Issue link: http://digital.canadawide.com/i/112497
Hut-To-Hut Continued from page 31 skiing amid snow-weighted spruce and fir on the Isaac Lake portage route, we���re tracked by another relative of the weasel family: a long, black pine marten. Curious and irked, he snow-hops alongside for a hundred metres, black eyes glistening. A few minutes later the trail opens onto the endless white taiga of Isaac Lake, the third and last lake we���ll explore before turning around tomorrow. It���s a calm, snowless day of broken clouds; the sun lays mirrorpatches of light on the slant of the mountains. Taking my turn breaking trail, I keep my gaze fixed, canoeist-like, on the far point of trees where Isaac Lake takes a ninety-degree bend south. The day is warmer than yesterday and the lake-snow has settled, making trailbreaking a trudge. Jorgenson has been at it all morning, and I have a new appreciation for his fitness level. My legs burn, my lower back is in cramp, I���m too hot for gloves or a hat. Starting to feel sorry for myself, I remember an aphorism that Rita Giesbrecht, Harris���s partner, imparted yesterday, courtesy of an exboyfriend from Newfoundland. ���If you���re looking for sympathy, it���s in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.��� Still, kick-gliding in light powder may be meditative and exhilarating, but breaking trail through soggy snow is not. As with a long canoe crossing, the mind needs a distraction. For some motivation I imagine I���m eponymous local miner Fred Wells, snowshoeing his gold bars from Wells to Quesnel circa 1933. It���s an inspiring image while slogging in deep snow, a kind of numerical goad to my 40-something body. Gold is heavy. Quesnel was 65 km away, and Wells was 72 at the time. Of course, the two bars were worth about $22,000 that winter, about $1 million p28-31-44-45_Hut.indd 44 in today���s dollars ��� enough to put a spring in anyone���s trudge, even at Wells���s age. Yet according to legend, he was more interested in finding gold than spending it: he built a house on a prime bluff in town, but preferred to sleep in a backyard tent and pay his housekeeper to live in the house and cook him pancakes. His major extravagance was a constant supply of Vermont maple syrup. I manage to push myself to where Isaac Lake makes its southward hairpin, about two kilometres from where I began breaking trail. Macarthy then takes the lead and I hang back on the point, lying in the snow, watching drips fall from a cottonwood branch and savouring a moment of exhaustion. About halfway down Isaac Lake, further than we���ll explore, is Betty Wendle Creek. Wendle ��� ���the Annie Oakley of the Cariboo��� ��� is, like Frank Kibbee and Fred Wells, a local legend. The classic tale is that she and her husband Joe were out hunting in the Bowron in 1915 when a grizzly reared up 20 metres away. She took aim, shot, and the bear fell. The grizzly then rose up once more; she shot again, and it fell. Her husband ran over and she told him she���d shot a bear. But when they checked, it turned out she���d shot two. That���s the legend. The actual story (told by a Vancouver Sun reporter in 1954 while the couple were still alive) is only slightly less impressive for a woman raised in Toronto and New York City. Wendle did shoot two grizzlies, but on separate, consecutive days. The first took five rifle shots to bring down; and, in the newspaper photo, the pelt, strung up next to her, is at least twice her height. ���There was a layer of fat four inches thick under the hide,��� she recalled for the Sun. ���The steaks, while good, were very rich.��� We run in an easy caravan on the return trip the next day, kick-gliding for long stretches on the silent lakes, followed by hearty lunches, photographs, hot chocolate, 12-10-26 7:35 AM