November is the perfect time to focus on cultivating wellness and to seek pleasure in comfort. Mother nature has decided to turn off the lights at dinner time, the skies are often grey, and the weather is grumpy and undecided. In Northwestern Ontario, it’s too cold to do summer things and there is not enough ice or snow to do winter things. It is the time of year where we must dig deep for energy and make a commitment to seek out happiness in simple pleasures and nurturing experiences.
This November I decided to kick my pre-winter blues by sneaking off to beautiful Rossport, Ontario. This absolute treasure is the perfect location to build a serene adventure around. Rossport has incredible access to the mighty Lake Superior, is close to Rainbow Falls Provincial Park, has endless hiking trails and is a picturesque, peaceful community nestled in nature. One of my favourite things about Rossport is that it is home to one of the most spectacular accommodations on the North Shore, Yurt It Up North. This spacious glamping tent is so pleasurable, peaceful, and breathtaking. I look forward to staying here as much as I can, especially in the winter. Let me tell you about my incredible weekend getaway.
I set out on Highway 11/17 after work on a dreary day. There was a recent dump of snow, and the world was covered in the first layer of winter. Even when the world seems dark and flat, the drive along Lake Superior shoreline has a magical way of lifting my spirit and reminding me of how beautiful our region truly is. Before I checked into the Yurt, I decided to go hiking at Rainbow Falls Provincial Park. In the winter, the park is closed to camping, so the gates are up but you can park at the gate and hike the trails, or cross-country ski once the trails are groomed! I parked and set out into the park.
Rainbow Falls Provincial Park- let’s go hiking!
I walked down the roadway and cut into the bush to explore the Lake Superior trail. This is a beautiful trail anytime of year, but when snow covers the ground in a sparkling blanket, it becomes magical. The path follows along a granite ridge with a superb view of the big lake.
Lake Superior Trail- Rainbow Falls Provincial Park
The trail comes back out on the road, so I kept following it to the Rainbow Falls trail. The boardwalk follows the water down a series of stairs and platforms to a bridge over the river and a beautiful view of the gorge and falls. It is a stunning and quiet trail in the winter, where you can wander and meditate to the sound of moving water. I made my way down to the base of the falls and sat on a large rock at the shoreline. After a few minutes of quiet solitude and reflection, I made my way back with a hungry stomach and craving for a cold beverage. If you are feeling energetic, and not distracted by cocktails, you can continue on, through the McLean’s Segment of the Casque Isles Hiking Trail.
My mood was raised when I got back to my car and made my way into Terrace Bay. I decided to go into town to pick up supplies, which of course included cocktails and a delightful take-out supper from Drifters Restaurant. As a side note, the Signature Salad at Drifters is my absolute favourite. I dream about this salad and will get it every chance I can. With delicious goodies in my back seat, I headed back to Rossport.
I was met at Yurt It Up North by my incredible host, Sara. Walking into the beautiful structure truly takes your breath away. You walk up the stairs to your private balcony overlooking Lake Superior and open the glass doors to the epitome of a luxurious glamping experience. A beautifully decorated canvas palace that envelops you in coziness. A fireplace in the corner, luscious bedding, a welcoming breakfast nook and even fluffy robes dare you to be your most relaxed.
Sara showed me around the space and then ushered me to the back door of the Yurt and brought me to the sauna room. The cedar lined sauna and bathroom are glorious. I almost couldn’t WAIT to crank on the heat and unwind in steamy pleasure.
That evening I devoured my Drifters salad and margaritas by the fireplace in a fluffy robe. I was exhausted, so decided that the sauna was going to have to wait for the next day. I fell asleep in the warm glow of firelight in blissful relaxation.
The next morning, I was up early and refreshed. The Yurt is outfitted with a little kitchen, so I made myself coffee and breakfast. The smell of delicious filled my little palace and I put on the fireplace. I sat on the couch, listened to an audio book and with a warm cup of silky coffee in hand, I watched the sun come up, over the water, igniting the room with golden light.
I was particularly excited because I had two amazing friends coming from Thunder Bay to go hiking. Cora and Holly arrived mid-morning and we set out on Casque Isles. We decided to hike to Picnic Table Lookout in Schreiber. The trail was amazing, and the company was incredible. We made it to the beautiful lookout that stretched over Lake Superior and Schreiber Beach and sat chatting joyfully with the amazing view.
Picnic Table Lookout- Schreiber (Casque Isles)Good time spent with wonderful friends
We then decided it was time for coffee and a treat, so we made our way down the trail and to Breeze Bakery. The latte and shortbread were particularly scrumptious. We planned to head back to the Yurt for a sauna and snack, but on our way back, decided on a little side adventure up to Selim Lookout. This short trail is hidden off the side of the highway by Hunter Road. It leads to an incredible overlook of the Rossport Islands and is absolutely worth the 30 minutes round trip to get up and back.
Selim Lookout
Back at the Yurt, Cora and Holly found just as much joy in the amazing accommodations as I did. We had a snack feast by the fireplace followed by a sauna. The sauna at Yurt It Up North is beautiful and was the perfect reward after a day of hiking. All three of us sat comfortably, with music playing in the background, cold drinks in our hot hands. It was wonderful.
After our sauna and snacks, my friends made their way back to the city. I spent a relaxing evening by the fire with a great book. The sun settled gently into a periwinkle sky with a wonderful view of Lake Superior that I was able to enjoy right from my bed. I met back up with my friend Sara, late that evening for a hangout. We had laughs with her family and a soak in her hot tub. Much too late, I walked back to the Yurt in the quiet and peaceful darkness. I crawled into bed with the firelight glowing, and sleep found me quickly.
Good morning Rossport! View from the Yurt
The following morning was spent watching the sun rise with coffee in my hand on the cozy couch wrapped up in blankets. With great reluctance, I checked out of the Yurt and left my dreamy, wondrous getaway. On the way home, I explored the gorgeous Rossport shoreline and walked beaches in search of freshwater treasures. The Rossport shoreline is worth the trip all on its own with cobblestone beaches to meander and expanses of large smooth rocks to scramble over. I walked along the big lake, got a few beautiful photos and then hit the highway to return home.
Morning coffee- Yurt It Up North Rossport Shoreline- Lake Superior
This trip was the perfect reminder of the amazing and beautiful things in our region, even in the dreariness of November! It was time well spent with people I love and care about and allowed me space to intentionally focus on rebuilding my energy, to slow things down and to relax. I am so excited to plan another trip to Rossport with intentions to hike the Casque Isles Trail, kayak the islands and DEFINATELY to stay at Yurt it Up North.
“I think everything in life is art. What you do. How you dress. The way you love someone, and how you talk. Your smile and your personality. What you believe in, and all your dreams. The way you drink your tea. How you decorate your home. Or party. Your grocery list. The food you make. How your writing looks. And the way you feel. Life is art.” ― Helena Bonham Carter
I have been sitting with this quote for a long time. I’ve written it down, I’ve read it out loud, over and over and over and every time the words sink in deeper. I think that I have always felt this way. That life, everything around us holds exquisiteness. I certainly feel that way about nature, about everything outside. In the way hard wind blows waves onto the shore of Lake Superior, the way that snow dances as it falls from the sky, the placement of little flowers and mushrooms on the forest floor. Out there, art is the most striking, magnificent, and evident to me.
It’s taken me much longer to identify and accept art in myself and in my daily life. I suppose partially, it’s because I find it hard to shift my perspective to see things as art and not just things. I have held the notion that art has to be something intentionally created to hold important meaning or be beautiful. Before, I couldn’t see beauty in simple or ordinary. I also used to hold a toxic and limiting belief that art must be labeled as such, categorized, and appreciated by many.
Another reason that I’ve struggled so significantly in the past, is because I lacked the ability to see art in myself. In my youth, I spent most waking moments examining my imperfections. In that headspace, life appears to be stagnant, cloudy, and barren. You can’t see yourself as interesting or beautiful when you are held under a microscope of harsh criticism. My imperfections were so clear and apparent, and my self-perception was dictated by the opinions and standards of others. In an attempt to understand ourselves and others better, humanity has constructed suffocating descriptions of who and what we should be. Those descriptions are limiting, binding and force us to foster a false identity based on opposing dichotomies.
As a woman, I’ve felt immense social pressure to fit into a tidy category assembled by the expectations of other people. I find this especially true living in a small town in Northern Canada where the rural microscope we sit under is particularly powerful. God forbid you go to the grocery store with messy hair covered with a ball cap or go out to a social event in a revealing shirt… I can almost hear the hens clucking in the coffee shops just mentioning it. I cannot be a professional AND have a messy personal life. I cannot be a mother AND be free with my sexual expression. I cannot be tender, vulnerable AND be strong. I cannot be logical AND emotional. I cannot be opinionated AND cooperative. I cannot be independent in the outdoors AND be delicate. We are told we are either/or and then criticized for who we have chosen to be.
What I have come to realize is: I am all of it. I just needed the space to deconstruct social expectations, to learn not to care what other people think of me and when I can see my life as art, my expression can be imperfect and beautiful and limitless. Spending time in nature has taught me this.
