upstream to visit his grandfather's grave on the railroad tracks about a mile east of the bridge above High Falls. His grandfather was Chinese and had been working as a railroad cook with his wife when they put in the line at the turn of the century. That his grandmother had been raised as a concubine to a minor official of the Chinese court (bound feet and all). His grandfather and mother had fallen in love, and escaped to new lives in the New World. But one night the railroad crew had all got drunk and stormed the cook's car to get at his wife. They had killed his grandfather, raped his pregnant grandmother and tossed her from the bridge to the stream below. The local Huron's had found his grandmother and taken her into their homes, as one of their own. She had later married a minor chief and died 25 years ago. That there were rumors after she died that travelers, particularly solo travelers on the Sprit River would encounter her powerful spirit, in the Chinese tradition she would be a Nü gui, just before the new fall moon. That these travelers could have good or bad fortune depending on how they treated her spirit. I looked him in the eye and said, my trip had been smooth; that if I'd encountered his grandmothers ghost I must have done the right things. I looked into my small cooler and was surprised to see that I still had a block of ice. I gave him the ice block and asked him to leave it at his grandfather's grave. He smiled., returned my look, and said " Most appropriate." But it was the least I could do.

Then down to the main lake, where I caught five walleye, keeping three as my family does like fresh fish.