Below is a link to an interesting article published by NPR that outlines how immersing one's self in nature can be risky. As a transcendentalist at heart, I agree that escaping into nature is a risk, but it is a risk worth taking (as long as you are prepared and head out knowing it is risky). When Gavin and I explored Alaska, risk was evident. Before leaving cushy New Jersey, I always was somewhat aware of how risky a sea kayaking trip in the wilderness of Southeastern Alaska would be, but until I was in the thick of the wilderness, the bay, and at the mercy of Mother Nature, could I fully grasp how risky the situation truly was. During some particularly trying moments in Alaska, when the danger of hypothermia was in full swing, I remember Gavin looking at me, slashing his arm through the pouring rain, pointing to nature, nature, nature; the absence of human life and shouting: "This is not some Disney princess paddle through Glacier Bay! We could die out here!" His remark came from a small mistake I had made on our journey--something so minuscule that in society, one wouldn't even bat an eye. But here, out here in 3.3 million acres of wilderness, surrounded by no one else except wildlife, a small mistake is big. So big, it could cost you your life. Although I knew it was risky, I, then, fully became aware of the grandeur of this risk. As someone who typically pays attention to detail, I became more focused on survival and surroundings than I had ever done in my life.
All of this commentary serves not to dissuade folks from immersing themselves in nature--I truly believe nature is great for the soul--but instead it is meant to remove the veil of safety from the wilderness, exposing the harsh realities for which any trekker needs to be prepared. In the words of a seasoned Park Ranger from Glacier Bay (a celebrity in his own right for being in the park orientation videos, which Gavin and I watched three times, which made recognizing the now grizzled and slightly aged ranger in an airport a simple task): "You could do everything right in the backcountry and still die."
Happy reading and happy SAFE, RESPONSIBLE, ALERT trekking!
"Immersion in Nature, Naturally, Can Be Risky" NPR
Friday, August 15, 2014
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Canoeing in Algonquin Provincial Park: The Beginning
Whereas sea kayaking in Southeastern Alaska was a lesson in extreme backcountry exploration, canoeing in Algonquin Provincial Park was a lesson in zen relaxation. Our trip began on Kiosk lake, located just outside of Mattawa, where we spent one evening in the campground's jump-off site--the site where you can simply slip your canoe into the water and paddle into the wilderness.
(To backtrack, our trip really began in New Jersey around 4:30 AM where we scooted up through Canada on Route 81N, but nothing besides a stop at a Tim Horton's warrants exciting storytelling).
Well--as the Canadians say--anyways... We arrived at the Kiosk campground twelve hours after our departure from New Jersey and wiggled our way down an 18 KM paved (read: dirt) road to reach the ranger station. As a slip up on my behalf, I underestimated the length of this 'paved' road and we headed into Access Point 29: Kiosk Lake with only a quarter tank of gas--a mistake which conjured up humorous images of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer rides along the interstate on "empty" to see how far his car would go. Although thoughts of Seinfeld are lighthearted and comforting--knowing that Kramer made it pretty far running on fumes, quelled fears about being 'stuck on empty' in Kiosk--the present situation warranted an emotion that was everything but happy. So after making it down the dirt road, apologizing for the lack of gas, pushing thoughts of Seinfeld from my mind, checking in with the Ranger, inquiring about the nearest gas station, and being comforted by the kind, Canadian Ranger, we set up camp in the jump-off site. If you'd indulge a sweeping generalization: Canadians are the easiest-going people on the planet. As evidenced by several situations and encounters--to be recounted throughout this post--Canadians seem to shrug off worries and move on. A great mentality indeed!
The evening was spent organizing our gear and eating as much of the food from our fridge--that would have spoiled at home--before turning in. After a peaceful night's rest, peppered by periods of noisy neighbors and a smattering of rain showers, we stuffed our sleeping bags into dry sacks, shoved some food into a bear barrel (the other in a bag to be hung on a tree limb), slathered our skin with sunscreen, and pushed off into the Canadian wilderness.
Day 1--Kiosk Lake to Manitou Lake
On our first day, Gavin and I encountered three portages--three portages that grew exponentially in distance. A 'portage' is where canoeists have to exit their canoe in order to bypass non-traversable sections of a particular lake or sections in between two lakes. The non-traversable sections may either be water falls, rapids, low-water areas, or an absence of a water source linking two lakes--in other words: land. On these portages, the canoeist exits their canoe, removes all of their gear, and then heaves the canoe over their shoulders. They then proceed to march the canoe through the woods along a portage trail. Portage trails can be very maintained with easy footing or they can be like the portage trails we encountered--steep, rocky, root-filled, and muddy. After the canoeist transports their canoe across the trail, they must then walk back to their gear and portage it to the other side. Some canoeists (read: not us) achieve what is called a "single carry," in which they carry both their gear and their canoe in one trip across the portage trail. In order to successfully complete a single carry, you need an ultralight canoe and not very much gear. For us, that meant double carry all the way.
