Once we retrieved the balance of our firewood and stowed it in the canoe, we decided on our choice of potential hikes for an afternoon excursion. Previously when we'd stayed at Mallard Lake, those many years ago with Button our intrepid little black miniature poodle, we had gone on to Barron River Canyon, a picturesque site we had also camped at on several earlier occasions, with our son.

We'd also taken a hike on a nearby-to-our-camp-site portage leading to a small lake, as all portages at Algonquin Park, inevitably and with purpose, do. The portage we ended up agreeing on this time was one we believed we hadn't taken in our past expeditions, so off we went. It almost seemed as though the weather was poised on the verge of relenting; the overcast sky appeared less darkly threatening, and the wind seemed to have abated somewhat.

We embarked on a leisurely paddle across the lake, in the process disabusing someone's dog that this landscape was its alone to share with its human companions at a camp site we passed, who seemed to believe this was its personal environment; affronted by our near presence. There's always an acknowledging wave when canoes pass camp sites, the unspoken recognition of kindred spirits in nature lore, as it seems.

Pickerel weed and water lilies appeared in abundance close to the shorelines of the lake's island, and the mainland. Those aquatic plants are beautiful, their flowers breath-taking in their perfection of form and colour. Now and again a loon would break the surface of the lake, before once again descending into its depths, fishing for the abundance of food to be found there, nature's unending cycle.

Finally, we beached the canoe at a narrow intake, and took to the trail/portage. A bit of a rise initially took us to a fairly wide and flat trail which, as we progressed became increasingly narrower, moving away from the lakeshore and closer into the forest. Now and again the trail was firmly beset with roots and rocks, and innumerable rises and declines. All of which would make the footing fairly tricky and challenging for anyone carrying a canoe over their shoulders, as our son had done so often camping with us at Algonquin in the past. And which he still does, on his own expeditions to the coastal and interior mountain lakes of British Columbia.

The effect of the wind was decreased on the trail since we were within a close forested area with high humidity, enough so that we began to feel somewhat warmer, geared as we were with multiple layers against the ambient cool temperature. On either side of us, the trail edges sported unproductive blueberry bushes, and striped maple was prevalent in the understory. Pines grow differently in Algonquin Park than elsewhere; there in the Park they resemble the famed paintings of Tom Thomson, starkly beautiful in silhouette.