We loaded the packs and shoved off, our paddles swirling through cold water, the canoe riding easily over small, harmless swells.

Morale was high. Our gear was carefully stowed, balanced on either side of the sturdy boat. Our day would be challenging, but not back-breaking.

And the weather was looking good - cloudy, breezy, but good.

Luke Stocker of Coeur d'Alene, my companion on this short journey, sat in the bow. He has broad shoulders, a swimmer's build, and he was pulling hard on every stroke.

An able bowman, I thought, is a luxury on big water, and Luke's powerful paddling gave me confidence.

Off in the distance, across a wide stretch of restless water, green mountains reached toward the sky. It was late June, but the highest peaks still carried a thin mantle of snow on their pointed summits.

It would be a scenic voyage. We would paddle across the northern curve of Priest Lake, through a narrow channel called the Thoroughfare and along the western shoreline of Upper Priest Lake.

Our destination was Navigation Campground, a popular resting place for weary hikers, horseback riders and canoeists. We would camp one night, do a little fishing, then return the next day - a simple weekend outing.

Forward we went, toward the wind and the waves.

A haphazard beginning

Our scattered pile of gear - personal packs, sleeping bags, fishing rods, tent, food pack and grub, stove, fuel, bear spray, spare gym shoes - was truly mountainous.

I marveled. We would be gone for two days, and we needed this much? Finally, the car was packed, the gas pumped, the fishing licenses purchased. At last we were headed north, toward the wilds of Priest Lake, toward adventure.

About 20 minutes out, I looked over at Luke.

"You know what we forgot?"

"What?"

"The canoe."

Indeed, there was no vessel strapped to the roof. I laughed sardonically. Our canoe trip would be very difficult without a canoe.

Luke uttered several words I cannot repeat here, and we drove back to Coeur d'Alene to retrieve the green boat lying in my yard.

One hour sufficiently wasted, we again headed north. Sandpoint, Priest River and the village of Priest Lake slipped past the windows, and before long my SUV was rolling through pristine national forest.

En route to Beaver Creek Campground, our put-in, we spotted a cow moose and her calf standing in the road. Hearing the car, they jogged ahead of us for several hundred yards, clip-clopping on the pavement, before retreating into the thickets.

Good luck, it must be.

Whitecaps and mosquitoes

Priest Lake, we soon learned, was in a cantankerous mood.

Shortly after we launched, a hard southern wind brought steep, foamy waves that rocked our heavily-laden canoe. Our high spirits were quickly dashed. We were being pushed, bullied, roughed up.

Steering from the stern, I pried the canoe into the waves, trying to quarter the crests and keep Luke dry. To reach the shelter of the Thoroughfare, we would have to round a wooden seawall that jutted southeastward, reaching toward the heavy water of the open lake.

It was treacherous business. The canoe bucked and bounced, punching through malevolent whitecaps. We had to make a move; stay put and our boat would surely swamp.

"OK, lets go!" I shouted.

Luke ripped his paddle through the waves and I swept us toward the seawall's slender point. We made the turn and tucked into the shelter of the wall. The water smoothed and the canoe settled.

We could breathe easier.

"I didn't want to say it out there," I said, "but that made me a little nervous."

The two-mile Thoroughfare was more river than channel, wider than we had expected. We battled a slight current as we labored toward the northern lake.

Rounding a final bend, Luke and I caught our first glimpse of Upper Priest. Aside from one lonely powerboat, the lake was empty. Round, craggy mountains rose on all sides, their flanks covered with dense forest.

After a brief lunch break at Plowboy Campground, we pointed our bow toward Canada. The wind picked up again, pushing from behind, building momentum. Big combers hissed beneath the hull. We rode the waves, up one side and down the other.

The sun disappeared; the lake was dark and unruly. We floated northward on the rolling swells, very much alone. A capsize would be more than inconvenient - if the canoe went over, Luke and I would be in a tight spot, potentially a survival situation.

I tried not to think about disaster, instead whooping and hollering as we surfed the gray waves.

Navigation Campground was a welcome sight. Eight or nine canoes were already parked along the shoreline; a Boy Scout troop was also exploring Upper Priest Lake. We landed on a brushy beach and sloshed ashore.

The mosquitoes attacked immediately. Evil hordes of them, like some sort of Biblical plague. Constellations of itchy red bites blossomed on my legs, arms and neck. Luke scrambled to an open space and claimed a campsite.

"Is it better up there?" I yelled, climbing toward him.

"No," he said. "It's not."

I realized, to my horror, that Luke was surrounded by roughly 1,000 mosquitoes. He looked sad.

The troop's scoutmaster, a haggard man with a bug screen covering his face, told us the insects were very bad and the scouts were headed south. They left an hour later.

Luke and I bathed in bug spray, then cowered in our tent. Later that night we hiked about six miles on a damp, buggy trail that led to a foaming creek. It was beautiful, empty country.

Fettuccine alfredo, seasoned with extra mosquitoes, was our dinner entree.

A good day's paddle

Partly-sunny skies greeted us the next morning - it would be a good day for traveling.

Our winged tormentors, however, were waiting for us. Dozens of mosquitoes clung to our tent screens, plotting their next assault.

We packed the canoe quickly, trying to ignore the bites. Mercifully, the open lake was free of bugs, and we soldiered forward in the face of a stiff morning breeze. Gusts had whipped through camp during the night, so the tough conditions were no surprise.

That angry southern wind, our old friend, was back for another round.

Fast-moving swells tumbled across the lake, buffeting our bow. We pulled hard. Our strokes were in rhythm, the paddles in sync. The canoe tracked well, weighed down by its heavy load. Try as it might, the wind couldn't swing our bow as we plunged over the waves.

I thought of the great explorers, the brave canoemen who once roamed the vast Northwest. David Thompson, Alexander Mackenzie, Meriwether Lewis, William Clark. The voyageurs and Nor'westers of the Canadian North.

Those tough frontiersmen had traveled in rough dugouts or leaky birchbark canoes, mile upon mile. When the rivers and lakes ran the wrong way, they had portaged through inhospitable, trackless country.

I have to admit, Luke and I - with our modern-day packs and rugged fiberglass canoe - were doing it the easy way.

But still, as the wind howled and the lake sprayed, with miles still to paddle, we felt that raw, beautiful power that is only found in the wild places of this world. And that, I suppose, was why we had come to Upper Priest Lake.

Plowboy Campground, tucked on the leeward side of a quiet bay, offered respite from the relentless wind. A short break and it was back to the paddles, back to the lake, back to the southern gusts trying to drive us backward. Even the Thoroughfare was blustery.

Rather than chance the main lake, we pulled ashore at a portage trail that led to Beaver Creek. Our gear was heavy, the canoe cumbersome, but we didn't mind the walk after two days of hard paddling.

I parked the car in front of my house and unloaded the mountain of gear. Luke grabbed his pack and a few other items. I shook his hand.

We looked worn. We were covered with lumpy mosquito bites. Our muscles were stiff and achy. Two days, that was all, but darned if it wasn't a tough trip.

"Well, it wasn't perfect," I said. "But sometimes that's how it goes."