While most canoeists in Algonquin paddle around in 15-25 pound canoes, Gavin and I took the trusty touring canoe on this adventure. Our touring canoe--while sleek, sturdy, and reliable--weighs a whopping 70 pounds! That is 70 pounds that someone has to heave over their shoulders and march along forest trails--sometimes trails over a 3/4 mile in length! An impressive feat, I'd say. Last year, Gavin canoed in Algonquin solo and had to portage that 70 pound baby on his own (wow!) This year, he had me. Each time we would approach a portage, Gavin and I would unload the boat and then step to the right side. Bending our knees (or trying to as effectively as possible) we'd grip the gunwale and arc the massive boat over our heads and onto our shoulders. The visual is very akin to people walking within a donkey costume in which Gavin was in charge of the head and I, well, I was the other end.
Anyways, on the first day Gavin and I portaged our gear and our 70-lb. vessel across three portages: 200 meters, 275 meters, and 1355 meters. Following these portages, Gavin and I made it to our first backcountry lake: Manitou. As soon as we made it through the clearing of trees and onto the beach overlooking the lake, the clouds rolled in, the wind kicked up, and we sought shelter.
Before sneaking our gear and ourselves into a backcountry site located near the portage trail, Gavin was approached by a kind Canadian gentleman who asked information about which lake we were on. A bit puzzled, Gavin told him Manitou Lake and whipped out our well-worn and ziploc-sheathed map. In a twist of events and a horrible sense of direction, this Canadian man had misguided his group through three non-essential portages in the opposite direction. Instead of being on Manitou Lake, he and his crew were supposed to be on Mink Lake--located east of Kiosk, not west. When the Canadian man realized his error, he simply smiled, laughed, and said, "Well hopefully the group will be up for a change of plans..." He then thanked us--as we stood somewhat bewildered by his nonchalant attitude--and ran back to his friends. It was at that moment, when Gavin and I both realized we needed to relax more and embrace the Canadian's joie de vivre.
After the happy Canadian encounter and the passing of the storm, Gavin and I hopped in our canoe and paddled in search of a backcountry campsite on Manitou Lake. In Algonquin Provincial Park, each lake contains several campsites from which canoeists can choose. The campsites are first come, first serve and reservations need to be made for each lake in order to ensure someone is not left without a site. The campsites are marked with neon orange signs posted on tree trunks and are also found on the park map. The first site to which Gavin and I decided to paddle was an island site. This island site was absolutely perfect--flat ground, great cooking area, nice shade, easy put-in for the canoe, huge rocks for jumping, and a clean backcountry toilet. In case you are imagining a fancy-smancy flush toilet, backcountry toilets are simply vault toilets or outhouses. In reality, they are a wooden box with a hole in the center that hovers above a hole in the ground. It's the lazy-man's cat-hole*--one that's already established.
After checking out our new site and smiling at the fact that we could lay claim to a whole island, Gavin and I hung our food from a tree (to protect it from being consumed by the local wildlife), went for a quick swim in the lake, and then tucked into bed.
*A cat-hole is what is dug by backcountry campers when they are without a toilet. Essentially it is a hole in the ground in which you, you know, do your business. Afterwards, it is covered with dirt, and hopefully, with a very large rock.
(To backtrack, our trip really began in New Jersey around 4:30 AM where we scooted up through Canada on Route 81N, but nothing besides a stop at a Tim Horton's warrants exciting storytelling).
Well--as the Canadians say--anyways... We arrived at the Kiosk campground twelve hours after our departure from New Jersey and wiggled our way down an 18 KM paved (read: dirt) road to reach the ranger station. As a slip up on my behalf, I underestimated the length of this 'paved' road and we headed into Access Point 29: Kiosk Lake with only a quarter tank of gas--a mistake which conjured up humorous images of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer rides along the interstate on "empty" to see how far his car would go. Although thoughts of Seinfeld are lighthearted and comforting--knowing that Kramer made it pretty far running on fumes, quelled fears about being 'stuck on empty' in Kiosk--the present situation warranted an emotion that was everything but happy. So after making it down the dirt road, apologizing for the lack of gas, pushing thoughts of Seinfeld from my mind, checking in with the Ranger, inquiring about the nearest gas station, and being comforted by the kind, Canadian Ranger, we set up camp in the jump-off site. If you'd indulge a sweeping generalization: Canadians are the easiest-going people on the planet. As evidenced by several situations and encounters--to be recounted throughout this post--Canadians seem to shrug off worries and move on. A great mentality indeed!
