canoeing | Naturally Ottawa

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)

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

Marlborough Forest — Part Two, the Jock River

On one of the first warm weekends of spring, I loaded a Vrtucar with my canoe, bicycle, and canoe trailer, and I headed to the Jock River. Leaving the car at Jock River Park in Richmond, I hooked the trailer and canoe on the bike and cycled into a stiff breeze out of the Village along Franktown Road. The gravel shoulder provided plenty of room for comfort, although sections remained soft from the previous day’s rains. A left turn on to Green’s Road and a right on to Jock Trail Road eventually took me to Munster Road, just a few meters from where it crosses the Jock River, 12 km by canoe from the Village. I hauled the canoe off the trailer and down the embankment, packed the bike and trailer in front, and set off down river.

A calm river curves between a wooded shoreline and a grassy shoreline, reflecting the blue of a clear sky.; — The Jock River at the Munster Road Bridge

A bicycle and canoe trailer are packed in the bow of a canoe, which is pointed downstream on the flat water of the Jock River.. — Canoe Packed with a Bicycle and Canoe Trailer

Some people, perhaps, might not consider the Marlborough Forest to extend as far north as the Jock River. For several kilometres, however, the river winds through the swampy north end of the Richmond Fen — the large, provincially-significant peatland that occupies much of the north half of the forest. In the spring, when the creek spills its banks, the swamp appears like some southern bayou, with huge red and silver maples rising from the water to spread overhead like the arches of a cathedral. Blackbirds and grackles call incessently and flit overhead. Wood ducks, mallards, and even a few a teal shelter in back bays and sunlight-dappled pools. Flocks of Canada geese rise noisily from the channel ahead of the canoe as I come around a bend. The scene is both ancient and timeless.

Looking downstream, the river channel curves into a dark band of bare trees. — The Jock River Entering the Richmond Fen Swamp

Cedar trees lean over the water from the bank of the Jock River. — Cedars Beside the Jock River

I can hardly imagine the hardships faced by the early settlers of Richmond and its surroundings in the early 19th century. Initially settled in 1818 by demobilized British and Irish soldiers of the 99th Regiment, the village languished for a long time, with little construction or settlement. According to histories of the area, the well-known settler Hamnett Pinhey said of Richmond in 1832, “if you get into it in the Spring, you can’t get out till Summer; and if you get into it in the Fall, you must wait till the Winter…”. The difficulties rose in large part, no doubt, because of the low, boggy land through which the Jock River runs. Much of that land has since been effectively drained for agriculture. However, even today, the swamps bordering the Richmond Fen extend far north of Franktown Road, and new developments on the low, west side of the village rely on sump pumps for dry basements.

A dilapidated farm building sits on a high bank beside the Jock River. — Farm Building

Brown grasses and sedges cover a partially flooded peatland in the Richmond Fen. — Richmond Fen Peatland

All of that swamp, however, plays a critical role in protecting the Village of Richmond, the suburb of Barrhaven, and much of the intervening farmland from serious flooding. On this particular spring morning, with the river running high, the main channel almost vanished in the swamp as the water flowed outwards into the forest, backwaters, and old oxbows. Spreading placidly over hundreds of hectares, the water slowed and calmed, like a charging bull finding itsef suddenly in a grassy meadow. Why the hurry? Further downstream, at the bottom end of the swamp, the water lazily eased back into the channel again, before running down some last riffles into the village.

Floodwaters flow out of the channel of the Jock River into a flooded swamp. — Floodwaters Spilling from the Jock River into the Richmond Fen Swamp

Floodwaters flow from the channel of the Jock River into a flooded swamp. — Floodwaters Spilling from the Jock River into the Richmond Fen Swamp

The Rideau Valley Conservation Authority has calculated that the wetlands in its watershed reduce peak flood levels by at least 10% by the time they reach Ottawa. More recent work by the Credit River Conservation Authority and Ducks Unlimited shows that local benefits — such as the influence of the Richmond Fen on the Village of Richmond — can be much greater. In fact, the influence goes much further downstream. Many of the new neighbourhoods and homes bordering the Jock River in Barrhaven simply could not be built safely without the protection provided by the Richmond Fen.

A wide lake of floodwaters spreads toward a distance stand of trees beside the Jock River. — Floodplain of the Jock River in the Richmond Fen

Floodwater surround trees in the Richmond Fen swamp along the Jock River. — Floodplain of the Jock River in the Richmond Fen

After a long winter, however, the poetic virtues of the swamp have more immediate appeal than the practical benefits: the warmth of the sun through the bare trees, the squak of a blue heron rising ahead, the dance of tree swallows over the water, the reflection of a silver maple in a glassy pool, the unfurling of a fern, the bright green of new grass and sedges on the shore. I dawdled down the river, detouring up side creeks and under the railway bridge into the moat (the “lagg”) surrounding the open fen. Whenever possible, I set down my paddle and leaned back with my elbows on the thwarts drifting with with the current and watching for turtles. A Cooper’s hawk passed overhead. A snapping turtle slid reluctantly into the stream. A carp swirled from the weedy shallows into the deeper water. The river carried me along.

