While falling short of its main objective, a soggy bikepacking mission proves that the journey itself is worth the price of admission. Words :: Heather Plewes-LaBerge and Paulo LaBerge // photos :: Paulo LaBerge
When my friend Derek mentioned he’d heard of an abandoned World War II prisoner of war (POW) camp near the western edge of Algonquin Park, my interest was immediately piqued.
Some quick internet research yielded an old article about the 1940s-era camp not far from the town of South River where about 40 German prisoners of war were held. At Camp 10, men performed manual labour such as cutting logs and cordwood to supply a local chemical plant and sawmill. The ongoing war caused a labour shortage, and these low-risk prisoners from a larger POW camp volunteered to live and work at Camp 10, where they received nominal compensation for doing so.
The camp has been abandoned for seven decades, but we understood the site would still offer evidence of its prior use, including a log cabin in some state of disrepair. The allure of visiting a seldom-seen piece of local history was irresistible; Derek and I set about charting a route for a weekend bikepacking loop with a few friends.
As far as we knew, the camp was only accessible by boat. But, being optimists, we hoped we could ride as close as possible then bushwhack the rest. To make things a bit more interesting, the planned 125-kilometre two-day route included a diverse selection of rugged dirt roads and ATV trails that went deep into the eastern region of the Almaguin Highlands backcountry, skirting the Algonquin Park boundary. Much of this route consisted of trails neither Derek (a Huntsville local) nor I had ever explored before, which was a great source of excitement for us both.
The mood was light that sunny Saturday morning in July when five of us, full of energy and optimism, loaded up our bikes with gear and rolled out.
The forest roads and ATV paths proved to be impressively rugged; from boulder fields to hike-a-bike climbs and steep descents, the terrain varied widely. And long sections of our path were underwater. Sometimes we played “whose line is best,” trying to ride through wet sections without soaking our feet, while other times wet feet were inevitable. At one point we came across a large lake buoy, marking what proved to be thigh-deep water. (While wet feet are one thing, wet underwear is quite another.)
After a fun but exhausting first day, we found an ideal campsite overlooking a pristine lake, set up camp and ate a simple meal while daylight waned.
Our second day of riding (and pushing!) featured similarly varied terrain and incredible views. Wildlife tracks from moose and bear reminded us we were never really alone in the woods. The going was tough, and our progress slower than we’d hoped. The path gradually narrowed, then all but disappeared. The dirt and rocks we’d been riding gave way to swamp and dense brush. It was already mid-afternoon, and we had to concede it would not be possible to reach Camp 10 that day and still manage to cover what remained of our route before darkness fell.
Although we all felt a tinge of disappointment, I took comfort in knowing we could return and try again. The mission wasn’t impossible—it just wasn’t possible in the time we had. I hadn’t been certain we would be able to reach Camp 10 on the trip, so I felt we had done some valuable reconnaissance for future exploration.
For me the key to enjoying these adventures lies in savouring every aspect of the experience, both the joys and the challenges. Exploring nature with friends and making memories is greater than the achievement of reaching that destination.
If you make the journey the goal, you’re sure to achieve it—wet feet and all.
A second Camp 10 attempt is on the horizon for Paulo and his crew. He’ll chronicle the soggy, buggy details in a future issue of Mountain Life.
Follow Paulo’s bike adventures here.
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