Moose Lurking Behind Mossy Logs

That's how I remember Porcupine Island. Forty-five minutes by 16' Polarcraft riverboat from the boat launch at Quartz Creek. The edges of the tiny island alternated between gravel shores strewn with bone-white driftwood and rock-and-bolder mini-cliffs where we couldn't ground the boat. Old-growth trees covered hills that rose away from the shores, where mossy logs were tumbled together. Among the spruce trees, abandoned lean-tos and other secret structures could be discovered and explored. Walking away from the water into the shadowy interior felt like walking into the undeveloped, unmechanized, uncivilized past. There never was a more fertile garden for the imagination of a child.

Except I never really encountered moose there -- we did see them swimming across the lake on a few occasions -- but in the hazy light of nostalgia, the island seems imbued with their stillness. And a part of my imagination abides there still.