BIOPHILIAC

Asta Kovanen cuts glass with her paddle near the start of the Bowron Lakes chain.

The Perfect Canoe Trip: West vs. East

The distinct rewards of paddling in B.C. and Ontario

words & photos :: Leslie Anthony

The first three portages in B.C.’s Bowron Lakes canoe circuit come quickly. Totalling six kilometres, it’s a heavy first day if you play it through. But then, utilizing portable canoe wheels and carting the allowable amount of gear inside the boat means two pack-laden canoeists need only make a single trip across, rendering these lake links pleasant strolls compared to, say, a two-km double-carry in Ontario canoe country. Indeed, one-pass rolling portages are foreign to those of us who came of paddling age wilting under eastern Canada’s bug-ridden, canoe-humping Voyageur version. Ditto these trails, for which the word “buff” is no stretch; the rocks, roots and muck of even the angriest forest floor here are mere polite intrusions compared to the Tough Mudder gamuts of Algonquin and Quetico parks.

Beyond Cadillac portaging, canoeing the Bowron offers something that Ontario—for all its terraqueous splendour—cannot: mountainous horizons, converging contours marching into the distance like a Japanese painting, gaps where glaciers have sagged through passes to carve out valleys, and silver threads of water lacing steep ridges. Thus the scene before me on a +30˚C late-September day, with two portages behind and a notion to leave the third for tomorrow. After all, with Indianpoint Lake mirror-like beneath a cloudless afternoon sky, it’s time to stop and enjoy the heat.

A spacious campsite looms on the left and we nose our two canoes in. Tents are erected, hammocks hung, bathing suits donned. After a bracing dip, it’s at least mercifully warm enough to air dry. Later there’s a curry dinner and a few pulls of scotch beneath a starspackled firmament. No campfire, of course, because by this point in the season, with wildfires everywhere, there’s always a provincewide ban.

Bowron Lake Provincial Park hugs the western slopes of B.C.’s Cariboo Mountains seven hours north of Vancouver—a “mediumlength” drive by provincial standards. The park’s world-renowned 116-km circuit of glacier-draining waterways is the definitive B.C. canoe experience, taking six to 10 days to complete. The west side is hemmed by the rounded hilltops of the Quesnel Highland, which differ markedly from the imposing Cariboos framing eastern and southern aspects. Aesthetics aside, the Bowron has a reputation for moodiness, with calm lakes under blue skies one minute that can turn to angry grey water and torrential rain the next. Thus, we’re prepared for anything—including being pleasantly surprised.

The next day dawns sunnier, hotter and stiller. The portage into Isaac Lake offers little challenge beyond the heat. Isaac is a behemoth—38 km long and known for kicking up in bad weather. But for us it’s a placid pond and we spend two blissful days working our way down its southern shore, camping atop pebble beaches and luxuriating in the heat—with momentary dips in its frigid waters.

The exit portage from Isaac skirts a rapid, then it’s a short hop across McLeary Lake, where moose graze the shallows, one of the few water-level wildlife encounters to be had at this latitude. There’s some bird action, of course, but with predominantly coniferous forests and icy water there are no frogs on lily pads, no turtles

sunning on logs, no fish fauna beyond salmonids. In fact, it can feel quiet on these lakes. Sometimes, too quiet. Which is when you might see a grizzly stalking the shore, or mountain goats on a distant peak—megafauna popular with wilderness-starved Europeans.

The glacial-silted loops of the Cariboo River carry us onto notoriously windy Lanezi Lake, which greets us with naught but a ripple and a campsite overlook into the park’s highest peaks. It’s here that smoke from within-park wildfires catches us, mixing with the cool night air to create a veiled dreamscape. I know canoeing but I always feel a pilgrim on these western lakes, their size and mountainous mien making them feel exotic and capable of anything.

The smoke trails us for two days, then finally dissipates on Unna Lake, where we make the short hike to Cariboo Falls through a carpet of high-bush blueberries, grazing sapphire orbs like hungry bears. Our final day is a doppelgänger of our first: clear, hot and glassy. Hitting the final beach at the end of Bowron Lake, the only thing we can think is that it wasn’t just a great canoe trip through towering peaks, it was literally perfect.

When Algonquin Provincial Park was created in 1893, few could have envisioned the place it would come to occupy in the country’s catalogue of wilderness iconography. Yet by any measure, Algonquin’s original 7,723 sq. km quickly surpassed all expectations to become part of the national psyche.

Only 250 km north of where I lived in Toronto, Algonquin was integral to my mental bitmap, fundamental and omnipresent in my understanding of Canadian art, landscape, recreation and ecology. I can’t say I grew up in Algonquin, but I did come of age there. Monthlong summer canoe trips during high school cemented physical and mental confidence and a sense of self-reliance. These days, canoe-tripping is part of the curriculum for many Ontario high school seniors, and Algonquin remains a prime destination—duly noted when six of us paddle up Canoe Lake at the start of a week-long selfprescribed birthday canoe trip. For hours we pass ever-larger flotillas of school groups heading back from their own wilderness forays, teen energy palpable in their singing, shit-talking and obvious sense of accomplishment—a new generation experiencing this landscape’s wonders. Despite what seems an almost industrial increase in park usage for autumn, Algonquin’s charms remain: wind-sculpted white pines worthy of a Tom Thomson painting, inviting points of pinkgranite Canadian Shield, fall colours of mixed deciduous forests, desperate ululations of cavorting loons.

We make it as far as Burnt Island Lake, a solid first day. Though almost October, a heatwave has settled over the region, with cloudless skies, temperatures in the 30s, and serious humidity that lasts far enough into evening to make sleeping bags unnecessary and campfires purely utilitarian.

On lakes as still as ponds, hours pass in which our canoes are the only disturbance; we sweat as profusely on the water as on portages, swimming frequently in summertime-warm waters. Bullfrogs, fooled by July-ish conditions, begin calling. Birds migrating south seem hesitant. But it can’t last. After three searing days the oddball weather breaks, heralded by a strong west wind on labyrinthine Big Trout Lake.

On White Trout Lake the rain and wind hits with force. Peregrine falcons dive-bomb us from cliffs. Battling upstream through marshes at lake’s end, the wind continues on our nose. But the canoe is a lowdrag marvel that allows progress in even gale-force gusts. By the time we enter McIntosh Lake, trees bow like doormen and the wind roars through the night. The next day brings an intimidating 2.3-km portage into Tom Thomson Lake. After two crossings and the walk-back, that’s seven km of hoofing it, almost five loaded down. But after a week of eastern canoe tripping you’re a Voyageur again, and it goes by fast.

Back on the water, we track reflections, listen to the loons’ maniacal symphony, cruise moose and wonder—industrial canoeing aside—if this ageless wilderness passage, or its nearest facsimile, shouldn’t be part of the curriculum for every Canadian student, east and west.

Only 250 km north of where I lived in Toronto, Algonquin was integral to my mental bitmap, fundamental and omnipresent in my understanding of Canadian art, landscape, recreation and ecology.

Algonquin Park’s ageless attractions never fail to stir the soul.

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