Lost in the Park

If you looked at a map of Algonquin Park, you’d see a web of 2400 lakes connected by short strips of land. These strips are often short, muddy and rocky uphill challenges to adventuresome canoeists. To add to the difficulty, trenches or ditches need to be crossed on narrow planks or logs-a daunting task for timid, less than sure footed hikers such as me. Sometimes, crossing these ditches with a fifty-pound pack or a forty- pound canoe makes one feel like a high wire artist, one wrong step and…. Still, I was up for the challenge. Call me stupid, overconfident or crazy, a canoe trip with the ‘boys’ in Algonquin Park always seemed like a good idea although as I age, I have some doubts. I have navigated these lakes many times over the years, using well-worn maps. Unfortunately, last time was thirty years ago when my muscles were still toned and my balance… Let’s just say, it was better.

In 2025, I thought there was no use for maps with the navigation app on my watch and phone. It had kept me and my friend Rob on route during several long hikes and bike rides despite our being directionally challenged. Besides, our friend, Ed, was a seasoned tripper and knew the Park like the back of his hand. So, when Rob and I embarked from the Outfitters with Ed and John, we felt confident and excited. What could go wrong? Algonquin Park Ontario was our ‘happy place’. It was a chain of 2400 interconnected lakes in a pristine wilderness. Since there was no entrance to most of the lakes except by portage, there were no motorboats, only canoes and kayaks. It was an environmentalists’ paradise. We were a bunch of Adams in an aquatic Garden Of Eden. Campsites were well maintained by Canadian park authorities. There were even wooden toilets, and well-maintained campfire sites. These were the equivalent of five-star hotels for campers. Sometimes it was tricky spotting the entrance to the portages or campsites from the lakes. Yellow or orange signs posted on trees were hidden by overgrowth. If the water was low and the passageway was swampy and narrow, we’d sometimes have to drag the canoe with mud up to our ankles. Many a shoe or boot were lost or sucked into the abyss. I know, I know, it sounds horrible but believe me the pleasures outweigh the pain. When the weather was good the water was glassy and mirror-like. Narcissus would never have left the Park. As it was, reflections of clouds and blue skies made for beautiful photographs that looked like watercolor paintings. Paddling was meditative except in storms or windy weather.

We were four rugged seventy-year-olds, full of hubris. Three of us had trekked the John Muir trail recently and all of us were still competitive triathletes. No portage or weather condition could defeat us. Or so we thought. We had all completed many rough canoe trips lasting at least 2 weeks, many times, thirty years ago. Our equipment was primitive during those trips compared to now. Sleeping bags weren’t as warm, were bulkier and weighed twice as much. We now slept on inflatable mattresses that rolled into a little bag and were also unbelievably light. Portable water filters protected us from water pathogens that had evolved in the lakes over the years and allowed us to travel without heavy water jugs or bottles. Freeze dried packets of food were easy to pack and carry and surprisingly tasty. Just add water. Tents were waterproof, light, easy to assemble and very packable. Propane powered camping stoves were small and easy to use. Our packs were large, comfortable and insulated with drybags to make them waterproof. Finally, the canoes were Kevlar so much lighter and sturdier than the aluminum or the wood canoes of the past. Light and comfort were key features for packs and canoes when you were dealing with seventy-year-old backs. Only two of us still had the agility to carry the canoes over the planks and rocks during 1–4-mile portages. The other two had to have the strength to carry fifty-pound packs.

We thought we had lucked out. The temperature was in the sixties (Fahrenheit) during the first two days and forties during the nights. The sun shone and there was no rain in the foreseeable future. Since it was September, the scourge of all canoeists, campers and hikers-mosquitoes were all but absent. Black flies, a plague that had ruined and aborted many a trip in the Park including one of mine were long gone. I still had the emotional scars from that trip and shared its harrowing story many times. Beware the black fly!

Hours of meditative paddling were interrupted by at least one or two portages. Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah became the theme song at the end of the portages and day. I had learned to sing it and play it on the guitar prior to the trip. Everyone joined my off-key singing. Setting up camp after securing the canoes and carrying our packs up to the campsite became easier with each day as we settled into a routine. We were like kids playing with Lego building blocks as we assembled the tents with their poles, stakes and hooks. Manufacturers must have had uncoordinated mechanical morons like me in mind when they designed these tents. In years past, it took me thirty minutes or more of trial and error to put up tent. Now, it was ten to fifteen minutes at most.

The water filter was hung on a branch and after filling the bag with lake water, we had gallons of fresh water to drink and with which to cook. After a hard day on the lakes the water seemed like the nectar of the Gods. We added boiling water to our freezed dry food packets and ate like we were at a five-star restaurant after a long fast. Everything tasted better than it probably was. We joked, shared stories and chased chipmunks away from our food and campsite. After watching a raft of approximately 12 ducks and a gaggle of geese float by on the glassy lake as the sun set, we all settled down on our inflated mattresses in our tents and slept soundly until sunrise.

In the morning, hot oatmeal, peanut butter sandwiches and coffee fueled us for the next several hours in the canoes. It was only the third day, and we were still feeling a ‘Park’ high and energized. We ignored the new ominous signs. It was becoming overcast, and our phones and watches had no signals. No maps, no navigation app-no problem-we still had Ed. He knew these waters. However, after five hours on the same lake searching for the next portage, it became evident that we were lost. As it began to drizzle, Ed admitted defeat and suggested we return to our previous campsite and weather the impending storm. Ed’s God like infallibility had faded. We mere mortals could only hope that he’d regain his powers the next day or technology would rescue us. Surely after the skies cleared, the signals on our watches and phones would return. I had faith in Elon Musk and his satellites. Poor me!

After another hour of paddling, we reached the campsite only to find interlopers. They had already set up camp and didn’t seem eager to share space. However, after hearing our story of woe and lost signals, they offered to share their paper map the following day if we camped at the campsite opposite theirs. The drizzle was becoming a downpour and thanking our potential saviors we paddled hard to the nearby campsite, pitched our tents, ate some peanut butter sandwiches and settled in our tents for the night.

The following morning, the skies had partially cleared but we still had no satellite signals. So, we packed up quickly and paddled over to our old campsite. The young French-Canadian couple shared their paper map with us and wished us luck. Who would have thought that these Gen Zers would be old school while four seventy-year-olds relied (foolishly) on technology in the middle of the Canadian wilderness? They probably didn’t even bring electric toothbrushes like I did! In any case, we were able to find the portage that day and settle on a campsite that evening. Surely, we would have a satellite signal the next morning or Ed would be able to navigate us to the next portages and lakes. Nope! We spent the next day dragging our canoes through muddy false passages and paddling in circles. Our confidence was fading and so were we. By 4 pm, we were looking for a campsite, when we encountered another young couple in a canoe. After a brief conversation, we realized they were following our projected route. They offered to share their paper map and guide us during our last two days in the Park. Believe it or not, we demurred. How could four seasoned veterans of the Park admit defeat and let these babies lead us out of the wilderness? We had no choice. Technology and Ed had failed us.

We shared campsites, stories and food with this young couple over the next two days. They even helped us carry some packs over some of the longer, more difficult portages. We swallowed a lot of pride and learned some difficult lessons. One in particular stood out. Cutting edge technology isn’t always reliable. So don’t abandon old school means of navigation. Carry a compass and a paper map into the wilderness. Finally, if you are seventy and directionally challenged, bring a young buddy along or don’t go at all!?!