I remember hiking 20 km days on Isle Royale with a heavy pack, struggling through every step with gritted teeth. Dirty clothes, sweaty hair, covered in mud, bug bites and scratches. Not for one moment did I feel ugly. I remember starting the day feeling powerful and as time wore on and the blisters on my feet burst and covered my socks in blood, the tears welled up in my eyes and exhaustion set in, I didn’t want to keep going. Not for one moment did I feel weak. When we got to our campsite that night, I went down to the water took off all my clothes, sat on the warm rocks and washed. The world was vibrant, my feelings were raw, and every sight and sound was an overwhelming presentation of sculpture, painting, and symphony. I remember looking into the lake water at my reflection, hair wet and wild, no makeup and fatigue from the day tugging at the corners of my eyes. Not once before, nor anytime since have I felt that sensual, and not for one moment did I feel objectified. There was no judgement from the forest, I was able to be everything, and the beauty of the world unfolded before me. This is just one example, but nature has gifted me many, many experiences just like this.
Over the last half decade, I have put far more intention into seeing life as art and have immersed myself in more artful pursuits. I stop and notice beautiful things. I value simplicity. I challenge negative and judgmental thinking, and I work to undo the pressure that exists for me to be something I am not. I sing, I play guitar, I read, and I write. I play around with painting, graphic design and have taken a keen interest in the artful expression of myself. I don’t allow myself to fall into category and refuse to judge my body, my emotions or the vibrant kaleidoscope that is my personality. Art, in its truest form, is completely absent of categorization and restriction. It does not have to be judged against anything, because it is marvelous and amazing just as it is, and truthfully, so is life.
A moment I will never forget. The sun was radiating through the cedars and created an angelic glow behind her little blond ponytail. The sound of rushing water was loud in the little patch of bush where we stood. New spring water poured over a little cliff and splashed into the crisp white ice below. Her bright, wide eyes were brimming with wonder and wildfire. Her smile extended to the ends of the universe and reached into the depths of my soul. I remember the moment I saw fire in her. A burning intensity, impossible to extinguish. An instant when she fell in love with adventure.
This moment is locked in my memory that I seek out often. It gives me energy and inspires me to be my most precocious and genuine self and to meet every experience with vigor and anticipation. It came from Nyah. A bright, confident, curious 7-year-old girl. We were out exploring with her mother, and we had approached Magic Falls, near Kama. We had traversed an icy riverside trail early in the spring and stood at the base of the falls just as it was waking up from winter sleep. You could feel the excitement radiate from her when she turned to us and said:
“I can’t believe I am doing this; I can’t believe we are here, and I am seeing this waterfall. It is so beautiful; I can’t WAIT to tell all my friends”
I was instantly overcome with emotion and tears filled my eyes. It was so genuine and exquisite. I had been to this falls a hundred times. It truly is beautiful, but I had never looked at it the way Nyah did. To see it through her eyes and watch her experience it was otherworldly, and it forever changed me. It forced me to look upon every experience since with fresh eyes and renewed hope and I am internally grateful to Nyah for teaching me this lesson and feeding my fire.
Magic Falls was just the start of our adventure that day. Nyah and her mom, Heidi came to visit me from Geraldton. We were having a girl’s adventure day. Heidi and I have had several incredible adventures together, some of my most cherished experiences outside. Experiences that have allowed us to challenge ourselves, connect in deep and meaningful ways, and most importantly, have fun. I think that is why Heidi was so keen on bringing Nyah along. She wanted to share something incredible with her. She wanted to feed her fire, just like as those experiences had done for us.
After we hiked out of Magic Falls, we made our way down to the Jackpine River. The river was running to Lake Superior with forceful intention. Large chunks of ice were surfing the torrent and others were piling up on the riverbank in glorious white statues. Behind us a giant sand bank reached up shimmering into the blue sky. It really was magnificent to witness. The fierce, powerful arrival of spring.
We were just going to the river to look at the ice flow, but Nyah looked to me and said,
“I want to climb that mountain”.
She pointed up at the enormous golden mountain of sand behind us. For anyone who has ever driven Highway 11/17, it is a notable embankment that leads up into the palisades of Kama Bay. I tentatively looked at her mother who gave us the nod of approval to give it a try.
With those wide, fiery eyes and enormous smile, Nyah exploded up the steep hill crawling her way, hand over fist, higher and higher. I kept a very close distance behind her and was shouting out directions for safety as we made our way up. She flew, and I pushed as hard as I could trying my best to keep up. We made it to the very top and she plopped herself down with delight.
“I just climbed a mountain!!!! She beamed, “I never thought I would be able to do that”
Her confidence was transcendent. She felt so good about her accomplishment. She sat quiet for a few moments absorbing everything around her. We were high above the river and watched as the vehicles passed, on the highway below, resembling toy cars from our position at the top of the world. We looked at each other and shared a wordless smile that magically communicated all the wonder, excitement, and beauty in front of us. We carefully descended our sandy mountain, back to the river and to Heidi, but our adventure wasn’t over yet.
We drove down the highway to the Mazukama Falls trail head, but when we got out, we noticed that the forest was still covered with over two feet of snow. I looked down and noticed that Nyah was wearing little pink runners. I looked at Heidi and said,
“You know we can do something different, there is still a lot of snow”
Nyah piped up instantly and was adamant that we continue. So, we did.
The sun was high, and we trudged through sugary spring snow. Nyah bounced along talking about the waterfall she saw and the mountain she climbed. Her little voice was like music. It joined the sound of birds chirping, water rushing, and snow crunching in a harmonious symphony. We explored along the creek and came across more waterfalls. Nyah was immersed and that wild smile never left her face.
When we had enough, and our bellies were rumbling, we made our way out of the bush. Cold feet, soaking wet, and giggling with delight as we sunk through the snow and fell into the car exhausted, starving, and elated.
We decided to celebrate at Ducky’s restaurant with the best fried chicken on the Northshore and I got to know Nyah a little bit better. Not only is she bright and exciting and tenacious, I learned that she is also an entrepreneur and has her very own candle company, The Heartstone Company. She showed me her website and all her unique and incredible creations. My favourite is her cactus candles… they are just the cutest!
Being with Nyah and Heidi was a resounding reminder of why it is so important to get girls outside. We need to breed independence, self-worth, pride and wonder in places that allow us to be our most pure and genuine selves. In the outdoors we can foster connection to a world that is absent of criticism and judgement and where we have the freedom to explore and build confidence in our abilities. Places for us to grow and feed our fire. Places for us to thrive.
Thank you, Heidi, for raising such an incredible, wild soul. Thank you for giving her space to push herself and face challenges. She is going to do amazing things because of the guidance, support and love she has from you and her family.
Thank you Nyah, from the bottom of my heart. You reminded me of exactly how beautiful these places are in Northwestern Ontario. You have inspired me to see these places with bright, fresh eyes. You showed me what girls are capable of and the strength, power and relentless spirit we have. I will never forget the adventure where you fed my fire and hope to share many more with you.
I sat with my tea watching steam gently dance out of my little tin cup and into the periwinkle sky. I glanced across the campfire. Behind the smoke and sparks, stood Beaver. He was wrestling with a giant cedar log, trying fixedly to maneuver it into the perfect position. Once he found a suitable spot he took a step back and nodded with approval, to no one in particular. He reached over to retrieve his little axe from the snowbank beside him. I watched him absorbedly as his actions became focused. Each movement calculated and intentional. I rarely see him this way when we traverse life at home. His attention is fragmented when he sits down to conquer long division. He is mindless and disconnected when he is watching television. He is hyper emotional and panicked playing videogames. Nothing like this, this was different. This was him dialed deeply into the moment. He lined up a swing and let the axe drop. A small, perfect piece of kindling fell to the side of the cedar log. He looked up at me, fire reflected in his eyes. A wild grin spread across his face, sinking those perfect dimples into his cheeks. Beaver adjusted his cedar log and took another swing.
Being a mother is the hardest job I’ve ever had. Trying to balance work, relationships, expectations, stress, passions, and identity all while attempting to raise the next generation in a complex, digital age. I try to create time and space every day for connection with my kiddo, but we are in a constant battle with commitments, conflicting priorities, social media, and videogames. I think as parents we try and do our best with the resources that we have available to us but man, most days are freaking exhausting.
Beaver and I are very similar people. We are both passionate, intense, inattentive, short tempered and prioritize our own needs. We are both free spirits, hate being told what to do, and need space to explore and learn in our own way. I’ve found that we get along best when we are outside where we have space, are free from distractions and separated from the “business” of life.
We create opportunities to connect outside in a lot of different ways. It can be as simple as a walk around our community or having supper over a campfire in the bush. These opportunities allow for us to build connection. Our conversations are always more meaningful and honest, we explore the world and face challenges together. We found a simple way for our relationship to flourish. We also prioritize bigger adventures, all day hikes, back country canoe trips, and other exciting things so that we are granted more time and space. One of our favourite adventures has been winter camping at Quetico Provincial Park where we have found a way to embrace a long, dark, cold season and appreciate the beauty of our snow-covered wonderland. Our Quetico trip this year was particularly incredible. A powerful reminder of the importance of creating opportunities for my son and I to connect. Let me tell you about it.
We left home midafternoon and drove along the sun-soaked highways of Northwestern Ontario. We were seeking a much-anticipated weekend away in one of our favourite places. As we put distance between ourselves and the business of life, tension faded into the rearview mirror. Work and school and chores and expectations got left behind as we looked to the adventure ahead. With Johnny Cash singing in the background, it was easy to be ourselves, chat about life, solve the world’s problems and re-learn to listen to each other without distractions.
We arrived at Quetico late afternoon and drove through the park with our windows down. The sky was vibrant cerulean, the sun cast glorious rays through the pine trees, birds were singing, and little creatures scurried on top of melting snow. The world outside called to us loudly. I put the car into park. We looked at each other and grinned.
