Cascade Paddle Club Canoes, camp, and the same good company.

This month

Cedarkettle, and the wind that waited until lunch

Glass in the morning, a portage we deserved, Brick’s skillet, and a lake that remembered how to make a chop.

Portrait of Jules Written by Jules · 9 August 2026 · Cedarkettle Lake

Fellows launching canoes at Cedarkettle, life vests on
Vests on before the first hull got wet. Pete counted. Pete always counts.
Two tandem canoes on a glassy alpine lake
The morning we will brag about. The afternoon had opinions.
Fellows around the campfire at dusk
The fire that made the portage feel like a rumor.
Brick cooking at camp
Brick, and the reason nobody packed a sandwich for dinner.
Paddles and a green canoe on the beach
Tom’s Penobscot, and the usual argument about bent shafts laid out in wood and carbon.
Two fellows with coffee at dawn beside a canoe
Coffee on the hull. We did not talk much. We did not need to.
Fellows portaging a red canoe
The carry. Marcus made it look lighter than it was.
Fellows with beers on the shore after paddling
After. The vests drying. The day cooling. The lake done with us.

We put in under a sky that had not yet decided to be interesting. Cedarkettle was a plate. Tom took stern in the green Penobscot with Nick, who had the map even though there is only one lake. Sam and I took the Magic. I still get a look from Brick about that boat. It is a lot of canoe. It also kept up, which is the only argument I need.

Pete had the vests out of the bags before anyone had coffee. He is not theatrical about it. He just stands there with an orange pile until you put one on. On the water you can see why. The lake is cold in August if you are from anywhere that is not here.

The crossing to the far arm was the kind of paddling that makes you think you have become good. We had not. We had become lucky. Lunch was on a granite slab, sausage from Brick’s cooler, and Tom explaining, again, why a Penobscot tracks and a Prospector does not, and Brick explaining, again, that tracking is for people who never carry a kitchen.

Then we portaged to the little water that is not on the map Nick likes. It is on the map he does not like. The carry is long enough to become a story and short enough that you cannot complain without being teased. Pete and Marcus took the red boat on their shoulders and grinned like it cost them nothing. Sam timed the rest of us with the patience of a man who knows about blades and also about pride.

The wind arrived while we were still on the little water, which was rude and also fair. We came back in a chop that put a little honesty in the bows. Nobody swam. The vests stayed on. Tom’s J-stroke got loud. I liked him for that.

Evening was fire, too much garlic, a beer that tasted like having done something, and the usual comparisons. Sam prefers the Werner on a crossing and the Grey Owl when he wants to hear the drip. I think he is right. I also think the Magic looks better on the beach than it has any right to, and I am not sorry.

In the morning the lake was a plate again. Tom and I sat on a hull with coffee and did not solve anything. Nick mentioned he had to be back for a thing with Kate. We packed like men who know the way to the cars. We will do High Notch in September, Tom hosting, two lakes, one carry. I am already looking at the forecast like it owes me a favor.

Earlier reports