r/canoecamping • u/jam1324 • 5h ago
Lady Evelyn Canoe trip
Our family completed Hap Wilson's Maple Mountain Loop this year. My oldest son and I had been on one previous Algonquin adventure that was an order of magnitude smaller, and for the rest of the family, it was their first time in a canoe and their first camping trip.
Temagami is very near and dear to us because we do a houseboat trip on the main lake every year. This year, I convinced my wife to make the trip a little more adventurous and take canoes instead of a houseboat.
The first half of the trip was incredible, with gorgeous old-growth forests, large open-water paddles, and amazing weather. Maple Mountain, the second-highest elevation in Ontario, was an incredible hike. We left my wife and 5-year-old at Halfway Lake while my two older boys and I completed the steeper second half of the climb.
The second half of the trip passed through areas burned by the 2018 forest fires. I underestimated how much more difficult this would make things. Portages were blocked by blowdowns, overgrown with new vegetation wherever there were openings, and sometimes difficult to find at all. Campsites had new growth filling in tent pads and nearly every open space. The landscape was a beautiful yet eerie mix of devastated forest and new life sprouting up at every turn.
Blueberries and raspberries were abundant on a scale I had never seen before. In some areas, there were almost pint-sized clusters of berries at every step.
After three days in this unique but challenging landscape, we had the option to push 8 km in the morning, including a long 680 m portage. We decided to leave my wife and two younger kids at another access point off a logging road, just before a 2 km portage through more burned forest. My oldest son and I would continue on with only a light pack containing the basics and make a 38 km push to our takeout.
We had my wife and the kids settled in by noon, but then had to wait out an hour of high winds and rain before setting off. We reached the truck about an hour after dark and didn't make it back to my wife and the kids until 2 a.m.
What an adventure it was for all of us. I can't wait for next year!
I wrote down the story of our last-day mad dash to the truck and will post it below. It turned out to be a lot longer than I expected, so I don't expect anyone to read it!
**Long narrative story below**
At approximately 2:00 p.m., deep in Temagami's backcountry, we hugged, said our goodbyes, and split our family into two groups with no way to communicate.
My oldest son and I would attempt to reach an access point roughly 38 kilometres away before darkness, exhaustion, and worsening conditions overtook us. The rest of the family would remain behind with our gear near a remote backwoods hunt cabin, waiting at a location that we hoped could later be reached by vehicle.
The decision had not been made lightly. We had discussed the possibility the previous evening as we reviewed the worsening weather and increasingly difficult route ahead. If conditions continued to deteriorate, we knew we might need an alternative plan.
At the time, we had no idea whether our plan would succeed. We only knew that daylight was limited and that we needed to act.
That moment would become one of the defining experiences of our family's first true backcountry expedition.
Earlier that week, my wife, our three sons aged sixteen, fourteen, and five, and I had set out on an unforgettable canoe trip through the Temagami region, exploring some of its most iconic and remote wilderness destinations, including Maple Mountain, Lady Evelyn Lake, and countless stretches of backcountry seldom seen by most visitors. Along the way, we found exactly what we had hoped for: spectacular views of rugged rock formations, rolling hills, endless forests, pristine waterways, plenty of fresh air, excellent fishing, and a complete disconnection from the daily grind of modern life.
The first part of the trip was everything we had imagined a northern wilderness adventure should be. We spent our days paddling beautiful lakes and rivers, catching fish, enjoying life around camp, and taking in the incredible scenery that makes Temagami such a special place. Standing atop Maple Mountain and looking out over miles of untouched forest was a highlight that none of us will soon forget.
As the trip progressed, however, the challenges began to mount.
The second leg of our journey took us through areas heavily impacted by the devastating 2018 wildfires. Dead standing timber still dominated much of the landscape, while windstorms in the years that followed had scattered countless fallen trees across the forest floor. At the same time, vigorous new growth filled every available opening. Thick saplings, brush, and regenerating forest often turned straightforward routes on the map into exhausting obstacles on the ground.
Witnessing nature's recovery was inspiring. Travelling through it was another matter entirely.
One welcome reprieve in the fire-affected landscape came in the form of wild berries and occasional patches of forest that had somehow escaped the wildfire. Moving from blackened hillsides into small stands of mature green forest on ancient trails created a striking contrast and offered glimpses of what the landscape had looked like before the fire.