Beaver and I were staying at the Ojibway Cabin, which is a 2 km hike in from the parking area. Quetico provides a sleigh for guests to transport gear to the cabin, so we found it and loaded up. Beaver and I both brought our cross-country skis and decided to ski in. Beaver went up ahead to scout the trail and I pulled the sleigh behind him. I seriously regretted the amount of gear and food we brought, especially as I hauled the sleigh up hill. I sweat through my first layer of clothes, stripped down, sucked back some water, and continued onward.
The trails were beautifully groomed, and the conditions were perfect. The forest was hustling and alive, chipmunks preforming acrobatics on tree branches and chickadees singing welcome songs. It felt like spring was on its way. We must have been distracted with our beautiful and mesmerizing surroundings because we missed a turn and ended up at the far end of the campground. Eventually we found our enchanted little cabin on the shore of French Lake. It was so quaint and picturesque. A little wooden building nestled cozily in the trees with sparkling icicles hanging from the eves and the frozen lake, glittering beyond. We skied right up to the back door and went inside. It was cozy and warm, with the electric heater gently buzzing. Sunlight spilled in through the large sliding doors that led to a little wooden deck. Beaver threw down his bags and flopped onto the bed. We unpacked our food, rolled out our sleeping bags onto the bed and went out to explore.
We walked down from the cabin to the lake, where we noticed a little firepit. Well-worn trails were visible on the ice, so Beaver and I put our snowshoes on and set out along the shoreline. Winter sunshine was high above our heads and illuminated the snow-covered lake. The gentle crunching under our toes added to the symphony of life all around us. It was a beautiful day. We came to a small bay and made our way onto an inland trail. We talked about places we’d been and adventures we want to have in the future. By then our bellies started to rumble and we began to talk about all the delicious food that we had packed. We made our way back to the cabin to make supper.
When we got back, we collected wood and made our way down to the little fire pit. We made a campfire, set up our grill and roasted some sausages and gnocchi.
We served up our incredible feast and sat fireside to eat. Every bite, flavorful, smoky, and delightful. Food tastes so much better when it’s cooked over an open fire and enjoyed outside, especially when you get a heartfelt compliment from your ten-year-old food critic. There are no sweeter words than: “Wow! Mom, this is really good”.
By this time the sky was changing into her evening attire. Beautiful periwinkle above us and glorious gold on the horizon. The fire glowed brighter, orange flames danced in gentle wind, and sparks floated into the sky.
I had my eyes closed and I was trying to stop time because I couldn’t remember the last moment, I had felt peace this deeply. I was trying to hold on to this precious feeling and exist, just for a while, immersed in the present.
“Mama?”
The sound of Beaver’s voice pulled me from my mindful coma.
“Are you tired?”
“No buddy, I am just listening”
“Why are your eyes closed then?”
“Because it helps me listen to everything better”
He came over beside me and shuffled close. He grabbed my arm and put it around him and closed his eyes. We sat there, for a long time in front of our little fire, just listening. Sunlight disappeared below the outline of my snowshoes that were resting on the shore. We looked at each other for a second and with a squeeze hopped up and went to the cabin.
Our favourite nighttime activity while we are out camping is listening to Roald Dahl audio books. So, we crawled into our sleeping bags, planted sleepy heads onto our pillows and listened to James have adventures in his giant peach. We drifted into peaceful sleep while the stars twinkled brightly through the windows in our cozy paradise.
We woke up early. The world was still dark and cold, so I fired up my Jetboil on the deck outside and made coffee for me and hot chocolate for Beaver. We sat snuggled in our sleeping bags and watched the sun come up.
Quetico outfits the Ojibway cabin with ice fishing gear, so after we finished our morning coffee we packed up and set out in search of trout. Beaver and I hand drilled holes and set our lines. We sat in the sunshine and waited patiently, joking, laughing, and betting on who was going to catch the first fish. By about 10:00 am we were getting hungry, and we hadn’t caught anything. It was so beautiful and warm that we didn’t want to leave so, I hiked back to the cabin to get food and our cooking gear.
When I got back Beaver was trying to hand drill a hole all by himself. He worked hard and eventually got the auger through the thick ice. He set up a new line and with a triumphant skip, went out to check the rest of our lines. I love watching him build independence and develop new skills outside.
I stayed back and set up a chef’s station in the middle of French Lake. I made bacon and pancakes for breakfast that we enjoyed sitting in the snow. It was hands down the most wonderful breakfast I’ve ever had. Smoky bacon, fluffy pancakes, and maple syrup… each bite savored in fresh air and warm sunshine.
With no fish by lunchtime, we decided to pack up. Beaver wanted to head out for a ski that afternoon, so we changed, grabbed a snack, got our skis, and hit the trails.
We came back to our cabin late in the day. Beaver had his mind set to chop up wood for kindling. He’d been talking about it for the last hour, and I had been weighing out what my response was going to be. Sometimes I’m reluctant to let my inattentive kiddo wield an axe, but out here we had nothing but time, and I had plenty of attention to give him. So, I said yes. We reviewed safety and technique, and I let him go for it. I watched him for a long time, figuring things out for himself, missing the wood, swinging too hard, getting his axe stuck. But eventually he got it and produced a great little pile of kindling. I watched him with pride and was able to share in his joy when he proved to himself, he was capable. He then set up the fire and lit it all by himself.
We had another delicious supper and sat around attempting to roast the perfect golden-brown marshmallow, a long-standing contest to see who can cook the best one without burning it. Beaver became quiet and reflective and then started talking…
“Mom, we need to talk”
“Oh yeah, buddy, what about?”
“Sex, Mom”
Inside I freaked out and tried desperately to play it cool.
“What do you want to know about sex, buddy?” I nervously inquired.
He grinned and replied
“Everything”
I will save you the details, but Beaver and I had a long discussion about birds, bees, consent, relationships, responsibilities, and kindness. I don’t know what made the conversation flow so easily, but while the fire cracked and sparks flew into the sky, we just talked, and it was incredible. After marshmallows and sex talk, we walked out onto the lake for sunset. We watched the horizon light up once more with orange and pink and sat quietly as light seeped out of the world.
We played cards late into the night and went outside to watch the night sky twinkle. We found constellations and searched for shooting stars to wish upon. I remember looking at Beaver and thinking about how grateful I was to have this incredible little human in my life. A beautiful wild spirit, who was able to find his happy and reach his potential in the snow, dirt, water, and wilderness.
When we woke up the next morning, we made coffee and hot chocolate and ate cheese buns for breakfast. We took our time packing and made our way back home with full hearts. The adventure, the time spent, lessons learned, important conversations, the laughter, and the fun. Memories I will cherish forever.
Despite the stress and challenges of parenting, Quetico reminded me of the space we need to create to ensure that the business of life doesn’t consume our most precious relationships. We need to find what works so we have energy and patience to help our children find their own way. We need to remember that being out on the land and simple things are what create peace, happiness, and joy.
I hope that when Beaver looks back on his childhood, he remembers all the happy we shared. I hope that he remembers that I tried to teach him patience, determination, kindness, and love. I hope he remembers the late night snuggles, star gazing, conversations about life by the campfire and each time we did hard things together. Every cast, every axe swing, every hike, I hope a little memory of me lies with him in the happy he creates for himself outside in wild places.
Solo travel for me is always transformative. I submerge myself into an experience and look intently at the person I am. I put energy into the parts of me worth keeping and work to shed the parts of me I need to let go of. When I travel alone, a quiet moment of introspection can turn into an intense and interminable vortex of self-reflection. I have noticed that when I create space, where I am only responsible for myself, I am afforded the energy and time to undress weighty layers of unnecessary criticism, fear, doubt, and internal conflict. There is huge value in this, because I emerge from this powerful vortex more authentic, genuine, empathetic, and energized.
Another element of solo travel I value is exposure to the purest sense of triumph and joy. When you go out into the wide world on your own, your experiences are determined entirely by you, and you, alone. Your attitude. Your energy. Your effort. So, when you make the most of things or navigate through a challenge, it generates the most vibrant, gratifying, and powerful emotional responses you will ever experience.
In December 2022, I travelled to Oregon, alone. It was a last minute, impulsive trip that started with a Google search: “Where can I go rock climbing in the US in the winter?” I did very little planning and didn’t have many expectations, only one goal: Do things that will make you happy. I kept a journal during my trip and have included little excerpts from each day because this adventure was not just about the things I did, it was about how I felt doing it. Little did I know that one impulsive Google search would lead me to one of the most fulfilling, exhilarating, and profound solo adventures, ever. Let me tell you about it!
The first leg of my journey was the drive from Nipigon to Minneapolis, a 666 km road trip that I have made many times. This drive itself is an incredible adventure. There are so many amazing things to see and do. The Minnesota north shore of Lake Superior is spectacular with lots of opportunity for hiking and exploring. I could’ve spent an entire vacation just along this stretch, but that is an adventure for another time.
On the way, I made sure to stop at the Split Rock Light House, get delicious coffee in Grand Marais and have a fantastic lunch at 7 West Taphouse in Duluth. I got into Minneapolis late, so I did a bit of shopping at REI, got sushi, and went to bed. The next morning, I flew to Portland. I rented a Chrysler 300, whom I lovingly named Leonidas (because he was a powerful warrior who got me through snowstorms, freezing rain, mountain passes and closed highways unscathed and safe). Together, Leonidas and I travelled over 800 km around the state of Oregon and explored some of the most breath-taking places in the US.
