Into the Wind: Insights from a Week in Canada’s Wilderness

We loaded the boats with "dry" bags: a red one, several oranges, many blue. Fishing rods, water bottles, cook kits.

The boats were light, 43 pounds, the kayak heavy, God knows how much it weighed!

We started paddling through the calm inlet in the rain, turned left and began paddling into the wind. The next day we set off optimistically thinking we knew where the portage was, only to find that it wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

We hoped the water would be high enough for us to paddle through the next lake, but the map said: “Ce n’est pas canotable…”

The day before, my nephews, 13 and 15, arrived with my brother-in-law in the late afternoon.  My husband Dan and I showed them all of the food we had packed, the dinners I had dehydrated in the basement (thank you, dehydrator!), the amount of hot chocolate (mini marshmallows added separately), the jars of peanut butter, tubes of jelly, a mountain of beef jerky from Trader Joe’s, crackers, oatmeal and much, much more. 

We drove ~10 hours and ended up at Le Domaine, our canoe and kayak rental site, about 2.5 hours northeast of Montreal at 8:00pm. The next day we were given two canoes and a kayak, paddles, life-vests, rescue ropes, all the trimmings. To check the integrity of the canoes the stringy young guy poked, prodded and pulled on the sliding wooden seats, the thwarts and the yoke.  He pressed into suspected weak spots in the fiberglass and pronounced our boats “beautiful.”  I was a tiny bit skeptical.  They looked just slightly worse-for-wear.

We hoisted the boats on top of the van – at one point I climbed over the windshield, spider-like (or so I thought) and perched, curled up on my knees on top of the van, just behind the windshield. 

I was proud, this was going to be easy! Look how agile and capable I am!  Unfortunately my boney knees were digging into the domed top of the van, just enough to leave two little round knee-dents, ugh. Deflating.

 We drove northwest for about two hours to La Verendrye, a wildlife preserve. Wilderness.

La Verendrye Wilderness Preserve in Quebec

I followed our progress on the map, watching as lake after lake flew by.

This region of Quebec is like Swiss Cheese, where the holes are all lakes.  It’s riddled!    

When we launched in a light rain, we pushed off from the muddy, reedy shore, into a winding channel that opened into a small bay of a large lake.

The waves seemed to grow as we paddled southwest, our arms and bodies not yet used to the movements, we strained to keep the boats from turning sideways, swamping.

We'd stop in the lee of an island, check our course, and then off again into the wind. This would be the first of many times the map didn’t exactly seem to match what we were seeing. 

A little worried about the boys: could they do this? Could we?

Then, the weather might change, the wind would die, the rain would stop and the water would turn glassy, silky, easy to paddle, we'd glide.  

We’d come face to face with what it is to be alive on this planet. With what it means to feel and live every moment. 

When it’s raining, you’re wet. 

When it’s sunny, you dry out. 

When there’s mud you sink in deep  – and you may not get your shoe back.

You’re not in your head out there.

You’re in a canoe, searching for a portage, trying to match the map to what you see as you paddle (which doesn’t always go as planned).

And then all of a sudden you see the yellow portage sign and a sigh of relief washes over you. You’re more in touch with your animal nature out there. Moment to moment.

To portage, with the amount of stuff we had, meant two trips to get all our gear to the next lake.

The canoes were exquisitely well-balanced, easy for one (larger) person to carry, but treacherous on slippery paths, with the occasional fallen log and overhanging tree branch, making the path tricky; the kayak was worse. 

And so it went, six days and six nights out, paddling lakes, unpacking the boats to carry everything overland to the next lake, re-packing, paddling again. Some days we had no portages; one day we had four.

Every morning and evening we’d unpack the stove from the “Yucca pack,” boil water, make a meal, eat from our plastic bowls with our lightweight spoons, wash the dishes and put everything away again.

Occasionally we’d have fresh fish for dinner, caught with triumph and competitiveness, weighed and measured with the “De-liar (really, there is such a thing!),” dredged in cornmeal, fried in oil and eaten with delight. Trying for precision, accuracy, organization to make it easier to find everything every time…

”Where are the matches?” 

“They’re in the blue breakfast bag…”

The first campsite was on a point marked by the bright yellow sign with a black canoe and a tent, infinitely reassuring.  

The site was thick with pine needles, soft and deep, padding our steps.  The canoes went upside down on the beach and the tents went up, just in case of rain.

Such joy as the tent found its shape under our hands.

We worked quickly, and as the days went by, with more and more speed and ease.  Our refuge established, we stowed our sleeping bags and pads in the warm, dry tents and the guys all headed out to fish.  

For me, a little quiet time, a swim, some reading, then preparing dinner on the fierce little stove. Boil water, add the dehydrated dinner to the pot and let it sit for 15 minutes in its homemade “Cozy,” just like for a tea pot, only created from this puffy, silvery insulation stuff, Reflectix® and duct tape.

Everything tastes good when you are in the wilderness.

After dinner, fighting swarms of mosquitoes we'd brush our teeth and spit into the fire ring.  If you were brave and didn't mind a few more bites, you might splash your face in the cool lake before bed.  Otherwise, you'd keep your bug net over your head and slip into the tent as fast as possible, zipping up quickly to keep the number of mosquitos you let in to a minimum.  Then you'd spend the next 10 minutes or so trying to find and squish the ones who’d gotten in, and who would otherwise surely munch on you that night.

It was an arduous trek. 

The days were long, paddling and hauling our gear overland between lakes, and the only thing that made this possible for me and my husband and brother-in-law was yoga. We did it almost every day — one day it was raining so hard we just had to scramble for our boats and go!

Without the yoga, the "grown ups" on the trip, all three of us over 57, would have had a MUCH harder time paddling and portaging almost 80 kilometers over 6 days, and likely would have returned MUCH the worse for wear.

My 13 and 15 year-old nephews even found it helpful (okay, maybe just the 15 year-old).

I was amazed by how much fun it was to paddle against the wind and waves, sink into the squishy mud, to bang my head (hard) against a tree, twice (!), fall into the lake and carry endless loads over tricky paths with bugs biting every inch of our skin. 

And then there were the Bald Eagles, the Loons, the tiny dime-sized frogs and the dollar-sized toads, the blue of lake and sky, the sky full of puffy clouds from end to end, the wind at our backs, surfing the waves.  The no other people.  The no cell phone coverage.  The stars.

Travel is one of the most fulfilling, thrilling, and exuberant ways we can access the present moment.

When we extricate ourselves from our daily lives, we brush up against the aliveness and freshness of the moment: then, we can return to our daily lives more refreshed, more alive.

In April 2023 I’m heading back to beautiful Tuscany for a week of yoga amidst the rolling hills, delicious food, and a chance to explore the rich local culture — and I would love for you to join me.

The Tuscany Yoga Retreat is nothing like my recent Canoe-Camping trip in La Verendrye (in case you were concerned about that!) so if you’d much prefer to sip organic local wine and stroll through medieval hill towns, then this Italian adventure is for you!