February fecal feces Fed fed federal federalism federalist Federal Reserve System federate federation fed up fee feeble feeble-minded feed feedback feedbag feeding feel feeler feeling feelings feet feign feint feisty feline fell fellow fellowship felon felony felt felt-tip pen fem. Jane Doe jangle janitor January Japanese jar jargon jaundice jaundiced jaunt jauntily jaunty javelin jaw jaws jaywalker jazz jazzy jealous jealously jealousy jeans Jeep jeer jeez Jell-O jelly jellyfish jeopardize jeopardy jerk jerkily jerky jersey jest jester Jesus Jesus Christ jet jet black jet engine jet lag jet-lagged jet-propelled jet propulsion jet set jet setter jettison jetty Jew jewel jeweled jeweler jewelry Jewish jibe jiffy jig jigger jiggle jigsaw puzzle jilt jingle jinx jinxed jitters jittery jive job jobless joblessness jock jockey jockstrap jocular jocularity jog jogger jogging john John Doe join joint jointly joint venture joke joker jolly jolt jostle jot journal journalism journalist journey jovial jowls joy joyful joyfully joyfulness joyous joyously joyride joyrider joyriding joystick Jr.
July jumble jumbled jumbo jump jumper jumper cable jump rope jump-start jumpsuit jumpy Jun. Emerging from the old Frontier Hotel, having been thrown out of the bar, they were greeted by a semicircle of rifles, according to Lester. Slack-jawed, they watched in horror as the cowboys blew apart their Harley-Davidsons. To get home, the entire gang had to take a Greyhound bus.
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Lester is still going strong, but as I made my way back to the lodge, too many faces came to me of those who had passed on. Guiding on the coast, Jack Cherry took a plane that hit a mountain in the fog. Mike Jones, Ray's closest friend, went through the ice on his trapline, and it was six months before the Mounties could recover the body. Near the lodge I stopped by one of the cabins, a simple log structure elevated to the sublime by a copper plaque on its wall, etched with a poem that remembers Ray's youngest son, Chad, killed in a plane crash that also took down the pilot and his son and two others.
Only Ray's daughter, Carrie, survived, cushioned by the family dog that died in her lap, protecting her from the impact. You've got to strive for those good days because life, life is tough, period. Ray and I had one of those good days, and it began in the morning when we flew up the valley to make a delivery to his camp at Buckinghorse Lake, 20 miles Ray is not one to fly in a straight line if there's a more interesting option, and as his Piper Cub rose like a dragonfly out of the mist, the Spatsizi unfolded below us, and we followed the Stikine to its source.
I found myself embracing the landscape from two perspectives. From the air it was a stunningly beautiful mosaic: the fens and meadows at the head of Laslui, the meandering stream draining Tuaton Peak, and the prairie beyond. There the river, a mere brook, carves a serpentine path through a valley of stone and grass that rises toward the Skelhorne Pass and the snowfields on the flank of Mount Umbach where the river is born.
All around are soaring massifs, mountains without names, hidden valleys that give rise to so many great rivers, the Skeena, Nass, and Finlay, which is itself the source of the Mackenzie, greatest of all Canadian rivers. At the same time I knew the land with a startling intimacy. Moose were grazing in meadows where Alex and I had hunted. Goats and sheep frequented ledges and knolls where I had walked. As Ray banked in a steep turn across the flank of Umbach, I remembered the afternoon when I drank from the source, a trickle of water the width of a boot that in time would become a river carving a path through mountains and canyons to the sea.
From the Skelhorne we spun west, across the headwaters of the Ross River, where Alex's wife, Madeleine, had wintered as a child, in caribou-hide tents in temperatures so low that breath cracked in the wind.
At Klahowya Lake I looked down upon the remnants of one of our old camps, beneath the flank of a ridge where four grizzlies were sleeping in the morning sun. Ray saw the land not through memories but through the eyes and habits of the animals. A salt lick that drew moose had a pattern different from the one that attracted caribou. A mound of earth camouflaged a den of wolves.
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And this knowledge was nothing compared with what he saw in the moment: the flash of a hawk, a wolf pack scattering by a stream, a sow grizzly bolting into the brush, a thousand such sights few others would have seen. But he did, because for 30 years he had made observation his mission, and no matter what else occurred in his life, he was not about to miss a chance to engage the sublime vision of the wild.