Day One
I stood breathless and all I could do was feel. I wanted to close my eyes because I was so overwhelmed, but I couldn’t stand to miss a single instant. The winter sun ignited every cell in my skin, I could feel electricity writhing through my entire being. Tiny droplets rising into the air as waves crashed at my feet. The sound and power and movement of big water. The pungent smell of ocean and the feeling of freedom. I was breathless. I was ready to dive headfirst into whatever was going to happen next.
I was anxious to get to the coast, so wasted no time when I landed in Portland. I was quick to pick up Leonidas and leave the city. I made a beeline to Cannon Beach, taking Sunset Highway (US-26W). The drive was beautiful. I stopped when my heart wanted and found some delicious places for coffee and food.
Cannon Beach is an adorable seaside town with wonderful restaurants, charming shops, and an amazing home base to explore Ecola State Park and Oswald West State Park. I got into town early afternoon and spent hours walking the beach. I saw the striking Haystack Rock and got to channel my inner Goonie, as Astoria, Oregon was where this iconic movie was filmed.
When my feet were soaking wet and sore, I checked into my hotel room, Inn at Haystack Rock. This adorable Inn was nestled in a gorgeous courtyard with a fountain and was walking distance from everything, including the beach. The room was modern and had the cutest fireplace.
Leonidas at the Inn At Haystack Rock
After I was settled, I decided to drive north to Fort Stevens State Park to check out the Wreck of the Peter Iredale. It is an epic site to view the remanence of a 1906 shipwreck right on the shoreline. The rusted skeletal remains are a profoundly beautiful, especially as the sun is settling onto the horizon. I hiked around Fort Stevens for about an hour and then made my way back to Cannon Beach in time to grab a bottle of wine and catch my first Oregon sunset.
A few glasses of wine later, I washed my armpits, got myself dressed up and took myself out to dinner at the Wayfarer at Surfsand Resort. Classic ambiance, outstanding service and the food was exquisite. My dining experience started with white wine and oyster shots and then ended in a seafood feast. I enjoyed every second, took my time and after I was full, made my way back to the Inn and fell into bed to dream of sandy adventures to come.
Day Two
The ocean. An expanse of power and greatness. Where from high places you can see the curvature of the earth in bluish green fury. Commanding breath pushes liquid mass, crashing into caramel sand, shooting frothy spray into the abyss. From up here existence is endless and humanity, infinitesimal. From up here I can lose myself in this powerful juxtaposition. My entire reality fixated on a moment where everything matters, and yet nothing does.
With the time change, I was up and ready to rock at 6:00 am. My plan for the day was to make my way along the coast and check out beaches on my way to Oswald West State Park. Today I was going to do the Neahkahnie Mountain Trail. The drive along the coast was INCREDIBLE. I stopped at Arcadia Beach State Recreation Site and Hug Point State Recreation Site to have coffee, hike shoreline, and take pictures of the sun waking up.
The hike at Neahkahnie Mountain was unbelievable. Enchanting moss-covered forest surrounds you as sunlight peeks through the old, wild trees in soft, warm rays.
The trail is well marked and guides you along steep switchbacks until you reach the lookout. I remember vividly coming to the top. It was a scramble over a rocky section as the world opened. The sky got bigger and every step towards the lookout was led with anticipation. When I got to the top, I looked out with tears in my eyes. The coastline stretched out before me from high above the world, as far as I could see. The great expanse of the ocean travelling infinitely to the horizon where it meets the sky in a beautiful union of turquoise and blue. The world seemed so vast and endless from up there. I sat at the lookout for a long time. I had a picnic in the sunshine and soaked in every moment. Eventually, I made my way back down and was surprised that I met no other people on the trail. I had the whole forest to myself, and it was beautiful.
On my way back to Cannon Beach, I stopped and spent an hour exploring Arch Cape. I was scrambling on rocks and navigating my way down the shoreline until I came across one of the most unbelievable spots. I can’t even come up with the words to describe this magical place, and no photograph could ever do it justice. Scenic, golden costal rock rising out of the sand, entrances to sea caves lining the base, begging to be explored and a waterfall cascading down the rockface onto the beach. It was one of the most picturesque locations I have ever been to. I absorbed the sight for a good 15 minutes and then ran over to explore. I free climbed up the rocks and went into the sea caves to try and find treasure. It was so extraordinary!
I made my way back to Cannon Beach to find breakfast (yes that’s correct, after all that it was only 11:00 am!!) I ate at Pig n’ Pancake, where I enjoyed fresh fruit and a lobster eggs benedict. As soon as I downed my coffee and (literally) licked my plate clean, I headed straight to Ecola State Park.
Sightseeing began the moment I drove into the park. The narrow, winding road in wanders through a beautiful Sitka spruce forest so incredibly lush, you swear you are in the rainforest. The road opens to a grassy bluff with spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean. I spent the entire afternoon hiking, and got some epic views of Sea Lion Rock, Crescent Beach and Ecola Point. The entire park held a magical energy with endless beauty. Every step exposed something enchanting that would take my breath away. It was hard to leave this gorgeous place.
For the evening, I ventured to Gearhart Ocean State Park to watch the sunset at Gearhart Beach, which is famous for sand dollars and epic sunset views. I went beach combing at golden hour and picked through beach treasures. After the sun fell into the horizon, I drove to the first seafood restaurant I could find and ate all the ocean things. I made my way back to the Inn and fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.
Day Three
I could have stood there all day. Golden sky. The horizon gently spilling warm light over the harbor. Piles of brown, barking fur settled in on floating platforms. One caught my eye, a small cozy creature at the bottom of the heap, connected to everything around her. It left me craving connection, wanting weight bearing down on me so that I was consumed with touch. It was the only reason I could walk away, into the nearest bar to find a conversation and get lost in connection.
It was a travel day. I was up early and on the road by 5:30 am. Leonidas and I left the beautiful pacific north of Oregon in our rearview mirror and drove south to Depoe Bay. I had the BEST breakfast of my entire trip at a tiny espresso drive-through in Nehalem, Oregon. I had a strong, delicious flat white and the gooiest, fluffiest, cheesiest, most delicious jalapeno cheddar bagel that I have ever tasted in my entire life. After the first bite I actually pulled over, so I could savor and enjoy every second. I stopped for another coffee at Rockaway Beach and took a long morning stroll in the sand as the sun came up.
I got to Depoe Bay just before 10:00 am and decided to check out Devil’s Punchbowl State Natural Area.
Devils Punchbowl
I continued down the highway and decided to pull off and spend two hours hiking around Yaquina Head Outstanding Natural Area. This area is marked by towering basalt cliffs and coves and is well known for its breathtaking vantage points. It is perfect for viewing wildlife and a fantastic place to get lost in nature. I visited the Yaquina Head Lighthouse, which is the tallest lighthouse in Oregon.
The tide was low, so I was also fortunate enough to explore the marine life at the tide pools. I saw orange sea stars, urchins, and giant green anemones. I also got my first peek at harbour seals, sunning themselves on rocks in the bay and watched an eagle snatch a fish from the ocean and feast on the shoreline.
Midafternoon I went on a whale watching tour out of Depoe Bay. The weather was incredible for December, with calm water and lots of sun. We got skunked and didn’t see any whales, but it was beautiful to be out on the water exploring the coastline from a different perspective.
Depoe Bay Harbour Heading out to the Ocean… hoping for whales.
After we got back to shore, I checked in to my hotel, the Inn at Otter Crest, a swanky resort with beautiful ocean views. When I was checking in, I asked the receptionist for dinner recommendations. She was quick to direct me to Clearwater Restaurant, where she boasted incredible views of Newport Harbour and the sea lion docks. I drove to Newport, which was a super cool seaside town. Making my way to the restaurant, I heard the seals barking, so I followed the noise. I ended up at the docks and spent an hour watching the sealions play in the harbour. As the sun was sinking into the sky, I went to the restaurant. I was seated at a table with outstanding views of the harbour. I savored oysters with a captivating and at sunset saw vibrant colours transform the skyline behind the iconic arched Yaquina Bay Bridge and watched the sea lions play with a whiskey in my hand until dark.
Day Four:
I couldn’t tell if my heart was pounding from the climb up or from the view at the top. The only thoughts I could think were: Holy. Shit. It’s beautiful.
The next morning, I found coffee and hit the road. I took Santiam Highway 20 through the Middle Santiam Wilderness Area. The drive was epic! The mountain pass had a huge storm a few days before, so the winding mountain roads were exciting to drive. It was a bit treacherous at elevation, but the views of Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Washington were unbelievable, and Leonidas got me through safely. I had planned to hike a section of the Oregon Crest Trail to Three Fingered Jack, but with the winter storm, the trail was completely inaccessible. In fact, it was dangerous to pull off anywhere. So, I drove straight through to Redmond, where I was staying for the next two nights.
As soon as I got into town, I went directly to Smith Rock State Park. I was disappointed when my OCT hike was kiboshed, but that dissolved quickly as I drove into this astonishing place. Majestic, sheer, rust-coloured cliffs, sinking into a deep canyon. The Crooked River cut its way through the layers of rock and exposed the sheer cliff-face, making the crags about 600 feet high. It was spectacular, even from the parking lot. Smith Rock State Park is a popular attraction and considered a mecca for rock climbing in the United States. It has miles of developed hiking trails and thousands of climbing routes. This typically busy place was near deserted. It was definitely off season for climbing, and the winter storms covered the high desert in an unseasonable blanket of snow. I didn’t have to fight crowds or struggle to find a parking spot. I spent the entire afternoon exploring and only encountered a handful of other people on the trail.