A large silver maple reflects in a backwater pool in the Richmond Fen Swamp. — Silver Maple, Richmond Fen Swamp

Tree swallows perch on an isolated snag in the Richmond Fen. — Tree Swallows, Richmond Fen

Young ostrich ferns unfurl amidst tender leaves of trout lilies. — Ostrich Fern and Trout Lily, Richmond Fen Swamp

The Jock River meanders between marsh meadow in the Richmond Fen Swamp. — Jock River, Richmond Fen Swamp

Deep River – Part Two

Deep River offers many lovely canoeing opportunities and destinations. For a relaxed evening paddle, I frequently head downstream from the town along the Ontario shoreline, past Lamure Beach. As the heat of the day dissipates, the wind dies down and the river often turns glassy and reflective. I follow the outer edge of the sand flats, past two rocky points, and into Welsh Bay, where Kennedy Creek empties into the river.

Boulders emerge from the water of the Ottawa River on sunny, summer day. — Ottawa River Shoreline, Deep River

I frequently see young lake sturgeon and longnose gar finning in the shallow water of the bay, feeding on the bottom. I’ve spied bald eagles sitting sentinel in the pines along the shore, and listened to the chiding of ospreys as I glide past. Pulling my canoe on to the sandy shore, I like to cross the bar to the beaverpond behind the beach and watch for wildlife in the thickets. The shoreline, here, remains largely unchanged. I can imagine Samuel de Champlain and his Algonquin guides pulling their canoes on to shore 400 years ago to make camp for the night.

The setting sun silhouettes a woman in a canoe on the still, reflective waters of the Ottawa River. — Ottawa River Calm

At least once during our annual visit to Deep River, I like to cross the river to the bay just inside Houseboat Point, where an overgrown logging trail heads up into the forest. A 20 minute walk takes me to the path to Mount Martin, almost hidden on the north side of the trail. An inconspicuous sign, placed by the Boy Scouts, marks the trailhead. On a hot, summer day, the climb up through the forest provides a workout, and mosquitoes whine incessantly. However, after a few false summits, the trail finally emerges on to an open, rocky lookout over the river and the town on the far side. The sand flats and shoals show clearly along the shoreline. Ravens and turkey vultures soar above and below, riding the breeze that rises over the escarpment. Breaking out a lunch, I rest and recuperate on the rocks, even lying back and closing my eyes for warm nap.

A weathered, wood sign attached to a tree marks the trailhead to Mount Martin. — Mount Martin Trailhead

From far above on Mount Martin, the sandy beach and shoals of Houseboat Point can be seen reaching out into the blue Ottawa River — Houseboat Point Viewed from Mount Martin

The author rests on a rocky lookout at the top of Mount Martin, with forest and the Ottawa River in the background. — Resting at the Mount Martin Lookout

Another, more challenging paddle leads up the Ottawa River along the Quebec shoreline to Baie de la Presqu’ile d’en Bas and Lac a la Tortue. This 20 km long trip follows the rocky east shore of the river, where the long seismic fault of the Ottawa – Bonnechere Graben (the geological feature that we call the Ottawa Valley) and repeated glaciation has laid bare the tortured roots of the Canadian Shield. Broken only by a few short, sandy beaches, the old gneiss falls sharply into the deep waters. Fissures and cracks spit the billion year-old rock, along with coarse veins of crystallized quartz and other minerals. Sheered plates of stone form rocky walls and ledges. A forest climbs back from the shoreline, while a few hardy, slow-growing trees find a tenuous foothold closer to the water. The bay, itself, lies under a towering, shattered rock face, sheltered from the wide river by a long spit of sand deposited by an upstream tributary. At the head of the bay, shallow Lac a la Tortue provides superb habitat for pike, gar, turtles and shorebirds. Unfortunately, the bay has become very popular with campers and houseboats, who sometime line the beach in small flotillas. Nonetheless, the scenery provides ample justification for a visit, as do the healthy pike that feed along the rocky, Ottawa shoreline.

A canoe rests on a rocky shore in a small cove under a flat wall of stone. — Quebec Shoreline Upstream of Deep River

A stunted red maple grows from bare stone on the Quebec shoreline of the Ottawa River. — Life Finds A Way

A great blue heron stalks along the shoreline at Lac a la Tortue. — Great Blue Heron, Lac a la Tortue

A wide angle photograph shows the towering rock face above Baie de la Presqu'ile d'en Bas. — Panorama of the Cliffs at Baie de la Presqu’ile d’en Bas

Of course, at the end of long day of hiking or paddling, nothing feels so good as plunging into the clean, clear river at Lamure Beach or Pine Point. Many times, I’ve waded into the water to the drop-off, then dived under. The distinct, wonderful scent of the water fills my nostrils. The water washes over me. I rise, turn on my back and float under the sunset sky, as the heat seeps from my skin along with sweat and weariness. The quiet envelopes me like the river.. Somewhere inside me, an ancestral memory stirs. I think about tomorrow’s adventure.

Old and New Along the Rideau River

I never tire of paddling the Rideau River, especially the familiar section between Sandy Hill and Carleton University. I always find something to admire. I always reflect upon the human experience of the River, which still evolves, and which goes back at least 4000 years.

On a gorgeous Saturday afternoon, while many of my friends participated in the Ottawa Race Weekend, I launched my canoe for the season’s first paddle on the Rideau. I usually make this excursion earlier in the spring, but this year’s high flows kept me off the river. Loading my canoe on the bike trailer, I rode down to Robinson Park, launched from the beach, and turned upstream.

A canoe rests on a towed trailer behind a bicycle. — Wike Canoe Trailer

The paddling proved relatively easy, despite the strong current. I passed under the Queensway and the footbridge, skirting the shoreline and reeds in search of wildlife. My new cherrywood paddle (a birthday gift from Sue) felt good in my hands, and the tensions of the past work week eased out of my shoulders.

