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Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick
Once a year, my husband and I try to step out of time by going on a canoe trip. I find the older I get, the more I need to get away from my phone and computer, to go on a news blackout. With the war still raging in Ukraine and the onslaught of the pandemic’s seventh wave, now more than ever I want to restore and rejuvenate myself.
This summer we travelled through a route in North Kawartha, in an area known as the “Land Between”– a transitional zone that blends the coniferous pines and spruce and rockiness of the Canadian Shield with features more common to the southern lowlands, such as deciduous oaks and maples.
In a concession to our aging knees and backs and waning stamina, we’ve chosen a route with shorter portages and have made an effort to lighten the load in our three packs – swapping out metal utensils for plastic and bamboo and taking fewer clothes. I don’t however stint on the food, one of the main pleasures of a canoe trip, as there’s nothing more satisfying after a day of paddling than savouring a hearty pot of curry or a veggie grain bowl.
On the first night, we are reminded that you have to take the bad with the good while out in nature. A thunderstorm with lightning rages all night, the rain pounding away at our tent, making it difficult to sleep. We make the unfortunate discovery of a small rip in the seam at the bottom of our tent where water is seeping in and I try to mop it up with a sweatshirt. I think to myself, I hope it doesn’t rain the whole time. Thankfully, the next day is sunny, with the heat drying up the tent enough to pack it away.
On the portage later that morning, we pass by a large clump of what looks like fresh bear poop, and become more vigilant as we walk, talking loudly and consciously making noise as we brush by branches. I relax more as I go along, smelling the herbal fragrances of sweet gale bushes, and admiring the panoply of yellow woodland sunflowers, purple tick trefoil and fleabane.
The risk of injury is always present, as one fall or broken bone can jeopardize the trip. I’ve come up with a few hacks to make it easier for me – like picking up a walking stick to steady myself while climbing up a steep rocky slope to avoid spraining my ankle, and instead of lifting my pack from the ground, placing it on a waist-high rock while slipping the shoulder straps on so I don’t hurt my back.
Discovering a patch of ripening blueberries on a rocky ledge at one campsite, I decide to make blueberry bannock that night over the coals in the fire, and once cooked, we devour the whole thing while it’s still hot.
I get into the rhythm of each day, pretty much like being on autopilot – arriving at the campsite, finding a level spot for the tent, rolling out the pads and sleeping bags, going for a swim, brewing some tea, then settling back against a tree trunk overlooking the lake to read my novel. Pure relaxation for the body and mind.
The hardest part of the day is finding a suitable tree on which to hang the food pack so that it’s inaccessible to bears. Although we rarely see them, we know they’re around by the aforementioned poop on the portage, especially now that it’s blueberry season, and can’t take the chance of their being attracted to the campsite and clawing the pack apart for food. One night it takes us a long time to find the right tree, but we finally do – a tall white pine with an overhanging branch strong enough to hold the weight of the pack, and high enough to be beyond the reach of a climbing bear. Afterwards, we discuss buying a food barrel for next year, one impermeable to animals.
My favourite part of the day is dusk, sitting beside the fire, my body exhausted from physical exertions. It’s at this time that the environment comes alive. In the marsh beside the campsite we hear bullfrogs croaking. Across the lake, we hear whippoorwills calling loudly, their onomatopoetical song just like their name. Then we look above when we hear the buzzing of nighthawks, a threatened species. To the right we see a beaver swimming across the lake to its lodge before dark. Looking down in front of us by the fire, we see a fat garter snake slither by. Later, in the tent, I’m awakened to hear the yips and yelps of “coywolves,” animals which are a hybrid of coyotes and wolves found in this region.
On the last morning, I get up early to sit on a pink, moss-covered granite rock and watch the sun rise. As it climbs higher in the sky, its heat burns the gauzy mist off the lake’s surface to reveal in the water a perfect reflection of the trees lining the opposite shore. I marvel at the stillness of the landscape, in stark contrast to the storm at the beginning of our trip. Nature reminds us that change is a constant.
While approaching the second last portage, our boat slides like a breeze through a colourful floating mat of white fragrant water lilies, yellow pond lilies and purple pickerelweed. At the side, gurgling water flows over a beaver dam. In awe, I think I’ve never seen such a beautiful sight – this truly is paradise.
As we head back to our put-in point, I feel like I could paddle on forever, my strokes in rhythm with the music in my head and the heartbeat of Mother Earth. I feel that we really have stepped out of time in the Land Between, to replenish and rejuvenate our spirits.
Joanne Culley lives in Peterborough, Ont.
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