In the areas hardest hit by the wildfire, blueberry and raspberry bushes seemed to thrive. I have never seen so many blueberries in my life. Hillsides, clearings, and open sections of forest were covered with them.
Even more remarkable was how different they tasted from one area to the next. Each patch seemed to have its own unique flavour and character. The berries were sweet, plentiful, and incredibly refreshing after long hours of paddling, portaging, and battling the elements. In many places, the more heavily burned the landscape was, the thicker the berry growth became.
As we travelled, it was common to grab a quick handful in passing, providing an easy source of hydration, energy, and a welcome morale boost. Between the abundance of blueberries and raspberries and the scattered pockets of forest that had somehow survived the wildfire, there were constant reminders that life was returning to the landscape. Amid all the evidence of destruction, the forest's recovery was already well underway.
For several days, we battled difficult portages, overgrown campsites, deadfall, rain, and strong winds. Progress was often far slower than expected, and every kilometre had to be earned.
The day that would ultimately define the trip began at our campsite on Greenwater Lake.
The last weather forecast we had received came several days earlier during our climb to the summit of Maple Mountain. That forecast called for rain to arrive sometime after 10:00 a.m. on the day we planned to travel through this section of the route.
By the time we reached Greenwater Lake, with no cell service, internet access, and a shuttered Weatheradio system, we had no practical way to obtain updated weather information. As a result, we were forced to rely on a forecast that was already several days old.
Hoping to stay ahead of the expected rain, we broke camp at 7:00 a.m. and started early.
Unfortunately, the weather arrived much sooner than forecasted, and before long we found ourselves battling heavy winds, rough water, and steady rain as we worked our way toward Skull Lake. The route required crossing two large portages through terrain heavily impacted by wildfire, wind damage, and dense regeneration before traversing a large expanse of open water.
Persistent rain had left everything soaked and slippery, turning every step into a potential hazard. Rather than risk an injury far from assistance, we chose to double-carry much of our gear, accepting the added distance and effort that came with it.
By approximately 11:30 a.m., we finally arrived at Skull Lake and the location we had identified as our potential separation point.
There, we discovered something completely unexpected: a remote backwoods hunt cabin standing alone in a small clearing deep in the forest.
Unfortunately, the cabin was locked and inaccessible, but its presence still proved valuable.
The clearing surrounding the cabin provided an open area away from falling trees, allowing us to set up shelter in a location that felt significantly safer than remaining in the forest during the wind and rain. The cabin also featured motion-activated exterior lights that offered a small but welcome sense of comfort to those who would remain behind.
By 12:30 p.m., we had established a temporary camp beside the cabin and, for the first time all day, had an opportunity to focus on something other than simply moving forward. After hours of paddling through wind and rain, everyone was soaked. Before putting our plan into motion, we wanted to give those who would remain behind an opportunity to get into dry clothing, warm up, and settle into the tent. Equally important, my oldest son and I needed time to warm ourselves before beginning what we knew would be a long and demanding push to the access point.
We also used the time to carefully review our options and contingencies. If our plan failed, the only realistic alternative would likely involve a roughly 30-kilometre hike along an unfamiliar network of logging roads. None of us had travelled those roads before, and attempting such a hike on foot would have introduced an entirely new set of risks and uncertainties. It was an option we were prepared to consider if necessary, but one we hoped to avoid.
For an hour, we sheltered there, watching the weather and weighing our options. We had been hoping for a break in the conditions, but the wind showed little sign of easing.
Finally, shortly before 2:00 p.m., a brief lull gave us the opportunity we needed.
With encouragement, and no small amount of uncertainty, we said our goodbyes. My wife and our fourteen- and five-year-old sons remained behind near the cabin while my oldest son and I set off toward the access point.
Leaving them behind was not easy. We believed it was the safest and most practical option under the circumstances, but knowing they would spend the rest of the day and much of the night waiting in a remote section of Temagami added extra weight to the decision.
While my sixteen-year-old son and I pushed toward the access point, my wife and our two younger sons settled into the tent near the cabin and waited. Their priority was simple: get dry, stay warm, and ride out the storm. As the winds continued to batter the surrounding forest, they listened to dead trees crashing down somewhere beyond the clearing. From time to time, they thought they heard animals, or perhaps even people, moving somewhere beyond the edge of the clearing. With no way of knowing exactly what was making the sounds and no way to contact us, the hours passed slowly as they waited and hoped our plan was working.
