Rock Lake Rip - September Canoe Trip 2024
I was sitting in my friend’s basement, trying to find an escape, when I thought, “portaging!” It was the perfect distraction from my problems. So, I assembled a team of the most experienced execs (Tessa, Georgia and Rohnan) and after a ravaging cold and some planning mistakes (sorry Angela!) I reached my goal with the most perseverant group of excited paddlers. We were finally gazing over the crisp waters of Algonquin Park, our paddles sluicing through the ripples. On the first night, the first group paddled a few kilometres to our campsite on Rock Lake. The second group camped illegally at the put-in, because it was too dark by the time they’d gotten there to meet us. The whole night I was wondering if they’d been dragged away by Ontario Parks.
But no! At a quarter to eight in the morning, still groggy from sleep, I heard Georgia’s comforting voice: “Are you still sleeping?” A little judgmental, but ok. I was just happy they hadn’t become portaging outlaws.
Just as one worry was eased, another one quickly presented itself. Amidst the rain spitting down, and packing up camp, a member of our group got lost.
“What if she slipped near the water and is floating unconscious?”
“She could be crying in the deepest part of the forest.”
Luckily, our darkest fears were unfounded. With the help of other very kind campers on our island, Georgia was able to find her. We quickly went on our way, and boy, were we fast.
36 km in two days is no easy feat, but as Rohnan said: “We’ve got Ferraris for canoes.” Kevlar supremacy.
We made it to the end of Rock Lake, where the portaging spot was supposed to begin, but we couldn’t see any opening. Instead, there was long grass stretching over a bog-like bend in the lake.
Storming the marshlands
This ended up being the beginning of a series of very curvy rivers, obstructed by (almost impassable) beaver dams that lead us through Pen Lake, Galipo “River”, Welcome Lake, Harry Lake, and finally, Frank Lake, where we spent our first night.
Tip to the reader: If you see a river that is a part of a portaging route in Algonquin Park, assume that you will be walking through parts of that river, and maybe getting out of your canoe to drag across a beaver dam (thanks David!)
That day was not without its accidents. On our longest portage of the day, 1800 metres from Galipo River to Welcome Lake, Georgia sprained her ankle.
I arrived at this beautifully sandy beach, second, until Rohnan came back and told us that Georgia had been injured. This was my worst nightmare. We had even more portaging the next day, and I had no idea how to deal with potentially sending someone home early.
When we got to Georgia, she was limping forward slowly, her yellow backpack still strapped to her back. Thank god she’d abandoned the vision-obstructing food barrel she’d been hugging, but still. Someone grabbed her backpack and forced her to walk back without added stress on her foot.
We all made it to Welcome Lake, and those unharmed went for a swim on the sandy shore.
The sandy (and beginning to accumulate dead leaves) beach of Welcome Lake.
We had one more portage (320m), before being able to set up camp at Frank Lake. We did everything in one trip, despite being one woman down. There was only one campsite on Frank Lake, on a small island just big enough for us. We had the whole lake to ourselves.
Rohnan “Big Fish” Frei, who did not catch a thing…
The next day began our grueling journey of returning to civilization. Our first portage was 1725 metres from Florence Lake to Lake Louisa, through a beautiful lime-green forest that slowly went up and dramatically descended at the end of the trail. Once again, we managed to get everything in one trip, because we were awesome!
Lake Louisa was very big, and slightly windy. But that paddle was obscured in my mind by our next portage.
Lake Louisa to Rock Lake: P2895. Our biggest portage yet.
We were all pros at this point, or so I thought…
The portage was interrupted by a large gravel service road that went up a hill. As a short person with a canoe obstructing the front of your vision, you may not see the giant yellow portaging sign that led you back into the forest, and not up the gravel road. It was an easy mistake to make.
And someone did make it. I watched in horror as the same wanderer from the first morning clambered slowly up that steep hill, paddles slipping out of her hands.
She heard us calling, thank god, and we managed to prevent a disaster, until…
“I saw someone with a canoe go around the corner up that road,” she said.
Our last day needed some excitement, of course, something dramatic to end things on the right foot. David, valiant man he was, dumped his stuff and went after this lost soul.
At last, we all made it to the end of the portage in one piece and ate an assortment of leftovers for lunch. My personal favourite was Tessa’s peanut-butter-marshmallow-and-yellow-pepper bagel. It was quite the beaut.
The rest of the day is a blur.
The End.
The Rock Lake Rippers, September 22nd 2024.