I hiked the Misery Ridge and Summit Trail Loop. Due to the unseasonable cold and uncharacteristic snowstorms, the ascent was treacherous! It was totally covered in snow and slippery as hell. I was intentional about every step I took and walked slowly and carefully. I had to take a few moments to calm my nerves as I got higher… and to catch my breath from the steep switchbacks. It was SO worth it. The view at the top was breathtaking. I stood on top of the 3, 360-foot summit, with the towering rock spires shrinking into the valley below. I looked down at the route I climbed to get there, as triumph flooded over me and a warm sense of accomplishment ignited in my heart.
The rest of the trail was stunning. From the lookout I continued along and descended into the valley. I made my way along the Crooked River and watched ducks play. Coming around, I saw a few rock climbers head up on steep routes and got butterflies in my stomach for my own climbing adventure the next day. By the time I made my way back to the parking lot, the sun was getting low in the sky and illuminated the rock spires in the valley. They looked like monstrous glowing torches.
I had a permanent grin plastered across my face and my soul was completely full as I made my way back to my car at sunset. I was starving when I got back into town, so I got dolled up and treated myself to an amazing Mexican meal and margaritas in downtown Redmond.
Day Five:
I didn’t want to leave. I just sat in my car and looked around. I knew it would be the last time I would be here, like this. I didn’t want to leave the feeling of climbing my hardest. I didn’t want to leave Tara and the relationship we beautifully crafted in the sunshine. I didn’t want the feeling to go away… so I sat there and grieved the day and watched the sun sink into the cliffside hoping a miracle would rewind so I could live it all again.
This was the reason I ended up in Oregon. I wanted to go rock climbing somewhere epic and learn something new to improve my knowledge and skill set. This place, after all, was the result of the Google search that sent me on this adventure. So, I woke up with a lot of excitement and pensive nervousness. I grabbed coffee and breakfast and made my way back out to Smith Rock to meet up with my guide, Tara who I booked through Chockstone Climbing Guides https://www.chockstoneclimbing.com/.
We met up in the parking lot and set out in the chilly morning. Our approach to the Monument section was breathtaking and full of joyful conversation. Tara is an incredible human, and we built a relationship quickly. The Monument was a different section of the park than I explored the day before, and there was no one else in sight. We made our way to the base of the wall and started climbing.
Despite a chilly start and cold morning temperatures (- 10), we had a gorgeous afternoon climbing in the sunshine. I think at one point it was plus 8. I successfully climbed my first 5.10 outside, which was a personal best for me, and did laps up the beautiful wall until my arms stopped working.
Tara was so knowledgeable and a truly adventurous soul. It was the most time I had spent with another person in days to I absorbed all the beautiful conversation and connection. She shared stories of her adventures, family, experience climbing and taught me some awesome things. She is one of those people you feel that you are better because you were able to know them.
By supper time I was satiated and exhausted. We hiked out and said our goodbyes. I jumped into my car and had a long thoughtful pause. It was the best day, and I wasn’t ready for it to be over. I must have sat there for an hour, watching the rocks get darker in the evening light, wishing I could rewind and live this day one more time. I finally fired up Leonidas and made my way back to the hotel. I stopped for takeout and watched TV until I fell asleep.
Day Six:
The overture started in my head, softly, and I looked up in awe. As if pulled straight from the pages of Tolkien, a world of wonder unfolded above my head. The old cobble stone was slick. Gentle spray coated everything from the towering falls above and froze as it settled on the cold ground. Old trees and ancient wisdom lived in this thick temperate rain forest. I could almost see the elves walk out across the bridge, in grand majesty. Long hair floating in the gentle wind with pointy ears exposed. The smell in the air was different, primeval. My mind was lost in fantasy and the world drew out every ounce of its magic as I let the overture crescendo.
Multonmah Falls
Day six was a travel day. I said goodbye to Smith Rock with a coffee in my hand and made my way through the mountains. Again, unusual winter storms made the drive equal parts stunning and terrifying. There was lots of snow in the Mt. Hood area but was incredible to pass through. With white knuckles, I made my way to the Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area. I went to explore Multnomah Falls and hiked in the area all afternoon. Multnomah Falls is the most visited natural recreation site in the Pacific Northwest with more than 2 million visitors each year. For very good reason. This 620-foot giant explodes from the cliffside and mystically pours to the world below in two major tiers. Magically constructed above the lower falls is Multnomah Creek Bridge. An old structure that looks like it had come straight out of the pages of a fairy tale. I was incredibly fortunate because there were very few other people around. Then I hiked the trail to the top of the falls. The steep, short climb up was tiring, but we’ll worth the view at the top. Perhaps it was the cold and rain, but I was so grateful for this experience, and that I had this wondrous place mostly to myself.
The hike up to the top of Multnomah Falls looking to the Columbia River
That evening, I washed my armpits and set out to find a pub to have some treats and cocktails. I made my way across the famous Bridge of the Gods and ended up in Stevenson, Washington. I had some local whiskey and cider and delicious salmon and crab cakes. The bartender and I had a fantastic chat and after a few hours of just hanging out, I made my way back to the hotel to crash out.
Bridge of the Gods Drinks in Washington
Day Seven:
I will do this with a chill in my bones.
Ponytail Falls in the freezing rain
My little adventure was quickly coming to an end. It was my last full day, and I was making my way through the Columbia River Gorge back to Portland. The weather was terrible. It was cold, wet and foggy. The freezing rain turned the trails (and roads) into skating rinks. So, rather than do the big hike I had planned, I elected to do a few shorter hikes and carefully explore waterfalls. In fact, I was able to explore a lot of the falls in Ainsworth State Park including Ponytail, Wahkeena, Bridal Veil, Latourell and Sheppard’s Dell.
Latourell Falls Bridal Veil Falls
I made my way along the Historic Route Columbia River Highway and have to say, that it is one of the most beautiful stretches of road I have ever travelled, even in freezing rain. Every turn exposed something wondrous, a waterfall, the view from a 900-foot cliff, or tunnels dug into the mountain side that Leonidas and I drove right through. It was so exciting to navigate through the Figure Eight Loops, steep switchback roadways, and to see the Vista House historical site with an incredible view of the Columbia River Gorge.
I got into Portland late afternoon and decided to hit up the spa and get a pedicure. After some pampering, I grabbed Chinese food and watched The Office in my hotel room feeling grateful for the incredible day in the freezing rain.
Day Eight
Dark. White. Blind. I could feel my heart pounding behind my eyes as headlights shone into my face. Seconds sooner, inches over and it would have all ended. No one would have got to hear about my adventures in Oregon.
My journey home was an eventful one! The “Storm of a Generation” had swept into the Midwest US, and it was a small miracle that my flight got into Minneapolis safely. We had to make a few attempts at landing to get to the plane on the tarmac… yikes. The snow was coming from the sky in sheets, and the weather was getting worse by the hour. I got to my car and started on treacherous highways in blizzard conditions. I would have never left, but the storm was just going to get worse in the coming days, and I didn’t want to get stuck in Minnesota for Christmas. I don’t even remember the drive… I only remember trying to stay on the road. I narrowly made it to Two Harbors Minnesota before having to stop due to a severe white out. There were no restaurants open, so I stalked up on snacks at the gas station and slept soundly surrounded by junk food in my bed. I only slept for 4 hours and hit the road again at 5:00 am to try and beat the heavy wind warning for the following day (a forecasted 60 km/h winds that were expected to cause a bomb cyclone). Eight hours later, with white knuckles and tear stained cheeks, I safely made it back home.
I get asked often if solo travel is lonely or frightening, or why I do it. The truth is, I’ve never had a single second where I felt lonely. There were PLENTY of times where I was anxious, nervous, or scared, but pressing through all that makes the experience that much more valuable. When you meet a challenge and push through hard things, you prove something to yourself. You feel stronger, more capable, and confident. Then, the next time you push yourself just a little harder, you go a little further and then you grow.
Finally, I do it because I need to. I need to jump into the deep end of my soul, to feel lost, to face challenges, experience triumph and I need to do it alone.
I acknowledge the privilege I have to be able to travel and am grateful to my family support my wild adventures. I need to really thank Beaver and Dave for understanding this part of me and for managing home when I am away. I love you both for that.
Cheers to Oregon 2022. The ocean, the mountains, the high desert, the Columbia River and even the “Storm of a Generation”. You were overwhelming and fierce and harsh and beautiful. You took my breath away and stole a piece of my heart and in turn I gave you my soul to hold tightly forever.
During the first weekend in March, Nipigon Ontario hosts the longest running ice climbing festival in Canada. Since the mid 1980’s climbers have been gathering in this tiny, unassuming town nestled on the North shore of Lake Superior. Full of adventurous secrets, Nipigon is a hub for some of the most accessible and extraordinary ice climbing in the country.
The Nipigon Ice Fest aims to connect the climbing community so that veterans of the sport can share new beta and old stories, proficient climbers can build new skills and new people can be introduced to the sport. This past weekend was my 5th Ice Fest and I’ve come to realize something profoundly important— aside from the fun, adventure, knowledge, skill, and proficiency you can gain from attending an event like this, the most valuable thing you can attain (especially coming out of a global pandemic and recovering from years of exposure to toxic stress) is the deep and meaningful connections you build with other humans.