A blue sky and fair weather clouds hang over the Rideau River and the Hurdman Transit Bridge. — Rideau River Downstream of the Hurdman Bridge

Given the warmth of the day, I expected to see a lot of basking turtles. In the past, I’ve spotted large numbers of painted turtles, plus large snappers and even map turtles along the shore. Surprisingly, in almost six hours on the river, I only found two painted turtles up on logs, along with three snappers idling in the shallows amidst the reeds. The Ministry of Natural Resources and Forestry has several old records of Blanding’s turtle along the river, and despite a decade of disappointment, I still live in hope of finding one sometime on this stretch.

A painted turtle basks on a large log in the Rideau River. — Painted Turtle, Rideau River

The hardest paddling of the day came at Billing’s Bridge, where the river flowed fast through the piers. Passing a small group of stand-up paddleboarders, I tried first for the central span, paddling hard in the eddy behind a pier and then shooting into the current. For a minute a two I held my own, but without making headway. Finally, I dropped back and moved to the next span south, where the current proved a little less challenging. One of the paddleboarders tried to follow me, but couldn’t muster enough speed. Just upstream of the bridge, several more stand-up paddleboarders practiced in the calmer pool. One of them, a very pretty young woman, struck yoga poses on her board, as her girlfriend snapped photographs.

A group of four strand-up paddlerboarders cruuise up the Rideau River. — Stand-up Paddleboarders, Rideau River

After working slowly through the riffles above Billings Bridge, I slid my canoe into the reeds at Clifford Allen Island, so that I could renew my sunscreen. As I slathered on the cream, with a pair of geese eyeing me warily, I noticed a newly molted dragonfly drying its wings at the tip of broken, brown reed, still hanging from its discarded nymph skin. It’s colors had not yet fully developed, but the stripes on the thorax suggested some kind of darner. I had seen pretty, green darners dancing over the reeds during my paddle upstream, but they lacked the thorax stripes.

A newly hatched dragonfly dries its wings on a reed. — Unknown Darner, Rideau River

Carrying on from the island, I paddled past Brewer Park to the Dunbar Bridge. This part of the Rideau River hosts the most fascinating juxtaposition of culture in the City: literally 4000 years of history separated by barely 300 metres of river. On the north shore, nestled under the Dunbar Bridge, the House of PainT provides a venue for Ottawa’s hip-hop community, featuring its first legal graffiti wall and regular street dance festivals. Just upstream and across the river, on the south shore at Vincent Massey Park, lies a 4000 year-old, indigenous archaeology site. Excavated by the National Capital Commission over several years, the site marks the bottom end of an old portage around the Hogsback Falls. Paddling up the south shore in late afternoon, just below the rapids under the O-Train line, one can easily imagine those Early Woodland people pulling their canoes into shore to set camp for the night, perhaps casting their nets into the river, where fishermen cast their lines today. I suspect that they chose the spot as much for its beauty as for its convenience.

Two artists work on the graffiti wall at the House of PainT under the Dunbar Bridge. — House of PainT, Dunbar Bridge, Rideau River

Huge crack willows line the shore at the site of a 4000 year-old, Early Woodland archaeology site. — Early Woodland Archaeology Site, Rideau River

The sun glints through a large crack willow on the shoreline of the Rideau River at Vincent Massey Park. — Shoreline, Vincent Massey Park, Rideau River

I turned back downstream in late afternoon, alternating drifting and paddling gently. For awhile, I watched two jets circling over the City in formation as part of the race weekend celebrations. Gradually, as the light mellowed, the wildlife became a bit more active. Just above Billings Bridge, a female mallard shepherded her large brood of ducklings. I could not help but think of the large muskellunge known from the area, and wonder how many ducklings would survive the summer. Further downstream, a muskrat plied the shoreline in the shadows of the trees. Finally, near the end of the paddle, I came upon a mink feeding on the carcass of a carp at the edge of the shore. I shot a few, quick photographs, then circled back to take a few more, only to see the mink slip back into the shadow of the trees.

Two L29 Delfins fly in formation over the Rideau River. — L29 Delfins, AMC Warbirds

A female mallard shepherds her ducklings. — Mallard and Ducklings, Rideau River

A muskrat swims along the shore of the Rideau River. — Muskrat, Rideau River

A mink stands on the shore of the Rideau River with the carcass of a carp. — Mink, Rideau River

I pulled back into Robinson Park, just as the evening sun was dropping behind the City. I looked down the peaceful waterway to the Adawe Crossing at Strathcona Park. The serenity of the scene encapsulated the beautiful dichotomy of this wonderful urban river.

The evening sun casts its last rays on the Rideau River and the Adawe Crossing footbridge. — Adawe Crossing, Rideau River

Deep River – Part One

An evening calm has settled over the Ottawa River as I paddle into a burnished, copper sunset. I trail a fly behind the canoe, more from habit than hope. If I really wanted to catch fish, I would trail a spinnerbait for pike, or rig a artificial minnow for walleye. Mostly, I just enjoy the quiet, made more pronounced by the occasional powerboat thrumming in the distance. On the Quebec side, I see lights begin to glimmer on the houseboats beached at the point. Laughter carries across the water. Nearer, on my left, I see a whitetail deer come shyly down to the beach in the deepening dusk, as a wood thrush begins to flute in the woods. Abruptly, the sandy bottom rises below my canoe. I ship my paddle and quickly wind in my fly. Then I continue into the bay toward the boat launch, passing Lamure Beach and threading through the moored boats. I pull out the canoe and drag it up to the trees with the others. Then I stroll through the peaceful streets until I see home and the glow of warm, yellow light through the blinds of the large front window.