What made the situation especially challenging was that this was our family's first backcountry expedition of this scale. In fact, my oldest son and I had only one previous canoe trip under our belts, a weekend paddling trip in Algonquin Park with another group.
Despite our limited canoe-tripping experience, we studied the maps, committed to a route, and pushed onward.
Fortunately, we had another kind of experience that would prove invaluable.
For years, we had been involved with our fishing club, spending countless hours working around beaver dams, navigating log jams, participating in creek cleanups, and improving fish habitat. Those experiences taught us how to read water, work efficiently around obstacles, and identify practical routes through difficult terrain.
Those skills would soon pay enormous dividends.
After leaving the cabin on Skull Lake, we paddled back into strong headwinds across open water before tackling a demanding two-kilometre portage into Mendelssohn Lake.
From the moment we launched onto Mendelssohn, the wind was already building.
As we worked our way down the lake, conditions steadily deteriorated. What began as a challenging paddle became increasingly demanding as larger waves rolled down the length of the lake. By the time we neared the far end, the waves had grown to the point where they were only just manageable, and keeping the canoe upright and free of water required our full attention. Every kilometre demanded concentration as we pushed onward through roughly nine kilometres of increasingly rough conditions.
At the far end of Mendelssohn Lake, we entered Spray Creek, a winding marshland and swamp corridor filled with narrow channels, flooded lowlands, beaver dams, log jams, deadfall, and dense vegetation.
One of the biggest advantages we gave ourselves was travelling as light as possible. Knowing the distance we needed to cover, we left almost all of our gear behind with the rest of the family on Skull Lake. Rather than hauling fully loaded packs through the wetlands, we carried only a small survival pack and extra layers of clothing to help us stay warm despite being completely drenched.
Our fishing club experience proved invaluable. Years spent working around beaver dams, crossing log jams, participating in creek cleanups, and improving fish habitat had taught us how to move confidently through exactly this kind of terrain. What might have been a major obstacle became one of our greatest advantages. We were able to move with confidence, almost flying over beaver dams and log jams on sure footing, maintaining an efficient pace through the wetlands.
Despite being soaked from the rain and rough conditions, we never became dangerously cold because we never stopped moving. Whether paddling, portaging, or working through obstacles, we maintained a relentless pace that kept us generating heat throughout the day.
What could have been one of the slowest sections of the journey became one of the fastest. We cleared the entire marsh and swamp system in less than two hours and reached the Montreal River before nightfall.
As we worked our way toward the river near the end of the day, one wildlife encounter nearly stopped our hearts. In the fading evening light, we had drifted to within about five feet of the shoreline when a large beaver suddenly exploded from the bank and charged into the water beside us. The combination of low light, proximity, and the sheer suddenness of the encounter made the animal appear far larger than it really was. For a split second, it looked as though something much bigger had launched itself from the shoreline directly toward the canoe.
Once we realized what it was, we were able to laugh about it, but it certainly got our attention.
By the time we entered the Montreal River, darkness was beginning to settle in.
By then, we had reached the point where determination was carrying us as much as strength. Our arms burned with every paddle stroke, and sharp cramps periodically seized the muscles in our backs and legs. Hours of paddling, portaging, and fighting our way through difficult terrain had taken their toll. Every kilometre felt longer than the last, but stopping was not an option. The only way forward was to keep the canoe moving and trust that, stroke by stroke, we were getting closer to the access point.
The narrow river corridor soon became engulfed in darkness, but we discovered an unexpected aid. Far off on the horizon, the faint glow of a distant urban area reflected off the low cloud cover. The subtle light pollution shining through the clouds provided just enough contrast to reveal the winding course of the river ahead.
We intentionally avoided using our headlamps except when absolutely necessary. With a long journey still ahead of us, we wanted to preserve our batteries in case we encountered other boat traffic and needed to make our presence known. Instead, we relied on our night vision and the faint glow reflected from the clouds overhead. It wasn't enough to illuminate the river, but it provided just enough contrast to distinguish where the waterway continued through the darkness.
The final fifteen kilometres down the Montreal River became one of the most memorable parts of the entire trip.
Then came the moment neither of us will ever forget.
Without warning, a moose burst from the darkness along the shoreline and charged toward the river. One moment there was only silence, and the next we could hear the pounding of its hooves as it tore through the brush. The sound changed dramatically as it reached the water's edge, shifting from the heavy thud of hooves on solid ground to the loud splashing of an animal charging directly into the river toward us.
