Quetico Provincial Park, ON

As is our ritual, we gather at the water's edge in the waning light to review our progress. Herb, our chief navigator, lays out the maps on a granite outcrop showing long, parallel grooves that were scoured by glaciers that passed this way some 15,000 years ago, forming the park's landscape that we see today. After some serious chin-scratching, the Boss issues his status report. "We've come 48 miles in six days," he says tersely. Then, after a pause to stir the simmering fish chowder he's preparing, compliments of a couple of lovely lake trout that Richard reeled in not long after making camp, he adds, "We're not moving fast, but with this big fat ass of mine, I'm just glad I'm moving at all."

No matter how fast, or slow, our passage is, we're all glad to be exactly where we are-in the middle of more than two million acres of canoe country. With no pressing agenda and the weather holding clear, there's ample time to pass around the peppermint schnapps, stoke the fire, and talk the modern-day voyageurs' talk. Since we're in the natural habitat of the canoe, much of our palavering revolves around these simple yet versatile craft-one of the symbols of the north woods. We compare our favorite boats, reflect on where we've paddled, and share our dreams of other waterways that still beckon.

On the next leg of our trip-from Kahshahpiwi Lake to McIntyre Lake-eight portages await us in 10 miles. The last one is the shortest, at only 24 rods (396 feet). But what this man-killer lacks in length, it more than makes up for in steepness. After barely grinding to the top without a heart attack, I pass Cliff on my way back down. As he struggles up the needle-slippery slope with his big pack, his usual cheerful countenance is masked with a look of grim, sweaty determination. "How ya doing, Cliffy?" I ask out of concern. After all, at age 60, this wilderness-tripping guru is no spring chicken anymore. "Oh, great!" he wheezes sardonically, stopping to rest his hands on his knees. "I sometimes think that it would have been fun to grow up in the age of the voyageur, but right now is not one of those times."

On McIntyre Lake, our home for the next two nights, images in abundance remind us how beautiful life is. Beams of sunlight punch through holes in the ragged clouds, spotlighting the splendor of this fall-colored wilderness. A wedge of Canada geese wing south, their strident honking suggesting that winter is not far away. And if this weren't enough grandeur, a bald eagle wheels over our camp and lands on a lone jack pine, standing ragged but erect at the tip of a rocky point in front of our tents.

Our maps reveal that we're only seven miles from the BWCAW, where one nation's canoe country seamlessly merges into anotherÂ’s. Not far beyond that lies our take-out. "Here's the lowdown, boys," Herb notes, smacking his lips in anticipation of a cold brewski. "Two more medium-long travel days and we should be at the Chainsaw Sisters Saloon." I've long heard about this legendary watering hole at the edge of the BWCAW, a half-hour's drive north of Ely. And although I look forward to meeting the Chainsaw Sisters themselves, I'm in no hurry to see our journey end. Here in the north woods, I am feeling that this is exactly where I should be-in a different world where outboard motorboats cannot go, where news of the outside world is nonexistent, where there is nothing but the primitive and the wild all around. Paddling and portaging.