The setting sun turns the sky a burnished copper over the Ottawa River. — Sunset, Deep River

The town of Deep River lies an easy two hour drive northwest of Ottawa along Highway 17. Sandwiched between the highway and the Ottawa River, it trails along the shoreline for a couple of kilometers. The usual Tim Hortons, Canadian Tire, motel and small strip malls service the highway. A busy grocery store, post office, shops, cafes, school, and town office anchor the small, downtown core, which sits just behind the waterfront, overlooking the river. The marina and yacht club lie only a brisk two minute walk away. Tidy residential neighbourhoods lie either side of downtown — a mix of small, renovated, post-war bungalows and more modern, multi-story houses. The Deep River Regional Hospital marks the east side of town, while the Mount Martin Ski Club sits on the west side.

The Ottawa River and Ottawa Valley spread out below the lookout on Mount Martin, Quebec. In the distance, the town of Deep River lies along the far shore. — Deep River Viewed from Mount Martin, Quebec

The Deep River Waterfront as photographed from Mount Martin, Quebec. — Deep River Waterfront

I spend at least two weeks every summer in Deep River with my wife and our sons. We make shorter visits throughout the year. I spend most of that time outside, exploring the local forests and wetlands, or paddling the shoreline of the Ottawa River. Deep River is a microcosm of whole Ottawa Valley, with almost every kind of ecosystem, habitat and wildlife species within easy reach.

Most trips to Deep River begin and end at the Four Seasons Forest Sanctuary, on the southeast side of the town. This community-owned forest is part of an enormous, contiguous, protected natural area that includes the restricted lands surrounding the Canadian Nuclear Laboratories (formerly AECL) in Chalk River, the Petawawa Research Forest, the training areas of Canadian Forces Base Petawawa, and Algonquin Park. A short hiking loop begins across from the hospital and leads to a pretty, covered shelter overlooking a wetland. Even on the buggiest days, the squadrons of dragonflies hunting along the marsh edge succeed at keeping most mosquitoes at bay. Common yellowthroats sing in the thickets, while swamp sparrows skulk in the reeds. An American bittern grunts deep in the marsh. A blue heron fishes along the meandering stream on the other side. Turtles and frogs bask in the small pond by the shelter, where an occasional beaver, muskrat or otter makes an appearance. I’ll bring a lunch and meditate on the scene, read a book, or bring a guitar. Almost always, I’m on my own.

A wooden archway spans an entrance to the Four Seasons Conservation Forest trail network. — Four Seasons Forest Sanctuary Entrance

Looking out from the shade of a covered observation shelter, a verdant marsh offers a pleasing view. — Marsh Shelter, Four Seasons Conservation Forest

A black-masked, common yellowthroat perches on the branches of an alder bush. — Common Yellowthroat, Four Seasons Conservation Forest

An otter plays on a log in a marshy pond at the Four Seasons Conservation Forest. — Otter, Four Seasons Conservation Forest

Longer trails lead deeper into the sanctuary, passing a variety of habitats: upland forests of white pine, maple and beech; darker forests of spruce and balsam fir; pretty riparian marshes, and dark forest pools; bright, grassy clearings, and shadowed fern gardens. One of my favourite destinations is Cranberry Lake, which stretches back into the AECL lands. At the end of a half hour hike, a small bench looks out over the lake and a pretty, floating fen mat. In late June and early July, white waterlilies carpet the water, and pink orchids (swamp pinks and rose pogonias) dot the fen. I often skip the bench and stretch out under the white pine that graces the shoreline, closing my eyes for a nap in midday sunshine. Occasionally I lift my head and look down the lake, hoping to see one of the moose that have found a haven on the AECL lands.

A verdant marsh is framed by overhanging trees. — Cranberry Lake, Deep River

During the winter, the trails of the Forest Sanctuary become an active cross-country ski and snowshoe network. Trails are well marked and maintained by the Deep River Cross Country Ski Club, who put on an active recreational and social program through the winter. The forest and wetlands take on a different kind of beauty and quiet in the winter, always reminding me of the Robert Frost lines, “the only other sound’s the sweep, of easy wind and downy flake.”

A young white pine sits at the edge of a snow-covered beaverpond, against a backdrop of older, darker pines. — Winter Beaverpond, Four Seasons Forest Sanctuary

A forest creek runs swiftly between snow and ice-covered banks on a warm, late-winter day. — Winter Creek, Four Seasons Forest Sanctuary

The Petawawa Research Forest, just outside nearby Chalk River, also provides wonderful opportunities for exploration. The Research Forest Museum, now inactive and partly abandoned, still remains open to the public — albeit quickly deteriorating. An interpretive trail still loops from the museum through the forest, and an old boardwalk still offers a short, but pretty walk along the shore of the Chalk River. A maze of access and logging roads leads deep into the forest, past a myriad of different tree communities, streams and wetlands. In particular, the research forest includes a large number of well-developed fens and bogs, some of which are very accessible and yet still virtually unknown and pristine. They provide a unique opportunity for a careful, conscientious visitor to explore the flora and fauna of these marvelous ecosystems. Unfortunately, summer visitors can expect to be trailed by a cloud of deer flies, which swarm from the sandy roads and trails in numbers that are hard to comprehend. Once off the roads and into the forests and wetlands, however, the deer flies give way to the usual mosquitoes and blackflies, which respond much more readily to repellent. Of course, sensitive individuals can always choose to wear bug hats or bug shirts. Either way, the research forest is worth a visit.