I sit on the planning committee for Nipigon Ice Fest and this year, I also volunteered to help guide a clinic at the beautiful Mazukama (Powerline) Falls. There were five of us supporting a beginner’s clinic, myself, Sandro, Marlie, Cora and Isabelle. Cora stayed behind to ensure participants received their gear and to guide them to the climbing site. The rest of our team left early to set up top rope anchors.
Our hike in was filled with joyful complaining as we hauled heavy packs jammed full of ropes and gear. At the top, I tagged along with Marlie, so that I could improve my anchor building skills. It was amazing to be able to learn from someone with so much patience, knowledge, and love for the sport. I am so grateful to her and other climbers who generously share their knowledge to build capacity in this community, especially when it comes to supporting other women to be proficient and independent climbers.
After the anchors were set up, we were able get some climbing in before participants arrived. The conditions were incredible, even with colder morning temperatures. I had the absolute pleasure of watching Marlie, Sandro and Isabelle (all skilled climbers), dance up frozen, sparkling walls of ice. I watched with intention and soaked in their technique. We laughed, and teased, and supported each other all morning and were in fantastic spirits when our group arrived.
We heard Cora and our crew of beginners make their approach around noon. We had a wonderful group who were positive, tenacious, cheerful, and happy to be outside. It was so great to meet new people from all over Ontario and Minnesota. It was even more amazing to see people from my home community participating. We got everyone into their gear, did a safety brief and reviewed technique. We then spent the day belaying, supporting others and fostering a love for the sport of ice climbing. By early afternoon we were climbing in positive temperatures, drenched in sunshine. The energy was vibrant and electric, so I began to take stock in order to understand this wonderful thing happening around us.
I watched people tie into their lines, breathe through their nerves, and push themselves to take their first steps up an ice wall. I watched people conquer fear and doubt, push their capacity, and prove to themselves that they were stronger and more fearless than they ever could’ve imagined. I watched people cheer each other on. I watched hugs and high fives and laughter — people who were strangers merely minutes before. A smile was permanently plastered across my face as I watched connection blossom into joy.
The afternoon flew by, and the clinic came to a close. Cora led out our crew, and we cleaned up our site. I hiked away from Mazukama that day with a full pack and a full heart. We were better people then when we woke up that morning. We shared something powerful and bonded in the sunshine.
Later that night we gathered at the Legion for a symposium. We had an incredible presentation from Dave Rone, one of the godfathers of climbing in the Northwest. He weaved brilliant, exhilarating stories of his adventures and inspired a new generation to be resourceful and audacious. I stood at the back of the room and watched. New climbers shared their excitement from the day and seasoned climbers remembered past adventures with old friends. It was a gathering of souls, and you could feel the energy, it was palpable.
Through COVID we ran Ice Fest virtually in an attempt to keep connection in the climbing community. It was a great alternative, but nothing can compare to experiencing this event in person. The rush you get from climbing is like no other feeling. Peering over your shoulder above the world with axes in your hands and consuming your surroundings from a completely new perspective is truly incredible. When you combine this experience with personal growth, and new relationships with other amazing humans who celebrate each other’s successes and support one another through something difficult, it becomes something else entirely. Something that can change your life, even if you just try it one time.
I don’t think many of us really understand the impact of COVID 19. For almost three years it meant isolation and restriction and fear. We couldn’t be with the people who drive our passion, who give us support, or who help us learn and grow. We had to navigate through an incredibly challenging time with fewer resources, in the absence of activities that feed our soul. It was confusing, lonely and detached and although we’ve emerged from the thick of it, we are still navigating the impact.
As we move out of a pandemic and into recovery, we all have to be mindful of the effect it’s had. We must invest in building connection to the communities and people who matter. We need to share our skills, knowledge, experiences, passion and love so we have the energy and capacity to face the next challenge life throws at us.
I left the Nipigon Ice Fest 2023 with a few amazing souvenirs. A deadly new toque, new skills, new ideas, new friends, and most importantly, a renewed connection to this wonderful community of adventurers. Thank you so much to everyone who has crossed my path. You have become a part of my story and have contributed to my wellbeing in a way you will never understand…I am so grateful to you for that.
Until the next adventure (and until Ice Fest 2024), Deana
My heart would sing as I watched you weave between the pines. You would exhale freedom so intense and palpable that I could actually taste it. Wild rose, blueberry, juniper, milk bones. Infectious transformative, energy. Exhilaration and bliss would travel through time and space when our eyes would meet, a connection of the ages. Life meant something different as you splashed through puddles and played in little streams, bathed in the sun on rocky cliff sides, and ran with the wind in open fields as fast as your body could carry you, eliminating any breath of existential crisis. I would see so much of myself in you when we would move about together in wild places.
First, a bit of a precursor to this piece – its messy. There are a lot of false starts, it jumps around and its painful. Whenever I write it comes from somewhere deep in my soul. Words and feelings and thoughts and images that scream from the center of my heart and ache deeply for release. Those raw pieces of who I am are not neatly organized and are often confusing for me to wade through, which makes it difficult to put into a pretty, little package. I think that’s what makes life so incredibly interesting… and beautiful. When its messy and confusing and painful, you try to grasp at the pieces of what’s going on and set it down into a patchwork of chaos. You step back to look and then, unintentionally it becomes art.
Second, I don’t consider myself an expert on many things, however grief is my wheelhouse. Not only have I experienced it in a multitude of ways, but I am also a certified grief recovery specialist and have spent hundreds of hours providing treatment and facilitating work in this area. I know a thing or two, but despite this, often get stuck in my own loss because when we are deep in it, we can’t see the forest for the trees. I do all the wrong things first, until I have the time and energy to feel my way through it. So, before I get started on my most recent story of grief, I have one piece of wisdom to share:
Grief, like anything else is experienced on a spectrum. Grief can be vast, life altering and all encompassing, like a pulp wood log through your chest. It can leave gaping wounds that require major attention to heal. Grief can also be expected, changes in your life and small hurts, like slivers in your finger. The important thing to remember is even a sliver left unattended can cause a festering infection that can impact every area of your life. You need to pull it out, acknowledge the pain and deal with the injury. With that, here is the story of my most recent sliver, and the journey I am on to see the whole forest, despite the trees – and learn to forgive it.
On October 22, 2022, I lost one of my best friends. My beautiful dog, Nakita ran off while we were out hiking and was hit by a train. The loss, emptiness and devastation connected to this tragedy was powerful. It might sound silly, and sometimes feels foolish to feel that way about the loss of an animal, but for those of us who know, this loss is a deep, hollow absence of unconditional love and a powerful bond.
These creatures are so much more than just animals. They imprint onto our soul, securing us to everything that is pure and authentic and good in this world. My girl gave me companionship, a partner to adventure with so that hours in the wilderness felt connected. We shared amazing experiences her and I, and I never felt alone with her by my side. She has left emptiness, in the shape of her only, that no other relationship can fill… and that’s ok. I have other relationships, ones that occupy their own space and help take focus away from the hole in my life she once filled, but nothing will ever be the same… and that’s ok too. With loss, we have to move forward in a different way navigating existence with the absence of something important. Now, I can only try to remember the sound of her running through hidden trails and continue to feel her in the places we’ve adventured together.
Nakita joined our family in 2019, during the first year of the COVID-19 pandemic. A fluffy, precocious, fearless rescue pup. She was with me every single day. Through isolation, lockdown, working from home and the lonely garbage we all had to survive. She was a free spirit and was her happiest self outside. Whether we were hiking, skiing, snowshoeing, canoeing, paddle boarding or exploring new places, her joy was tangible, and it flowed through the fresh air right into my heart. She was mine; I was hers and our love was epic.
The day she left me started as any other. It was a beautiful fall day, and we were out exploring with our other dog, Crux and my friend, Joanne on my favourite trail system, Doghead Mountain. Crux and Nakita were off leash all day. At one point they went exploring into the bush and never came back. We searched for hours. With the help of our friend Adam, we eventually found Crux, four hours after we had last seen her, terrified and whimpering in a swamp.
The hours that followed were exhausting. Worried and sore, I accumulated 59 km on trails searching in a few days. In the time she was gone, SO many heroes came to our rescue. Our community, and our friends hit the trails. News she was lost spread on social media, it felt like all of Northwestern Ontario had their eyes out for her. Many people checked in to ensure we were ok, brought us coffee at the trail head and sent messages of compassion and hope. I have never felt so loved and such a prevailing sense of belonging. I don’t think I can ever express my gratitude sufficiently for what people did for us over those days—or for the acts of kindness and acknowledgement after. The strange thing is, when I look back at the whole ordeal, that’s what I remember. Although the fear and sadness exist in my memory, it’s the people who showed up and the gentleness of human spirit that outshines everything from those days.
We found out, on the second night that she was hit by a train and killed about 12 miles from where we lost her. I can never thank the CP conductor who reached out to me on Facebook enough. I can’t even imagine what train conductors must go through when they witness any end of life. Thank you, Todd. You are the reason we were able to bring her back home. She rests peacefully in our back yard, at home with her family because of your courage and compassion.
I wanted to write about her because it’s a part of my recovery. But I think another reason I wanted to write about her is because loss is significant. We are terrible as a society at coping with it in healthy ways. As a therapist, in supporting others navigating loss, I have learned that its not just about death, but rather a change in our life when we seek something out and its no longer there. So, whether its death, divorce, loss of trust, loosing your job, or navigating a global pandemic, we don’t give those challenging feelings of adjustment enough time, value or attention—nor do we talk about the impact our loss has on us. Eventually grief accumulates, and without resolution, can tremendously impact our life.