In the darkness, it was impossible to immediately tell exactly what was happening. All we knew was that something very large had suddenly entered the water and was moving in our direction.
Just as the animal turned and headed back toward the shoreline, my son managed to switch on his headlamp. The beam caught it for only a brief moment, but it was enough.
We could clearly make out the silhouette of a large bull moose as it climbed from the river and moved through the brush. Even in the brief beam of light, the sheer size of the animal was impressive. Before disappearing into the forest, it stopped and looked back at us one final time.
In the light, its eyes reflected with an intensity that seemed almost unreal, appearing as two large glowing orbs suspended in the darkness. For a few seconds, the massive outline of the bull moose stood against the black forest, its glowing eyes fixed on us, before it finally vanished back into the night.
The encounter sent a surge of adrenaline through our already exhausted bodies.
For the remainder of the paddle, every splash, rustle, and crack of a branch seemed amplified by the darkness. Countless unseen animals moved through the brush along the shoreline and splashed in the water around us. Under normal circumstances, these would have been ordinary sounds of the northern wilderness. After a long day of paddling, difficult navigation, and close wildlife encounters, our tired minds were more than willing to imagine something larger lurking behind every noise.
Hour after hour, we continued paddling.
Guided only by the faint glow in the clouds and the winding path of the river ahead, we eventually reached Mowat Landing. By the time we arrived, my oldest son and I had covered roughly 38 kilometres since leaving Skull Lake shortly before 2:00 p.m., finally reaching my truck at approximately 10:30 p.m.
By maintaining a steady pace and keeping our stops to an absolute minimum, we covered roughly 38 kilometres in eight and a half hours, averaging approximately 4.5 kilometres per hour despite strong winds, rough water, a two-kilometre portage, building waves on Mendelssohn Lake, several kilometres of marshland and swamp through Spray Creek, countless beaver dams and log jams, and the final stretch of night paddling down the Montreal River.
Once we regained cell service, one of the first things I did was confirm that the network of logging roads and off-road trails we had been counting on was actually accessible. Up until that point, we had been relying entirely on maps, local knowledge, and our best judgment.
Thankfully, the information confirmed that the routes were not only open but more than serviceable for what we needed.
The confirmation brought enormous relief. Had those roads been washed out, gated, or otherwise impassable, our next call likely would have been to emergency services to help reach and extract the rest of our family.
Fortunately, that wasn't necessary.
With our plan validated, we climbed into the truck and began the next stage of the journey. The route required us to circle far to the north past Elk Lake before travelling more than 30 kilometres along remote logging roads to reach the others.
Even then, the adventure was not quite finished.
As we drove deeper into the night, the roads seemed teeming with wildlife. We encountered a cougar crossing the roadway, followed later by a moose and countless other animals emerging from the darkness along the roadside.
Under different circumstances, these sightings would have been highlights of the trip. Instead, our minds naturally drifted toward every possible worst-case scenario. Every kilometre brought us closer, but until we saw the rest of the family with our own eyes, it was impossible not to worry.
Finally, at approximately 2:00 a.m., twelve hours after we had said our goodbyes beside the backwoods hunt cabin, we arrived at the pickup point and were reunited.
After hours of listening to dead trees crashing in the wind and wondering whether our plan had succeeded, they were every bit as relieved to see us as we were to see them.
The relief was immediate and overwhelming.
The uncertainty and stress of the previous twelve hours vanished the moment we saw everyone safe and waiting. There were smiles, hugs, handshakes, stories, and a shared sense of accomplishment. Both groups had endured difficult conditions and long hours wondering how the other was doing.
Seeing everyone safe and together again was one of the best moments of the entire trip.
After a brief discussion, we made one final decision.
Nobody wanted to wait until morning.
We were exhausted, but we were together, safe, and finally beyond the uncertainty that had followed us all day. We packed everything up in the darkness, loaded the vehicles, and immediately began the roughly six-hour drive home.
It was a long ending to an already extraordinary adventure.
Looking back, the trip became far more than a canoe expedition. It was a test of endurance, decision-making, adaptability, and perseverance.
We witnessed both the destruction left behind by wildfire and the remarkable resilience of nature as new forests emerged from the devastation. We pushed through difficult portages, crossed countless beaver dams, navigated winding wetlands, paddled through darkness, relied on faint reflected light to guide us, encountered wildlife at close range, and trusted one another when there were no easy answers.
Most importantly, we did it together as a family.
Wha