A wide-angle photography of a raised bog in the Petawawa Research Forest. — Raised Bog, Petawawa Research Forest

A narrow stream runs through a sedge meadow, fed by the raised bog in the background. — Sedge Meadow and Raised Bog, Petawawa Research Forest

A type of rich fen, known as a "ring bog", surrounds a small pond in the Petawawa Research Forest. — Rich Fen, Petawawa Research Forest

A delicate pink orchid, called a rose pogonia, glistens with raindrops in a fen in the Petawawa Research Forest. — Rose Pogonia, Petawawa Research Forest

A swamp pink blooms on a fen mat in the Petawawa Research Forest. — Swamp Pink, Petawawa Research Forest

Pitcher plants bloom on a fen mat in the Petawawa Research Forest. — Northern Pitcher Plant, Petawawa Research Forest

A gartner snake curls atop a sphagnum hummock in a bog in the Petawawa Research Forest — Garter Snake on Bog Hummock, Petawawa Research Forest

Tufts of red and green sphagnum moss form a mound in a bog in the Petawawa Research Forest. — Sphagnum Moss in a Bog, Petawawa Research Forest

Orange-tipped lichen grows on a sphagnum mound in the Petawawa Research Forest. — Lichen in Bog, Petawawa Research Forest

Constance Creek

We glide on dirty, brown water under a green, sunlit canopy of silver maple trees. Spring run-off on the Ottawa River has pushed nutrient-rich floodwaters back into the forests along lower Constance Creek. Warblers sing brightly in the tree-tops and multi-hued wood ducks peek shyly from the shady depths of the swamp. The nighttime chorus of spring peepers and tree frogs has dwindled in the warming day to a few desultory chirps and clucks. We pass between the spreading, fluted tree trunks in quiet awe, like visitors to some southern, bald cypress bayou. But instead of alligators basking along the channel, map turtles and painted turtles crawl on to logs to sun themselves, while pike and gar lie up in the shallow reed beds.

When biologists speak of the diversity and productivity of wetlands, they have places like Constance Creek in mind, where life overspills its banks. Scoop the creek water into your cupped hands, and you hold a galaxy of microscopic, living things. Look up to the trees to see life thrust by the laws of thermodynamics toward its origin in the dust and energy of stars. Energy flows through a tangled web of matter, seeking stability, building in complexity, expressed in a fractal lattice in which dragonflies hang like jewels. A wetland brings together the elements of life like no other place. Perhaps in no other place does a biologist feel more like a priest.

Three turtles bask on the projecting end of a log near the bank of Constance Creek. The treed shoreline reflects in the calm water. — Turtle Basking on Constance Creek

A confluence of fortuitous circumstances has preserved Constance Creek as a uniquely healthy riverine wetland. About 10,000 years ago, when meltwaters of the retreating glaciers swelled the Ottawa River, part of it flowed along a side channel from Constance Bay in the north to Shirley’s Bay in the south. Along the banks of this channel, it deposited large sandbars over the flat clays left by the retreating Champlain Sea. Over time, as the Ottawa River shrank to its current size, flows along the channel reversed direction, draining the adjacent Carp Ridge and Dunrobin Ridge north through a meadering stream and wide, swampy floodplain. Annual flooding limited farming and permanent settlement along the creek, while the deep, sandy soils supported the growth of a rich riparian forest to further screen and protect the creek. Some unauthorized filling of the Constance Creek wetland occurred in 1989 with the construction of the Eagle Creek Golf Club. Sand pits have also opened at places along the creek, although they remain hidden from the main channel. For the most part, though, the creek remains well buffered from surrounding land uses.

Several locations give access to the creek, but thick cattails often limit paddling. At the upper end, an alm0st impenetrable marsh blocks access from Constance Lake. The reach downstream of the bridge at Thomas Dolan Parkway provides a short, easy paddle through a lovely riverine marsh. Painted turtles, snapping turtles and Blanding’s turtles bask along the channel in the midday sun, and a colony of black-crowned night herons hides back in the reeds. Damselflies and dragonflies hunt over the water. The bridge at Vance’s Side Road provides a pretty view over marsh and swamp, but the channel quickly chokes off both upstream and downstream. In contrast, the mouth of the creek on Constance Bay offers one of the most beautiful, flat water paddles in Ottawa.

Two yellow pond lilies reflect in the calm water of Constance Creek. — Yellow Pond Lilies

I like to start my trips up Constance Creek at the far, north end of Greenland Road, where the City-owned road allowance runs up to the water at tiny Horseshoe Bay. I paddle through the sandy shallows, tracked by freshwater clams and mussels, into the wider expanse of Constance Bay. I don’t recommend it for breezy days, when the wind driving across the wide river can raise substantial waves. But on calm days, the glassy water parts smoothy to either side of the bow, as I round the point to the west. Sometimes I paddle straight across Constance Bay to the mouth of the creek. More often, though, I skirt the shoreline, looking for turtles and scanning the flats for longnose gar finning in the shallow water.

Constance Bay provides some of the best fishing along the Ottawa River shoreline. The clean, Ottawa River, the shallow reed and weed beds, and the steady influx of nutrients from Constance Creek create a perfect mix of spawning, nursery and adult habitats. Although I haven’t yet tried flyfishing for longnose gar, I’ve heard that they rival bonefish for fun. The technique seems roughly the same, and one can find lots of instruction online. Usually, however, I troll a streamer fly or a spinnerbait behind the canoe and pick up some of the pike for which Constance Bay is famous. Musky also lurk in the weeds, although for the sake of my light tackle (and their health), I don’t try for them. Closer to the mouth of the creek, though, I’ve caught catfish and bass. Walleye forage in deeper water, along the outer edge of the bay. At times, in fact, fish have struck so frequently as I’ve paddled across the bay, that I’ve had to bring in my line to make any real progress toward the creek.