To deal with Nakita’s death, I let myself feel overwhelmed with being sad and angry and I process through those feelings with kindness and patience. I am so lucky to have Crux, it was her loss too, but I lean on her and utilize our connection as an emotional touchstone. Our bond has deepened in our shared grief, and we adventure together without Nakita, in our own new way. I continue to reach out to people and I ask for hugs. I tell my family how much I miss her and when I think about her, I mention her. I post pictures of her on social media, and I cry when I need to. I ask for help and connection and love and because I am doing this with intention, my grief is not so sharp or powerful. Its pain I can manage.
Another unexpected and significant consequence of this event has been the negative impact it’s had on my relationship with the places we explored outside together. I lost her on my favourite trail in the history of existence, Doghead Mountain. This is a spot that holds profound meaning for me. It is one of the most beautiful places in the entire region and is so inherently vital to my wellbeing. Its my safe place, my joyful place and now, I associate it with this event, this loss. The beauty of this spot has been replaced with a dull, ashy veil and my fortress of solitude is now an empty pathway of sorrow. I haven’t been back since it happened. In fact, I had to talk myself into wanting to hike at all.
But, two days after Nakita died, I was out roaming other trails. I knew that if I didn’t, worry, resentment and guilt would build into a ferocious storm and prevent me from doing the things I love. I also knew I couldn’t manage alone, not the first time. I was very thoughtful in asking Steven to come with me. I told him that I needed him and that this was going to be hard. Honestly, I couldn’t think of another human who I would want by my side than my warm, gentle, empathetic 10-year-old son. He understood that this was more than just a walk in the bush, and he knew how important his presence was. It gave him purpose, and it was helping him navigate the loss of his friend as well. So, we set out, with Crux in toe. We laughed and cried, and he held my hand and every step forward in the wilderness felt like we were walking closer to her.
Although there was a huge part of me that knew I wasn’t going to let this event ruin my relationship with outside. I still hold on to lots of anger, sorrow, and guilt. I am sad she isn’t with me. I feel guilty that if she would have been on a leash she wouldn’t have taken off. I blame myself for not looking harder. I let myself feel my way through these yucky, hard things and then I let myself move past them. Sometimes I think about feelings like standing in a stream and watching them float by like ducks. The ducks are there, but only temporarily and then they float down river leaving peaceful space until more ducks arrive.
It has been over 2 months and I still haven’t been able to return to Doghead. I am still angry that my safe place stole something from me. However, I have a plan, and eventually will go back to forgive this mountain. In the spring, I am taking a cross to a lookout, the last spot I saw Nakita. I am going with my anger and sadness and guilt, and I am going to release it. I am going to make that spot something different for me. I am going to make it a place to visit and remember the amazing adventures we’ve had, and the incredible people who’ve helped along the way.
It’s the intentional steps I take to manage my grief that is going to make the difference. I need to be able to forgive in order to reframe my experience so that beautiful, sacred places continue to be that for me. Its these small actions that help me push out the sliver and allow healing to happen, even in the midst of facing hard things. So here I am, sitting at the edge of the forest, examining the big picture, weaving through the trees and watching my ducks float by, with the hope for meaningful adventures in the future without my Nakita. Goodbye sweet girl. I will love you always.
If grief for you is that pulp log protruding from your chest, and you need the extra help, never hesitate to reach out for professional support. Get counselling. The Grief Recovery Handbook is also a great read, or you can learn more about it here– https://www.griefrecoverymethod.com/
Some of the most impactful connections that I have made have been in nature. The breadth of space, and ability to breathe create perfect conditions for hearts to connect and for souls to align. We build powerful connections through our passion whether its through climbing, hiking, fishing, paddling or what ever we engage in that sparks joy. We can also accomplish amazing things or make a substantial difference in our community because of this shared joy.
This has got me thinking about an incredible event shared between the communities of Nipigon and Red Rock, the Hike for Health.
The Hike for Health has been building connection and giving back to the community for 25 years. It is an annual charity event held on the last Saturday of September and features the Nipigon River Recreation Trail. This event is organized and run by a group of volunteers and service agencies that support health and well-being in our communities. What is incredible about this event, is that not only does it connect hikers from around the region, but all of the funds raised are re-invested back into local community initiatives to promote the health and wellness of our region. Incredible, right?
I tackled my first Hike for Health when I was 18 years old, it was also the very first time that I did the Nipigon-River Recreation trail. Back then, I was overwhelmed by the 10 km trek. I was worried I was going to get lost, or not be able to finish. I figured that setting out on this adventure alongside experienced hikers, I would receive the direction and encouragement I needed to help me conquer my fears.
My first H4H was a memorable one. I remember starting the day with breakfast at the Red Rock fish and game club, meeting so many new and interesting people. With a full belly we hit the trail. It was spectacular. From Red Rock, you start an incline in a beautifully covered forest trail. The chickadees are always out singing, eagerly waiting for you to share a snack. By the way, sunflower seeds are their favorite. The high canopy of birch trees filters the sun so that the trail is illuminated by a light green glow. It is breathtaking on a hot sunny day. Not long after you begin, the trail climbs and it only takes about 20 minutes before you reach the breath-taking Lloyds Lookout. It is an incredible view of Nipigon Bay and the town of Red Rock where up that high, the islands look like little toys floating in a blue bathtub.
This is a great place to pause, take a selfie, have a conversation with your hike mates, or take a huge drink of water and recover from the climb. From Lloyds Lookout you continue along the interior of the cuesta, navigating through some incredible boreal greatness.
The next lookout is Eagles Ridge, where a wooden deck welcomes hikers to the outstanding view of the mighty Nipigon River. From this spot, you can also see the town of Nipigon and admire the palisades section across the water, where the pictographs of Memegwesi reside.
Continuing along the trail you eventually get to the massive set of wooden stairs that lead you down the mountain and into the beautiful, covered forest below. Make sure you keep your eyes open for deer, moose and other creatures, as there is often lots of sign on the trial. Your journey will bring you right alongside the Nipigon River, getting a beautiful perspective from Saw Mill Point. The trail gently leads you along the river until you reach the Nipigon Marina. Along this section there are plenty of locations to pause and enjoy the wonder of this place.
The best thing about doing the Nipigon River Recreation trail during the Hike for Health is that the air is full of laughter, joyous conversation and excitement. You meet wonderful new people and often get great stories of their hiking adventures or new knowledge of other trails to explore. You build a beautiful sense of connection, and it is impossible not to feel a sense of belonging.
Since I was 18, I have done the Nipigon River trail countless times. I think after this year, I will have done the Hike for Health 8 times total, once with my son on my back when he was 20 months old.
This truly is a wonderful experience with a fantastic cause. Something you feel good about doing and amazing while you are doing it. This is the Hike for Health’s 25 year (a great time to participate) to register or for more information go to the website here:
Sometimes I sit at my kitchen table to watch the sun come up. Bright rays illuminate the long, tangled, grass in my yard. Dew sparkling on overgrown blades like emeralds. Warm amber light creeps into my window and reflects the nose smudges left by my wild hounds pressing their faces onto the glass in the hopes of catching the attention of the groundhogs outside.
As I sip my coffee, I notice a few dishes in the sink and a pile of laundry on the floor sprinkled delicately with dog fur. I start to hear email notifications and the familiar ‘ding’ of social media come from my phone and I flip the switch to silent.
Turning back to my coffee, I see the steam gently dance over the creamy caramel surface. The smell rising, I inhale the delicious aroma, deep and comforting. I pull my favourite mug up to my lips and indulge. The things I should accomplish today start to roll around in my head and I can feel the wheel of life start to turn.
Pukaskwa National Park- Land of The Anishnaabe (Ojibway) of Biigtigong Nishnaabeg
I hear Beaver roll out of bed and see him peek his head out from his bedroom door.
“Morning Mama, what do you want to do today?”
The question that changes everything.
The question that takes me from the “musts”, “ought to” and “shoulds” and sparks something deep inside. The ignition of excitement, desire for peace, building of wonder and the possibility of adventure.
The question that leads us to paddling sun-soaked surfaces, scrambling up rock faces to beautiful waterfalls, flying down trails on our dirt bikes, or exploring new places in the wilderness.
The question that trumps housework, the need to respond to technology and that allows the grass to grow… un-mowed.
There have been times in my life where I felt conflicted by the things I should be doing versus what I actually needed for my body, mind and soul. The reality is, there is always going to be laundry, dishes, conflicts to resolve, emails to answer and likes to make on Instagram. This unending stream of “shoulds” forced me to approach life differently. It was the realization that I needed to balance out work load and selfcare, find the value in creating meaningful experiences and not use “should” as a barrier to the things I need.
Easily said when we have to actually live a real life though, isn’t it? The struggle is real when sitting back examining true balance. Everyone’s “should” show looks different. Our responsibilities, tasks, chores and needs are determined by evolving and complex factors. There are times in our life where we are in deep should, other times we are up should creek without a paddle, and then there are times where our should isn’t overwhelming or consuming. It is not necessarily the nature of our shoulds that causes stress, despair and isolation. It is the pressure or the constipation, if you will, that we associate with it that is the significant issue.
In my efforts to manage my “shoulds” here are some helpful things that have worked the best for me:
Something good every day.
