Finding connection in the heart of Ontario’s ancient pine forests. Words & photos :: Kristin Schnelten
Tethered to the creaking dock, belly filled with gear, the tiny float plane bobs on gentle waves. Before ratcheting a canoe to the portside pontoon, our pilot slides a confiscated can of bear spray inside its cavity, telling us, “If it explodes in the cabin and gets into my eyes, we’re basically all doomed.”
I’m not nervous at all. I love flying. Really.
Silently repeating this mantra, I climb on board and click in for the 15-minute shuttle flight. The propeller spurts to a start and we skim across the dark waters of Lake Maskinonge, rising gently over endless pine trees to make a sweeping, banked return past our runway.
That’s when it hits.
Perhaps it’s the bone-rattling shuddering of the fuselage; the deafening wind through my open window; the pilot’s nonchalant habit of controlling the plane with his forearms while texting; or maybe it’s the continual, gut-dropping sensation of freefall—in every direction, simultaneously. The panic attack is fierce. All-consuming. Hyperventilating now, my eyes dart quickly about in their sockets and my hands frantically search for something—anything—stable to grasp. I make brief attempts at squinting through my camera, hoping the once- (trust me, once) in-a-lifetime view will snap me out of it, but it’s an exercise in futility.
When we splash to a pause on McConnell Bay and wade to shore, I’m still struggling to right my swirling psyche. Setting up the tent, slumping into a comfy camp chair and cracking into a lukewarm smuggled-in beer, my breathing finally returns to normal and I consider the absurdity of that earlier involuntary response. The journey ahead promises a long list of firsts; sighing into the sparks of an early evening campfire, I resolve to tackle each with a tad more grace.
Curated by the startup tour operator karibu adventures, this week-long paddle officially kicked off yesterday with our overnight stay at the historic Temagami Outpost. The boat-access lodge began its life as a fishing camp, later acting as a paddling centre for youth; new pandemic-era owners have revamped its century-old main building and scattered cabins, giving it a refresh while retaining its well-worn character.
Last night was a whirlwind of gourmet food, sauna escapes and flat-water swims. Another night of rustic luxury will cap our trip, but first we’ll need to earn it: For the next three days, we’ll canoe 50 km back to the outpost, across myriad lakes and portages, with two guides leading, feeding and entertaining nine (mostly) strangers.
Each of us is scattered along a spectrum of canoeing competence, from seasoned adventurer to first-timer, and I’m grateful to find I lie somewhere in the middle. Mike, our youthful yet wildly experienced guide, offers a refresher course in paddling and I’m one of only two who take him up on the extra-credit soloing lesson—which becomes a rescue mission when I strand myself 150 metres from shore, struggling in the wind.
Back at camp, Mike and Laramie (second guide and fitness guru) spoil us with what we deem an aggressive amount of chicken, grains and fresh greens, filling our bowls again and again while introducing us to one of many trip-isms: Better in your belly than on your back.
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The hearty dinner proves an indicator of what’s to come: pancake breakfasts, multi-course dinners, sandwich lunch buffets that span the length of an overturned canoe. All that cooking, all that cleanup. I am at first uncomfortable with the pampering—isn’t work part of the camping fun? Well, sort of. Maybe. I finally resign myself to the cushy treatment. There really is a particular pleasure in standing in awe of a sunset, listening to the loons chattering across the water, while the guides quietly scrub pots out of earshot.
And if I really want to raise a paring knife in assistance, I can. Or fill the water bladder. Try my hand at backcountry log-splitting. Learning is an integral part of the experience, and Mike and Laramie are just as happy to instruct and accept help as they are to leave you be, sipping tea and chatting by the fire.
After breakfast we repack dry bags and bear barrels, climb into canoes and settle into the rhythm of tripping (we’re picking up the paddling-culture nomenclature): secluded campsite swims; slow, satisfying meals; long nights in breezy tents; sunny days on the water.
If I’m lucky enough to share a canoe with Liz, I’m serenaded with French campfire songs, her voice lilting and twirling with each deliberate stroke. More often, I’m listening and learning from other trip mates about their lives and loves; with no cell service or to-do lists, sitting together for hours, we open up and make connections. But long spaces of silence are fair game, too, with nothing but the sound of paddles gently bumping into Kevlar hulls and a warm breeze rippling over the water.
These quiet moments, sequestered from everyday life, have been calling visitors to Temagami for generations. Inhabited for thousands of years by the Teme-Augama Anishnabai and Temagami First Nation, the 10,000-sq.-km area known as N’dakimenan saw its first European settlers in the mid-19th century. Trading, and later mining, gave way to forestry and eventually tourism: More than 100 years ago, Temagami established a reputation for its isolated yet accessible canoe routes, and outfitters and lodges dotted the vast wilderness.