The author holds a small pike that he's caught on a spinnerbait on Constance Bay. — Small Pike on a Spinnerbait

Constance Creek flows through a stunning swamp forest into Constance Bay. Large, mature silver maples line the banks along the channel, while swamp bur oaks sit further back on slightly higher ground. During the spring flood, one can sometimes paddle into the swamp itself, threading between standing and fallen trees. Great blue herons stalk along the boundary of swamp and stream, while pileated woodpeckers cackle and hammer deeper in the recesses of the forest. In the autumn, ducks and geese descend like leaves into the marshes around the creek mouth, and the sounds of shotguns echo distantly from further up the creek, where several duck clubs operate hunting blinds.

A stand of tall silver maple trees stand in sunlight along the low, floodplain of Constance Creek. — Silver Maple Swamp, Constance Creek

A stand of bur oak trees lines a sandy bank along Constance Creek. — Swamp Bur Oak, Constance Creek

A great blue heron hunts in the shallow water along the edge of Constance Creek. — Great Blue Heron, Constance Creek.

Not surprisingly, many of Ottawa’s most interesting animals and species at risk find a home along Constance Creek. Five of Ottawa’s six at-risk turtle species have been recorded along the creek and at its mouth, including the extremely elusive (and possibly extirpated locally) spiny soft-shelled turtle. Red-headed woodpeckers still nest locally. Terns no longer nest in the area, but pass through during migration. Ospreys can often be found hunting along the creek. Bald eagles migrate along the creek and the Ottawa River shoreline, as do many other raptors, including peregrine falcons. Lake sturgeons and American eels still inhabit the waters.

This richness of life is no doubt what attracted aboriginal peoples to the creek. Archaeologists have documented at least one 2500 year-old camp and burial site at the mouth of Constance Creek, on its west shore (https://ottawarewind.com/2014/02/24/ancient-ottawa-lost-relics-from-500bc-found-at-constance-bay/). More undocumented sites seem likely, perhaps in the large woodland on the east side of the creek mouth. Unfortunately, that woodland remains at risk of future aggregate extraction. Lying atop one of the largest, untouched sand and gravel deposits in the north end of the City, it currently enjoys protection by Provincial wetland policies and an unopened City road allowance. These prevent the legal access required for an aggregate license. Nonetheless, so long as the property remains privately-owned, the threat exists.

In the meantime, one can travel back 2500 years with just a canoe trip up the creek. The present swirls behind from the blade of your paddle. Lying quietly up in the swamp, daydreaming and staring serenely up at the translucent leaves, one can easily imagine that it has always appeared this way. With a whisper of wings and ragged croak, Raven passes over the canopy. Floating there, you surrender to thought and memory.

A great blue heron hunts in a shallow marsh on lower Constance Creek. — Great Blue Heron, Constance Creek

A panorama photograph shows a women sitting in the front of a canoe in a flooded silver maple swamp. — Swamp Panorama, Constance Creek

Time of Rebirth

Sometime around the second week of May, a magical event happens in Ottawa: the buds begin to burst on the trees. For weeks, they have swollen with the lengthening days, drawing sustenance from their roots and the moist, spring earth. Some smaller trees and shrubs have already sprouted leaves, and some canopy trees will wait a while longer. But the vanguard of the northern hardwood forest — the maples, beeches, birches, ash, basswoods, oaks — erupt with new leaves. As they unfold, the grey forest turns a delicate, pale green. Still translucent, the young leaves glow in the morning sunlight, each like a little flower. The forest has a momentary gaiety, like a young girl twirling in her first dress.

Pale green leaves unfurl at the end of a twig. — Spring foliage

A tree-clad cliff rises from the water of Pink Lake. — Pink Lake Shoreline

For several years, I have taken vacation during the second week of May. Sometimes I go camping. Sometimes I stay in town. Either way, I spend my free days indulging in the exuberant rebirth that spring brings. The migratory songbirds arrive: warblers, vireos, thrushes, flycatchers, swallows, sparrows. They flit through the tree-tops and scurry in the underbrush, still easily visible in the young foliage. Their early-morning chorus begins before dawn and ends only with the heat of midday. Spring wildflowers speckle the forest slopes: pointillist dreams of white trilliums; lilies, violets and dutchman’s britches; honeysuckle and elder. A few spring peepers still call, along with the croak of leopard frogs and the trill of american toads. Reptiles emerge into the sun, still half torpid from winter. Turtles bask on logs, more reluctant to re-enter the cold water than later in the summer. Snakes sun themselves on warm, grey rocks or under old boards. Even fish seek the shallows to warm themselves in the welcome rays.

A photograph of a white trillium in full bloom at Pink Lake. — White Trillium at Pink Lake

An early saxifrage blooms in a cluster of white flowers, emerging from a rosette of leaves clinging to a crevice in bare rock. — Early Saxifrage at Pink Lake

The yellow bloom of large flowered bellwort droops from its limp leaves. — Large Flowered Bellwort at Pink Lake

A close-up photograph of a red trillium shows the purplish petals, large sepals and stamen. — Red Trillium

I’ve spent this past week exploring some old and new haunts by bicycle and canoe: the Rideau River, Pink Lake, Baie McLaurin, Shirley’s Bay, Poole Creek. I’ve ridden about 250 km, sometimes with canoe in tow behind my bike. I recently purchased a canoe trailer for my bike from Wike, mainly to eliminate the need to book a VrtuCar (a local car-sharing business) any time that I wanted to go canoeing. Already, the combination of my two favourite activities has given me incredible satisfaction… as well as some intense exercise.

