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Published: October 23rd 2009
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Having contacted loads of outfitters and tour operators about a canoe trip in the Algonquin Provincial Park, and being told that the season was over, I found a wilderness outfitter who was prepared to set me up with a voyage along the
Mattawa River, following the route used by the French Voyageurs, and the native Indians before them. Two nights and three days on my own, paddling my way down the river, and camping on the way.
I spent the preceding (rainy) night in a town called North Bay, in the Voyager Inn, which I thought appropriate. It was also cheap, but I noticed it had a conference on, so I figured it couldn't be that bad. Turned out it was that bad, it was an Alcoholics Anonymous conference, and the room next to me was selling 12-Step jewellery and other related paraphernalia. I settled into my last night of 'luxury' by ordering a pizza and watching the hockey on TV (which is excellent, by the way: the only sport I know of where the refs will let two players have a full-on punch-up as part of the game! They even have special 'enforcer' players who are particularly good in a
scrap!). Anyway, all went well until the power went out. And never came back on.
Next morning, having hurriedly packed, I meet Logan, who takes me to the drop off point, talks me through the route, gives me the gear I have rented, and packs me off with a slightly worried look on his face. It is no longer raining but it is very windy, and the river is practically a lake it's so wide. Which means waves. Big ones.
Nevertheless, I am filled with the spirit of the intrepid explorer, and get lost almost immediately. It is difficult to tell where you should be heading, since the path of the river is not obvious when its a lake, and there are lots of side coves etc. Eventually I arrive at the first
portage point, only to discover it doesn't exist. The bit where I think it should be appears to end in a beaver dam. Have I read the map wrong? Should I fight my way back upstream against the wind? I spend about two hours going backwards and forwards, stopping on a nearby island for lunch, and what is technically termed 'faffing about', before I decide
to gamble that I am right, and haul the canoe over the beaver dam to see what's round the corner. And Lo! The portage point is there! And there was much rejoicing.
The rejoicing didn't last long though. By the time I had managed to manhandle the canoe upside down and onto my shoulders, I was knackered. The canoe was heavier and more unwieldy than I'd anticipated, and the portage path was not exactly an even surface. Still, managed to get it to the river on the other side, but now it was getting late, and I still had a long way to go. Another few hours of paddling and a portage later, and I am putting the tent up in the dark. Still manage to get a comforting fire going, and cook myself some gruel for tea.
The next day dawns, and its cold. The tent and everything outside is covered in a thick layer of frost. Once I get going it is magical though, paddling through the mists rising off the water, with the trees all in autumn colours lining the riverside.
But today there are more portages. Two of them almost kill me. I
realise that I love the canoeing, but I really, really hate the portages, and they are conducted with much bad tempered swearing and exhaustion on my part. If there was a way to avoid doing them, I would, and sometimes this is possible - if you run the rapids! By this time I so detest the portages that I am willing to risk all (well, not all - I still portaged the weirs and the waterfalls). The one set of rapids Logan had warned me about running ("If you tip her over, it will be here"), I decided against the portage, and went for it.
Luckily for me it was late in the season, so there was not another soul to witness the half-crazed Englishman battling in vain to miss the large boulder at the bottom of the rapids, then get stuck right on top of it, then watch in rising panic as the canoe rotated under him, and finally complete the manoeuvre by exiting the rapids backwards and completely out of control, hanging on for all he was worth.
However, the realisation that I have made it through without capsizing forces a loud whoop of delight from
Doesn't look like much...
... but I went over this backwards. me, and the ensuing rush of adrenalin leaves me giggling like a fool by the side of the river. I had to stop and have a cup of tea.
Yet again I end up putting the tent up in the dark that night, and I get a fire going, though it begins to rain, and I turn in early.
The next morning heralds the 'Four Seasons In One Day', starting with snow. This later turns to sleet, then rain. But since I am wearing all my wet weather gear anyway, it doesn't really matter, and I paddle on through the morning mists, secure in the knowledge that there are no portages on the last day, so I can relax and enjoy it.
Just after the sun comes out, and just before the end of the trip, as I enter the town of Mattawa, a horrible realisation dawns on me - I have misread the map: there IS another portage after all. This sting in the tail is unavoidable, as it bypasses the Mattawa weir. By the time I get the canoe onto my shoulders, I am totally exhausted (and if anyone had been watching, they would have
Portage Path
I've just carried the f*cking canoe over this, which is why I look exhausted and elated at the same time. wet themselves - I really struggled with the canoe, it took me ages, and there was some particularly eloquent and voluble swearing).
Anyway, I eventually did it, and Logan met me struggling against the wind where the Mattawa meets the Ottawa River, over 80km from where he'd dropped me off. I was exhausted, but ecstatic: I'd done it! Woohoo! Etc.
That night I stayed in Mattawa at the Voyageur Hotel (where else?!) and repeated the pre-voyage evening entertainment. Nice.
The peace and calm of paddling through misty canyons, watching the trees slide by, or the adrenalin rush of running the rapids; it was all about living in the moment, and I recommend the experience to anyone.
Except the portages that is, which were f*cking horrible.
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Andy Walmsley
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Haggered look!
Ahh brilliant, that haggard look I remember so well! I see you're boyish face is suffering under the weight of that 'boy beard' you're growing!!! Enjoying reading your blog entries no end, whilst I sit at my desk in my open plan office, several floors up in a sky scraper in central London, with shite weather outside, cold winter moving in....get the picture yet....you lucky lucky lucky boy! Very jealous, keep up the writing!!! Andy. PS. There is a distinct lack of comments around the 'ladeeez....' on your trip...are all Canadian women celibate?! Or is it because you don’t wash whilst you’re travelling...? You've not carried the 'holiest, of holy pants' with you, have you?!? I can see you need a shave; you scruffy bugger, but guess I that’s part and parcel of the travelling scene.... ;-)