A well-publicized fight to save the old-growth red and eastern white pine forests of Temagami in the mid-90s led to the formation of the Friends of Temagami, an organization whose current mission includes advocating “for the conservation and restoration of wilderness values” and promoting sustainable economic development.
Although we don’t encounter any Friends on our tour, we benefit from their large-scale conservation efforts and their on-the-ground work, including pristinely clean portages and the construction and installation of some of the most picturesque and airy latrines in the province.
Those thunderboxes—or, if you’re of the Irish persuasion like fellow paddler Claire, tunderboxes—are part of the slowly-evolving paddling culture here, one coddled by the centuries of guides who’ve shared their love of this place, its waters and its towering stands of pines.
Temagami is a place where handmade paddles are still the norm. Where a treasured wannigan (wanni if you’re a cool kid)—stacked with pots, pans, cutlery and foodstuffs—receives pride of place in a guide’s canoe, crossing every portage atop his bent back. (Mike swears the leather tumpline leaving deep lines across his forehead is the most efficient carrying method, but we have our doubts.)
Resting by the fire as Laramie muscles a stubborn blueberry-scone dough on the overturned wannigan lid, we marvel at her patience—and our luck. It’s dusk on the third night, and we have yet to encounter swarms of bugs. Or scorching afternoon temps. Not a drop of rain has fallen. And we can count on one hand the other canoes we’ve encountered.
Andrea Mandel-Campbell, no ordinary trip mate but the founder of karibu adventures, brandishes a knowing smile. She can’t take credit for the lack of rain, but the rest? It was all by design. Her decades of experience on these canoe routes led her to schedule our departure on the Chiniguchi Waterway for bug-free mid-August, hit that three-tent-nights sweet spot and pair us with these seasoned guides; of course it’s been perfect. She wouldn’t have planned it any other way. (That she’s accompanying us this week is no anomaly; Andrea runs trips all over the world, and takes the same hands-on approach with each.)
Even the portages—I eventually lose count of them—are easy. The longest is maybe 500 m, and we stop midway for an hours-long swim in a deep lagoon. Most, though, are less than half that distance, and a “carry what you can, it’s all good” attitude reigns. Some grab PFDs and paddles, stumbling with the awkward, if light, load. Others dive in for the heavy stuff: huge dry bags stuffed with food and gear. Guides shoulder the biggest burdens, including Mike with his nonchalant one-handed canoe-carry.
Even the portages—I eventually lose count of them—are easy. The longest is maybe 500 m, and we stop midway for an hours-long swim in a deep lagoon. Most, though, are less than half that distance, and a “carry what you can, it’s all good” attitude reigns.
Laramie, ever the eager instructor, pauses to teach the art of the canoe hoist. Demonstrating an underhand lift, the swift move seems effortless. But it clearly isn’t, as one after another struggles to master the sequence. A few are successful, and we whoop and cheer at their accomplishment. They take off down the path beaming with pride—and I wonder how the dismount will go.
By the time we reach our last campsite, perched high atop a Wolf Lake granite cliff, we’ve learned volumes about backcountry canoeing, ourselves and one other. The rites of passage were many: having to double-back on a longish portage for a dropped shirt (oops); learning to stake a tent on solid rock with Georgian Bay pegs (aka meticulously wedged stones); digging a personal tunderbox (and shamelessly handing the shovel to the next waiting customer).
Filthy, exhausted and more than a little slaphappy, we pass a leftover container of half-burned, half-raw brownie goo around the fire, gleeful with the super-sweet, drippy mess. Claire ditches her fork to dive in with a marshmallow, and we erupt with the laughter of old school pals finishing off a two-four.
Inching toward the end of that 50 km three-day paddle, the wind picks up. Whitecaps abound, lapping at gunwales, and our flotilla is slowed nearly to a halt. At the final portage, our guides make an executive decision: We’re calling it. Hoping to end on a high note, not a four-hour slog that almost certainly will lead to a swamping or two, they break out the satellite phone to summon power boats.
Tails between legs, we pile ourselves and our gear into pontoon boats as provincially ranked paddling whippersnappers jump out and into our empty canoes. After a short putt-putting tour back to the outpost, we unload packs and crack open some cold ones. Just as we’re overcoming our embarrassment, we hear a howl—and around the bend come the racing kids.
We beat them, at most, by ten minutes.
Our cackling laughs are tinged with just a hint of lunacy as we clink drinks and shake our heads. Hell, I don’t care. Rescue me a hundred times—just never (and I mean never) in a damn float plane.
Temagami’s vast and fragile ecosystem is again under threat, particularly from mineral exploration. Visit www.savewolflake.org and www.friendsoftemagami.org to learn more. Check out karibu adventure’s Temagami trip here.
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