A canoe rides on a trailer attached to a bicycle. — Canoe Trailer by Wike

The bow of a canoe cuts through glassy water at Shirley's Bay. A bicycle lies in the canoe. — Canoeing at Shirley’s Bay

Large silver maple trees surround a canoe at Shirley's Bay. — Silver Maple Swamp at Shirley’s Bay

A longnose gar basks in the shallows at Shirley's Bay. — Longnose Gar at Shirley’s Bay

The Rideau River looks placid under a blue sky sprinkled with fair-weather cumulus clouds. — Rideau River Morning

A great blue heron hunts below a bridge over the Rideau River. — Great Blue Heron

A sleepy snapping turtle basks in the mud on the shore of the Rideau River. — Sleepy Snapping Turtle on the Rideau River

A map turtle basks on a log in the Rideau River. — Map Turtle on the Rideau River

Four ostrich fern fronds begin to unfurl on the shore of the Rideau River. — Ostrich Fern on the Rideau River

I look forward to my summer vacation — those full, glorious two weeks in late June and early July. I can feel the warmth, see the dragonflies dancing over the ponds, feel my fly rod in my hands. The time will pass slower and more restfully. But the days won’t bring the same sense of excitement and wonder as my May sabbatical, when all the world’s anew.

An adult milk snake warms itself on the pavement of a bicycle path. — Milk Snake on a Bicycle Path

Paddling at Bate Island

I sometimes wonder if I could still learn to paddle whitewater. Then I remember how much my knees complain simply climbing into my open canoe. Could I really fit myself into a whitewater canoe or kayak? Could I get out? Nonetheless, whenever I watch the paddlers on the waves at Bate Island, the hankering strikes again.

With temperatures climbing into the low teens, I’d set out to cycle along the Ottawa River, up Pinecrest Creek, back to the Experimental Farm and Arboretum, and then home along the Rideau Canal. I didn’t make it. Enough snow lingered along the pathway beside the river to convince me that Pinecrest Creek would be impassable except on a fat bike. Instead, seeing the cars parked at Bate Island, I decided to detour for a look at “The Wave”.

It lies just below the Champlain Bridge, on the west side of Bate Island: a standing wave, only a few metres offshore, curling perpetually in the swift current. Actually, in Spring conditions, several waves stand out from the shore. However, “The Wave”, as it is known, has just the right curl to cradle a paddler, while the adjacent boil provides the perfect conditions for tricks. Canoeists, kayakers, stand-up paddlers and surfers line up along the retaining wall to take turns lancing into the current. More experienced paddlers advise the novices on which line to take and how hard to paddle. Each paddler takes a couple of minutes carving the water, and then bails out for the next person to slide into place.

A kayaker and stand-up paddleboarder ride the whitewater at Bate Island — Action on The Wave

Kayakers and a stand-up paddleboarder float along the shoreline waiting for their turn on "The Wave". — Lining up for “The Wave”

Sometimes several paddlers will launch together in a competition to see who can hold their place amid the bumping of the kayaks. The losers roll over the wave and bob away down the short chain of rapids into the lee of the island, while the winner celebrates with a few spins.

Three kayakers jostle in friendly competition for their place on "The Wave". — Competition Among Friends

After one of the three kayakers loses his place on "The Wave", the remaining two kayakers perform some tricks. — Throwing in a Few Tricks

The stand-up paddleboarders impress me the most. Although they seem relatively tame in comparison to the kayakers, I admire their skill in manoeuvring their long boards through the whitewater, with only a paddle and the feel of the river through their feet to guide them.

A stand-up paddleboarder takes his place on the "The Wave". More whitewater lies in the midground of the photograph, while the Quebec shoreline lies in the background. — Surfing “The Wave”

My heart, though, lies with the canoeists. Leaning into their single-bladed paddles, and rocketing their streamlined craft into the surf, they seem like the greyhounds of the waves. I love to watch the spray knifing from their hulls and blades as they hiss across the face of the wave. Perhaps one of these days, I’ll join them.

Three whitewater canoes slice down a standing wave. Their canoes and their paddles throw up spray in the swiftly moving water. — Whitewater Canoes at Bate Island

Bate Island can be accessed from the Champlain Bridge, heading west toward Quebec. Parking is abundant. Whitewater paddling is inherently risky, and the Ottawa River is cold, even in Summer. Never paddle alone, and always wear a wetsuit, flotation device and helmet.

You can find a short video of some action on the wave at: https://youtu.be/W0DEHi0nWH0

Mississippi River and the Cody Creek Black Maple Swamp

The calm water of the Mississippi River reflects the clear, blue sky. A pretty, shoreline marsh lies close on the right, while a wooded shoreline lies across the river on the left. — Mississippi River

The Village of Pakenham, just outside Ottawa, lies on the gentle Mississippi River. Most visitors come to photograph the famous five-arch, stone bridge, or to eat ice cream at the Pakenham General Store, the oldest general store in Canada (open in the same location for 170 years). A few dragonfly enthusiasts know it as one of the very few places to find the endangered Rapids Clubtail, a small colourful dragonfly that breeds in the shallow pools and rapids below the bridge. I think of it as the perfect place to begin an excursion on the Mississippi River downstream to Cody Creek.

