Algonquin Park

I fell in love in Algonquin Park.  We arrived with our sons at the Brent Campground late on a dark night, desperate for our sleeping bags.  Leaving her tent in the car for the night, I assembled my larger tent and then the four of us bundled into the cramped, humid space.  I slept fitfully and woke early, as the pale light seeped under the fly and through the nylon.  She lay facing me and I thought, “wouldn’t it be lovely to wake up to this face for the rest of my life?”  Later that warm, summer day, she turned cartwheels on the beach.  On the drive back to Ottawa, she put her bare feet on the dashboard and sang to the radio.

The author paddles his canoe across St. Andrew's Lake in the dusk.
Paddling on St. Andrew’s Lake, Algonquin Park (photo by Isabel Deslauriers)
Moose, Costello Creek, Algonquin Park
A loon creases the surface of the Lake of Two Rivers.
Loon, Lake of Two Rivers, Algonquin Park

Memories of Algonquin Park go back generations:  a dozen or so for settlers; 500 or more for Indigenous peoples.  A canoe glides over still water at dusk, while a loon calls across the lake, and a moose grazes in the shallows.  The face in the canoe changes over the centuries — Anishnabe, explorer, trapper, logger, camper, tourist — but the experience and wonder remain constant.  They imprint themselves on the individual and collective consciousness.

Of course, so do the blackflies.

I try to time my visits to Algonquin Park for early May, before the blackfiles and mosquitoes emerge, or for September after the first cold nights.  Not June.  Never June.  Except this year.  This year, the Fates seemed determined to thwart my plans:  critical meetings, slipping deadlines, family obligations.  I postponed my trip once, then again.  Early May slid by, then mid-May, then late May.  Not until the first week of June did I find myself pulling into the Mew Lake Campground.

The south branch of the Madawaska River bubbles over rocky shallows.
Madawaska River, South Branch, Algonquin Park

All that week, I crept early into my tent at night and rose at dawn.  For the first time in years, I didn’t light a fire.  When the sun came out, so did swarms of blackflies.  At night, or under the deep forest canopy, clouds of mosquitoes rose from the underbrush.  More than once, I retreated to the Lake of Two Rivers Cafe for lunch 0r supper for an hour’s respite.

Along the Spruce Bog Trail, mist-laden spider webs droop from shrubs in the early morning light.
Spruce Bog, Algonquin Park

Not once, though, did I regret the trip.  Morning mist rising from a lake or beading on a canvas of spiderwebs.  Pink ladyslippers blooming beside a trail.  A lichen-encrusted boulder reflected in a stream.  The rolling hills and forests spread below a fractured cliff.  The flush of new needles on a tamarack — “a little green”, as Joni Mitchell describes it.  The slap of a beaver’s tail somewhere out on dark water.  Moments of wonder and beauty capture in images and memories.

A silver maple emerges from the morning mist beside Brigham Lake.
Silver Maple in the Morning Mist, Brigham Lake, Algonquin Park
A perfect pink ladyslipper blooms beside the Peck Lake Trail.
Pink Ladyslipper, Peck Lake, Algonquin Park
In the early morning, the glassy waters of St. Andrew's Lake reflect lichen-encrusted boulders.
Still Life, St. Andrew’s Lake, Algonquin Park
A beaver pond and meadow lie below a high lookout.
Beaverpond Trail Lookout, Algonquin Park

Of course, memories needn’t always come with the scent of DEET.  Autumn may be the finest time to visit Algonquin Park, cool fire-lit nights and warm, bug-free days.  Early in the season, the lakes may still be warm enough to swim.  Colourful, quilted hills rise from shorelines.  Life at its most abundant, before the long migrations south and the long hibernation.  By the end of fishing season, the brook trout and lake trout have begun to emerge from the summer depths to chase a spoon or fly.  Amorous moose call from clearings and wetland meadows.  In the evenings, loons lament the shortening days.