The evening was spent organizing our gear and eating as much of the food from our fridge--that would have spoiled at home--before turning in. After a peaceful night's rest, peppered by periods of noisy neighbors and a smattering of rain showers, we stuffed our sleeping bags into dry sacks, shoved some food into a bear barrel (the other in a bag to be hung on a tree limb), slathered our skin with sunscreen, and pushed off into the Canadian wilderness.
Day 1--Kiosk Lake to Manitou Lake
On our first day, Gavin and I encountered three portages--three portages that grew exponentially in distance. A 'portage' is where canoeists have to exit their canoe in order to bypass non-traversable sections of a particular lake or sections in between two lakes. The non-traversable sections may either be water falls, rapids, low-water areas, or an absence of a water source linking two lakes--in other words: land. On these portages, the canoeist exits their canoe, removes all of their gear, and then heaves the canoe over their shoulders. They then proceed to march the canoe through the woods along a portage trail. Portage trails can be very maintained with easy footing or they can be like the portage trails we encountered--steep, rocky, root-filled, and muddy. After the canoeist transports their canoe across the trail, they must then walk back to their gear and portage it to the other side. Some canoeists (read: not us) achieve what is called a "single carry," in which they carry both their gear and their canoe in one trip across the portage trail. In order to successfully complete a single carry, you need an ultralight canoe and not very much gear. For us, that meant double carry all the way.
While most canoeists in Algonquin paddle around in 15-25 pound canoes, Gavin and I took the trusty touring canoe on this adventure. Our touring canoe--while sleek, sturdy, and reliable--weighs a whopping 70 pounds! That is 70 pounds that someone has to heave over their shoulders and march along forest trails--sometimes trails over a 3/4 mile in length! An impressive feat, I'd say. Last year, Gavin canoed in Algonquin solo and had to portage that 70 pound baby on his own (wow!) This year, he had me. Each time we would approach a portage, Gavin and I would unload the boat and then step to the right side. Bending our knees (or trying to as effectively as possible) we'd grip the gunwale and arc the massive boat over our heads and onto our shoulders. The visual is very akin to people walking within a donkey costume in which Gavin was in charge of the head and I, well, I was the other end.
Anyways, on the first day Gavin and I portaged our gear and our 70-lb. vessel across three portages: 200 meters, 275 meters, and 1355 meters. Following these portages, Gavin and I made it to our first backcountry lake: Manitou. As soon as we made it through the clearing of trees and onto the beach overlooking the lake, the clouds rolled in, the wind kicked up, and we sought shelter.
Before sneaking our gear and ourselves into a backcountry site located near the portage trail, Gavin was approached by a kind Canadian gentleman who asked information about which lake we were on. A bit puzzled, Gavin told him Manitou Lake and whipped out our well-worn and ziploc-sheathed map. In a twist of events and a horrible sense of direction, this Canadian man had misguided his group through three non-essential portages in the opposite direction. Instead of being on Manitou Lake, he and his crew were supposed to be on Mink Lake--located east of Kiosk, not west. When the Canadian man realized his error, he simply smiled, laughed, and said, "Well hopefully the group will be up for a change of plans..." He then thanked us--as we stood somewhat bewildered by his nonchalant attitude--and ran back to his friends. It was at that moment, when Gavin and I both realized we needed to relax more and embrace the Canadian's joie de vivre.
After the happy Canadian encounter and the passing of the storm, Gavin and I hopped in our canoe and paddled in search of a backcountry campsite on Manitou Lake. In Algonquin Provincial Park, each lake contains several campsites from which canoeists can choose. The campsites are first come, first serve and reservations need to be made for each lake in order to ensure someone is not left without a site. The campsites are marked with neon orange signs posted on tree trunks and are also found on the park map. The first site to which Gavin and I decided to paddle was an island site. This island site was absolutely perfect--flat ground, great cooking area, nice shade, easy put-in for the canoe, huge rocks for jumping, and a clean backcountry toilet. In case you are imagining a fancy-smancy flush toilet, backcountry toilets are simply vault toilets or outhouses. In reality, they are a wooden box with a hole in the center that hovers above a hole in the ground. It's the lazy-man's cat-hole*--one that's already established.
After checking out our new site and smiling at the fact that we could lay claim to a whole island, Gavin and I hung our food from a tree (to protect it from being consumed by the local wildlife), went for a quick swim in the lake, and then tucked into bed.
*A cat-hole is what is dug by backcountry campers when they are without a toilet. Essentially it is a hole in the ground in which you, you know, do your business. Afterwards, it is covered with dirt, and hopefully, with a very large rock.
The Kiosk Jump-off Site
"Kioshkokwi" means "lake of many gulls" in Algonquin
A happy canoeist in Kiosk
En route to our long portage
Our longest portage--1355 meters
The beginning of the portage trail
Paddling on Manitou Lake
Signs at the backcountry campsites that denote where the toilet is located
Beautiful Manitou Lake
Our island campsite on Manitou Lake
Our awesome tent
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