A view from the river across dense bed of pickerel weed to the shoreline of the Mississippi River, where a white barn stands in a pasture, with trees in the background. — Mississippi River Shoreline

A white canoe lies on the shoreline of a small creek where it empties into the MIssissippi River. The shoreline is covered in dense grass, with trees in the background. — Exploring the Shoreline

The quiet backwater beside the Conservation Area at the bridge provides a good location to launch a canoe. The river meanders gently through a rural landscape of wooded banks and farmland, a fringe of marsh along the sh0reline. In places, old oxbows flank the main channel, hidden behind a screeen of willows. Wildlife abounds along the banks, in the wetlands and the shallows. Smallmouth bass, pike and walleye hunt the weedlines, the dropoffs and deeper pools.

A painted turtle basks on floating load, balancing precariously on the knot of an old branch. — Painted Turtle, Mississippi River

Through a frame of leafy branches and marsh vegetation, a striped skunk can be seen drinking on the shoreline. — Skunk Drinkng at the Shoreline

Not far downriver from Pakenham, perhaps a twenty minute paddle, Cody Creek joins the river from the east. As one approaches the creek from upstream, the eastern shore becomes more hilly and heavily wooded. Small, pretty wetlands lie behind the shoreline, draining to the river through small, muddy channels. A wooded sandbar provides a place to pull out and stretch one’s legs. Thick sedges and marsh grasses cover the banks, while beaver and muskrat tracks crisscross any patch of open ground. Frogs scatter into the water at every step. A narrow, greasy flood channel connects to a small beaver pond, overlooked by a large snag and stick nest. A red-tailed hawk sounds a “keerrr” of protest. The shade of a silver maple provides an idyllic location to sit, eat a snack, and watch a heron stalking in the shallows downstream.

A white canoe rests on the shoreline under the shade of a large silver maple tree. — Silver Maple, Mississippi River

A scenic view of a meadow marsh, framed by tree branches. — Mississippi River Wetland

A bullfrog hunkers down in a mudhole, with just his mouth and eyes protruding from the grey, silty water. — Bullfrog

Branches of a red maple tree silhouetted against a blue sky. — Red Maple

The marsh at the mouth of Cody Creek deserves appreciation for its diversity, beauty and productivity. An artificial frog or a wooly bugger tossed along the weedline is likely to provoke an aggressive strike. Dragonflies and damselflies cruise over the lilypads, coming to land on the side of the canoe, the end of a paddle, or the brim of a hat. Mayflies cling to reeds. A swirl in the water betrays a snapping turtle feeding on a dead carp in the murk of the bottom, while sun-loving painted turtles line up on logs.

A close-up photograph of a large, brown mayfly resting on the blade of a paddle. — Mayfly on a Paddle

A species of blue damselfly called an Eastern Forktail clings to the blade of reed in shallow water. — Eastern Forktail

A large, green and black dragonfly, called a Lilypad Clubtail, rests on the side of a canoe. — Lilypad Clubtail

A closeup of the face of the Lilypad Clubtail. — Closeup

Amidst a dense patch of pondweed, a shy painted turtle sticks its head out of the water for a look around. — Shy Painted Turtle

Another Painted Turtle basks on a log beside a bed of cattails. — Another Painted Turtle

The vague shape of a large snapping turtle can be seen under the water. — Snapping Turtle Feeding Underwater

Very few people know of Cody Creek. From its headwaters in Long Swamp, it flows west, draining much of the southwest corner of Ottawa’s rural landscape. It remains remarkably healthy, despite passing through some extensive agricultural lands. By the time that it nears the Mississippi River, it has carved a steep-sided, overgrown valley. In its last reaches, it meanders through a spectacular, black maple swamp. This provincially significant Area of Natural and Scientific Interest is, so far as I know, unique in Ottawa. The accomplished and well-known biologist, Dan Brunton, deserves much credit for documenting the outstanding natural value of the swamp and bringing it to the attention of the Province.

The swamp appears almost primaeval. The brown water moves slowly, swirling slowly around large downed trees. Animal prints crowd around dark holes in the slick, clay banks. Tracks lead through sunlit ferns to the dark forest beyond. I’ve come upon otters swimming in the shadows, as well as the ubiquitous muskrats and beavers. Emerald and ebony jewelwings flit along shore. Bright birdsong burbles in the underbrush and in the high canopy above, while the air below seems very still.

The dark waters of Cody Creek flow under overhanging trees, with the blue sky behind. — Cody Creek

A dense patch of Ostrick Fern glows in a beam of sunlight that has penetrated the dark swamp along Cody Creek. — Fern Garden

The creek can be paddled as far as the bridge at Hanson Side Road in low water, and a bit further in high water. Log jams and fallen trees block the channel in some places. The banks consist of slick clay, and it is probably easier and safer to climb on to the log jams and haul the canoe over than to try going around. Access to the creek is also possible at the bridge, but there’s no easy put-in.

A hurried visitor can paddle the round-trip from Pakenham to Cody Creek in less than an hour. But I wouldn’t take less than three hours, to allow time for sightseeing, photography and fishing. A drifting canoe can float up to wildlife that a impatient paddler would never see. And I’ve spent 45 minutes simply resting, bow into the weeds, with my head hung over the side of the canoe watching a microcosm of life play itself out in the water. I suggest a morning trip, when birds and other animals are most active, and the air is a bit cooler. Picnic by the stone bridge, then walk up the General Store for some ice cream and fresh-baked bread.

A view of the shoreline and river paddling back to Pakenham. — Paddling back to Pakenham

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