Red and gold trees stand on the shoreline of the Barron River, reflected in the calm water.
Autumn Colours, Barron River, Algonquin Park
A golden maple and red canoes reflect in the water of Canoe Lake.
Cache Lake, Algonquin Park
A young spruce tree grows on a decayed tree stump in a back bay of the Madawaska River.
Madawaska River, Algonquin Park

I recall rising from my tent one morning before sunrise to look out over the Barron River.  Standing on the shoreline in the quiet darkness, I puzzled at the sound of crunching coming from both up and down the shoreline, as well as on the far shore.  Only later, in the growing light, could I make out the shapes of beavers in the shallows munching water lily roots like candy.  Later that same morning, as my son and I cooked breakfast at the fire, the alarmed chatter of a red squirrel alerted us to a pine marten peering around the thick trunk of a white pine.  In the afternoon, we pulled fat bass out of the river.

A pale peach and blue light heralds dawn over the Barron River.
Dawn on the Barron River, Algonquin Park
A boy sits under a tree with the Barron River in the background.
Camping on the Barron River, Algonquin Park
A young boy in a canoe holds up a fat bass.
Fat Bass, Barron River, Algonquin Park

On another, autumn weekend, my wife and I rented a shoreline cottage at Killarney Lodge.  Sitting on the deck in the sun, we read books, sketched, fed peanuts to the resident chipmunk, and looked forward to the next gourmet meal.  We rented bikes at the Lake of Two Rivers and cycled along the old rail line under gold and red trees.  We slept with the windows open, snuggled warmly under our thick blankets, welcoming the scent of the pines and the sound of wind in their branches.

The sun rises over the Lake of Two Rivers, as viewed from Killarney Lodge.
Sunrise over the Lake of Two River, Killarney Lodge, Algonquin Park
A pretty cottage sits under cedar trees on the shore of Lake of Two Rivers.
Cabin 3, Killarney Lodge, Algonquin Park
A woman stands astride a mountain bike on the Old Railway Bike Trail in Algonquin Park.
Cycling the Old Railway Bike Trail, Algonquin Park
A pencil sketch of a dead cedar tree leaning over the Lake of Two Rivers, with the far shore in the background.
Sketch, Lake of Two Rivers, Killarney Lodge, Algonquin Park

I have yet to visit Algonquin Park in winter, but would love to see it on one of those bright, cold January days, when the snow is dry and powdery, the spruce trees crack and creak, and the whiskey jacks complain at your passing.  I would like to see the steam rising from a beaver lodge, surrounded by the exploratory tracks of a wolf.  I would love to hear Raven croak a greeting and hear the rustle of his wings as he flies overhead.  I would love to follow an otter slide from lake to lake.  I would love to return to a warm fire and steaming cup of hot chocolate at night.

Some things, like hot chocolate, should be shared.  As much as I enjoy a solitary trip in Algonquin’s back country — quietly walking the trails, listening to the sounds of night, and rising silently in my own time — I almost prefer the shared experience.  Since the last ice age, 10,000 years ago, humans have travelled the waterways and ridges.  Where settlers now camp, Indigenous peoples once camped.  In the dense darkness of cedars, overgrown vision pits speak of ancient spiritual quests.  Decayed cabins and log slides lie mouldering beside waterfalls.  Logging trucks still rattle and bang along dirt roads, where trees fall to chainsaws.  Paddlers eat lunch on billion year-old Canadian Shield rock.  Travellers from around the world look out over the Sunday Creek Bog from the Visitors Centre, hoping (not without reason) to see a moose or a wolf.  People have always been here, and they will continue to be here.  The challenge is to ensure that Algonquin Park remains both a place to find Nature and to fall in love.

A faint peach light seeps above dark trees as dawn begins on Head Lake.
First Blush of Dawn, Head Lake, Algonquin Park
Two teenagers fish from a canoe in Algonquin Park.
Fishing in Algonquin Park
Mating dragonflies perch on a pile of camping equipment in the bottom of a canoe.
Hitchhikers in the Canoe, Barron River, Algonquin Park
Friends share a lunch on boulders deep in the Barron Canyon.
Lunch in the Barron Canyon, Algonquin Park

 

 

 

 

Barron River, Algonquin Park

Boulders reflect in the still water of a mist covered lake in early morning light.
Still Life, St. Andrew’s Lake

On a still summer morning, the lake lies like glass.  The sun has peeked over the hills to light your campsite and warm the air.  The mist begins to burn off, drifting like lace before an imperceptible zephyr and swirling up in wisps.  You almost regret fetching water for the morning coffee, because of the ripples that mar the perfect reflections of stone, tree and sky.