After skirting the flank of Tuaton Peak, alive with mountain goats, and making our delivery at Buckinghorse Lake, we flew back to Laslui, where we dragged a white-water raft across the beam of one of his skiffs and set out down the lake toward the outlet at Fountain Rapids.
As the lake narrowed, the Stikine slowly took form, its surface dappled by hundreds of whitefish rising to feed. The entire sky was pink, and the air scented with smoke that had drifted thousands of miles from forests burning in Siberia. When the water grew too shallow for the skiff, I cast off in the raft to join a small group of friends camped out below the portage, intent on floating the upper reaches of the Stikine. Before Tom Buri was a lawyer, he was a pioneer of the primitive. Of the thousands of young people who went back to the land in the s, he was one of the few to choose the Stikine as a destination.
His odyssey began one frosty morning on a farm in Vermont when he realized that his flock of sheep, harassed but unharmed by a pack of wild dogs, had literally died of fright. I was living in the Neolithic, gardening. What I wanted was the Paleolithic, a time before civilization had dropped an iron curtain over the imagination, a place where dreams did not stop at dawn. To the horror of his wife's father, who told Tom that his debutante daughter was a poodle and not a sled dog, Tom and Deborah embarked on a journey that landed them an hour by boat downstream from Telegraph Creek-the historic center of the Stikine.
They had help, of course, from the Tahltan, especially an elderly couple, Roy and Eva Call-breath. From Eva and other women, Deborah learned to tan moose hides, heal with plants, and put up berries and salmon in the summer, meat in the fall. Roy showed Tom how to work dogs, build sleds, trap, and prepare skins.
But above all Roy taught Tom the ways of the animals, the nature of a hunter. When Tom came back one day from a hunting sojourn, he recounted to Roy a curious story. Standing on a rocky bluff perched above a precipitous exposure, he had been suddenly surrounded by ravens, dozens of birds spinning a tighter and tighter spiral just above his head. Tom took it as a spiritual epiphany.
Roy just laughed, explaining that what he had experienced was simply the way that ravens kill goats, confusing them until, dizzy with vertigo, they tumble down the canyon walls. For ten years Tom and Deborah lived by the seasons, cutting wood in the fall, fishing in the spring, raising a family. In August Tom shot a mountain goat, in the fall a stone sheep. Two moose got the family through the winter; a black bear brought variety to the table in the spring. It was a life of wandering and puttering.
A free-form drift like berry picking. You forget where you are.
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You're just following the berries. In all his time on the river Tom never explored the Spatsizi, never visited the headwaters, roughly miles kilometers east of Telegraph. The canyon was this huge barrier, not just physically but psychologically. It was this place that destroyed any boat that tried to head up into it, this land where even the Tahltan rarely went. As we talked, it was clear that the Stikine still haunted Tom's imagination, even though it had now been some years since he had got a divorce, moved south to Vancouver, studied law, and started a new family.
Gateway to the Porcupine Mountains! Sunday Lake offers Eddy Park, a nice park with a pavilion, swimming, picnic tables, a playground, camping, fishing and boating. Scenic hiking trails through an old growth hemlock and hardwood forest and five waterfalls make this a favorite scenic stop along Lake Superior.
Ride a story chair-lift to a destination far above the trees. For the more adventurous soul, ascend the additional stories to a panoramic view that will engrain 2, square miles known as The Wilds of Michigan into your mind for now and forever. This ski jump is scheduled to reopen next year.
To access the falls hikers have the option of parking at the day-use parking area or the Presque Isle River camp site at the southern point of the South Boundary Road. Then follow the West or East trail on either side of the river for a stunning day in the wilderness! They feed the bears in the courtyard periodically throughout the day which is a nice attraction.
Beautiful views, great easy hiking! Walk the beach, do some rock hounding and capture the amazing views! Begin with a hike to the highest point of the Porcupine Mountains, Summit Peak, reaching an impressive 1, feet! Viewed from an easily accessible scenic overlook lays Lake of the Clouds. A sight to behold, this lake is surrounded by historical old-growth forests, abundant wildlife and natural beauty.