The Barron River flows east out of the quiet, north side of Algonquin Park.  Being much less accessible to visitors from Toronto, the north and east sides of the park receive much less use than the Highway 60 corridor.  For visitors from Ottawa, they offer a chance to experience the park free from crowds, tour buses, and other traffic.  The campgrounds feel more open, cleaner and less claustrophobic.  Everything seems slower and more simple.

Two people paddle across a calm lake in an inflatable kayak, with a pine-covered shoreline in the background.
Paddling With Friends

The turn-off for the Barron River lies just over an hour and half north of Ottawa on the Trans-Canada Highway, 13 kilometres past the Town of Pembroke.  A turn on to Doran Road, followed by a quick right turn, leads to County Road 28.  After nine or ten kilometres, the pavement changes to a good gravel road and County Road 28 becomes the Barron Canyon Road.  The Sand Lake Gate to Algonquin Park lies another 18 km up the road.  Day trippers can obtain a visitors permit at the Sand Lake Office, while those with reservations can pick up their camping or backcountry permits.

Many visitors to the Barron River travel only 2.5 km past the gate to the Squirrel Rapids parking lot and access point, for a day paddle up to the Barron Canyon.  The flat water trip takes about six to eight hours return, factoring in an easy 420 m portage around some falls, maybe a try at the bass in the marsh above the falls, with time for a relaxed lunch and swim in the canyon.

A teenage boy holds a largemouth bass.
Barron River bass

The Barron Canyon formed after the last ice age, carved by an immense, sand-laden river of cold, glacial water draining from the Great Lakes.  100 m high cliffs climb straight out of the water, stained with orange lichen and topped by dense pines and cedars.  Ravens soar overhead.  Trailing a free hand along the stone of the canyon wall, one feels the age and weight of the earth.

Stone cliffs tower over a river.
Barron Canyon Cliffs

Several canoe-in campsites lie along the river below the canyon, available by reservation.  Other resting spots offer themselves along the way.  But I prefer to stop for lunch in the heart of the canyon, where a tumble of huge boulders offers a small pull-out, a swimming hole, and a flat picnic spot just above the river.  Eating a sandwich in the warmth of a 4.5 billion year-old star, on billion year-old stone, in a 10,000 year-old canyon, I find comfort and satisfaction in the triviality of my own existence.

Through a frame of pine and cedar branches, a figure stands looking down from midway up a boulder-covered slope.
Bouldering Above Picnic Rock

Backcountry camping is available all along the Barron River.  Achray Campground, 25 km past the Sand Lake Gate, offers a good starting point for a trip down to Squirrel Rapids.  A one-way trip could be accomplished in anything from one to four days, depending on how hard one wished to work.  Personally, I prefer to take a full day to traverse the five portages between St. Andrews Lake and Brigham Lake.  None are long or onerous, but they add up.  Even more, I can’t imagine missing the evening paddle along the shoreline in twilight, after setting up camp, eating and washing the dinner dishes.  Or rising before dawn to watch the dawn wash the hills and sunrise glitter on the dew of a cobweb.

A crescent moon looks down from a deep blue twilight sky on band of dark trees and white canoe beside a still lake.
Evening at St. Andrews Lake, Barron River
Trees slowly reveal themselves as morning mist lifts off the surface of a river.
Morning on the Barron River

Scenery along the Barron River equals that of any place in Algonquin Park.  Wildlife abounds, although moose are infrequent.  Waterfalls and cascades separate the stretches of flat water.  The autumn colours dazzle against the dark conifers and reflect in the still river.  Bring a camera, canvas and brushes, paper and pencil.  Bring an open heart and time to fill it.

A shallow stream runs under leaning cedars trees in a stony channel.
Stream
A small rapid spills into a reed-line pool.
Cascades
A stream tumbles over stones in a small waterfall.
Brigham Chutes
A great blue heron perches on a dead cedar leaning far out over a calm stream.
Great Blue Heron, Barron River