You need to bring yourself back to center every day. This doesn’t mean you have to do a 20-mile canoe trip, or hike to the top of a mountain. But if outside is where you find your balance, calm, fun or peace. Get out. Go for a nature walk on your lunch break, take your coffee down to the lake before work, beach day on a Wednesday, or read to your kids in the grass on your front lawn. This is true for any activity that gives you ‘good’ in your life. Music, painting, creating, learning, culture, fixing, exercise. Make it happen for yourself, even if it’s for 15 minutes. These bright spots allow us to harness positivity and recharge the energy bank that we expel every day with work, family, conflict, stress and “shoulds”.
Should before breakfast
My “if I had a dollar every time someone asked me…” question is: “Wow! How do you find the time to do all of your adventuring?” Which, by the way, really annoyed me in the beginning. Likely because sometimes this question is saturated with judgement and preceded with the comment “It must be nice”. With deeper understanding, I think that the judgement, is connected to the desire for others to want more space in their life to do the things they love, and to not feel so much undue pressure from the “shoulds”. So, after careful consideration and self reflection, there are a few elements to my answer.
The first thing is that it is my priority. I make it happen because it is at the top of my mind, and I (selfishly at times) push away other things to make it happen.
The second is a little bit of a trifecta: accessibility, privilege, and luck. I am fortunate enough to live in one of the most amazing places in the world. I can throw my canoe on my car and be on Lake Superior in 10 minutes from driveway to lakeshore. I am able bodied and privileged to have the resources, and financial stability to make balance a priority. I fully acknowledge that there are a lot of people who just try to survive a day, and I am grateful that I have the opportunity to live the life I do.
Finally, I put the work in. I wake up early, especially on weekends, to get my “shoulds” out of the way. Also, I am 100% fine with a certain level of messy. Like I said, there is ALWAYS going to be laundry and dishes. I am ok with throwing my covers off and leaving an un-made bed in my wake to head out to hike with my dogs.
Step away from the screen.
I rarely watch TV, mainly because my ADHD is overwhelming, and hates sitting for any length of time. I love social media and the connections I make from it; I post lots, but don’t scroll for hours. I set limitations on my screen time and will usually allocate time at the end of the day for a Netflix show or a 30-minute Insta reel binge.
In the past, screens occupied a lot of my time and energy, especially social media. It seemed like a good place to put my energy when I needed to disconnect from my life or relive stress. But overuse made me feel negative and un-productive. If I need a sit still, or to reduce stress, I start reading, writing, edit photographs or pick up my guitar. I engage in something meaningful rather then check out and virtually disconnect.
Time suckers. Find them. Destroy them.
What are the unnecessary, stressful or meaningless activates you get stuck in? (active conflict, toxic people, anxiety, scrolling through Facebook, falling into the YouTube vortex, the never ending conundrum of “what am I going to make for dinner?”). Some of these time suckers are easy to address and others can be bigger issues. How can you work to fix them? How can you create more time, energy and space for the things that matter? If you are struggling with anxiety, can you access therapy and supportive resources so that it doesn’t occupy so much of your headspace? Can you make changes at the onset of a should? Put a little work into yourself so that you have more energy for the things that bring you joy. Can you plan better to create space in your life? What are the “shoulds” you can get help with? (a great example here is meal planning and meal prep to reduce the time you spend in the kitchen).
Find YOUR passion.
None of this works if you aren’t getting joy from the activities you are doing. So many people make the mistake of turning joy into a “should”. If you hate the gym, running, hiking, or trying to learn a new language, don’t put your energy into it. Find the things that genuinely ignite your passion, not things you are told you should like, or feel you should like because your partner/friend does. Find it for yourself first and then seek out others to share in those meaningful experiences.
Navigating the “shoulds” of life is not an easy task. Despite all my greatest efforts and desires to live a life without them, occasionally they are a necessity. Eventually you are going to need clean underwear or go to work to be able to afford to live (or eat… seriously. Can you believe the post COVID cost of groceries? Holy. Should.). You need to find a way to manage these responsibilities, so you don’t end up “shoulding” yourself.
It might involve planning, prioritizing or the radical acceptance that it is ok to have a messy house. However, the balance you seek in the midst of that is what is important. Create space for experiences that are valuable, produce joy and ignite passion and do this with intention. So, the next time you are sitting with your morning coffee in the sunshine looking into the day, acknowledge the pressure of the things you should be doing. Don’t bull should yourself and think about what you actually need.
It was just before sunrise. I pushed offshore in my slender, white kayak and just sat there, floating in the harbour. I was surrounded by periwinkle twilight. There was a gentle breeze in the air, carrying early morning chickadee songs and swallow calls. The sounds of the world waking up. I watched the sun gracefully rise over the horizon and ignite the little mountain range across the bay. The spark of orange light, signaling the start of day, brought a sense of excitement and urgency. It triggered the feeling to go. I dipped my paddle in the calm water and pulled my adventure closer, leaving the safety of Red Rock harbour.
Red Rock Marina and the Canadian Coast Guard Boat
The weather was in my favour and the forecast was promising. My plan was to paddle out to CPR Slip and spend the weekend in the beautiful haven on St. Ignace Island. This was the first time undertaking a journey this far alone, approximately 26 miles on the epic Lake Superior.
The ‘Great Lake’ and I are not strangers. We’ve been acquainted. My earliest memories on big water involve my Papa, out on Nipigon Bay in his beautiful steel hull cruiser, The Superior Princess. His love of the lake was evident in the way he talked about her. His stories of adventure, hunting trips and fishing charters were always filled with vigor and passionate expression. They were also interwoven with a keen respect and words of caution. He passed on this passion and love of the lake to me. His last adventure on this earth was a family trip through the Trent Waterway System. He died on his boat on that journey. My dad inherited The Princess, and my childhood was spent exploring islands, looking for treasure, fishing, and learning about the wind, water, and waves. Most of my favourite childhood memories involve my family and involve Lake Superior. Later in life I found passion being closer to the water, paddling on my stand-up board, canoe, and kayak. I even tried surfing… once.
I knew about the lake’s precarious temperament, power, and desire to shift her mood without warning. As I made my way across Nipigon Bay, I was cautiously aware, and quietly negotiating with her, so that she would see me across safely.
Good morning Nipigon Bay
The sun continued to rise above the water, and I found beautiful rhythm in a steady pace. Eventually I passed Burnt Island and had little Frog Island in my sights. Nipigon Bay is about 23 km, long. A formidable and intimidating crossing, so mentally, I broke the trip into sections. First to Burnt, then to Frog and then to the mouth of the Nipigon Straits.
Burnt Island
Also, to break up the quiet monotony I had downloaded an audio book, Uprooted, by Naomi Novik. While my heart was lost in adventure on big water, my mind was occupied with dragons and magic. It was the perfect combination.
As I was approaching Frog, I felt the wind pick up. It started as a cool breath on the back of my ear, and eventually cultivating to a steady push at my back. I could feel the waves small at first, urging me quickly forward. They grew bigger, shoving me, just like a bully in the school yard. I was glad to reach Frog for reprieve and to assess the unexpected environmental turn of events. By that time, the wind had churned up 2-foot waves. I had to make an adjustment in my plans and head in the direction of the following sea, directly to the shore of St. Ignace and then follow the shoreline up to the mouth of the straits.
Frog Island – A reprieve
With a bit of apprehension, I pushed away from Frog and made my way to St. Ignace with careful maneuvering and hard paddling. The shoreline seemed so far away and no matter how hard I tried; it didn’t seem to get closer. Time was absorbed into a frustrating vortex and the waves seemed intent on upsetting my little white kayak. But I managed to surf along, constantly fighting to stay upright. It was 2 hours of hard work (mentally and physically) before I made it to the mouth of the Nipigon straits. I pulled into the shore and celebrated. 4 hours, 400 curse words and almost 23 km later. I had made it across Nipigon Bay.
Welcome to the Nipigon Straits
I felt almost euphoric. After a quick check in with family, I sat in the sunshine and enjoyed a few moments of rest. The wind eased slightly in the narrow passage of the straits. I hydrated, got some food into me, and felt ready for the next leg of my journey. I was just over halfway! I had about 19 more km to go to get to CPR Slip and had anticipated the Nipigon Straits to be the easiest part. I set out, determined.
The sun was warm on my cheeks and the water was a gorgeous turquoise. Eagles were soaring overhead, and the squawking gulls were welcome company. I had found my rhythm once more and got lost in my thoughts. Ninety minutes passed on the water when I was shaken back to reality by gusts of wind. It came fast and blew fiercely. A headwind, 24km/h was sending white caps directly towards me. I tried to hug the shoreline but was making no ground. I tucked into a little bay, behind a point and waited for calmer water. Unfortunately, there was no cell coverage, and I couldn’t touch base at my scheduled check points. I waited over an hour, and still the wind persisted. I tried to call on my marine radio to the boaters at CPR Slip so that they could touch base with my family but could not reach them. Worried I was going to have to spend the night in the straits, I began to head back to find cell coverage. I was concerned that if I didn’t touch base, a search party would have unnecessarily been sent out in dangerous waters to come and find me.
To my frustration and dismay, I didn’t access coverage again until I was at back the mouth of the straits, which meant I had to back track about 10 km. By then, it was 4:00 pm and I had been paddling for 7.5 hours. I had covered about 46 km, and I was exhausted. I noticed dark clouds on the horizon, so decided to set up my tent and hunker down for the evening.
Camp- Mouth of Nipigon Straits
I vividly remember laying back in my tent, listening to the rain gently patter and the wind gust, billowing the sides of my shelter. My body was sore, and I was frustrated that I hadn’t made it to my destination. So, I closed my eyes and let the sounds of the outside carry away my tension.
My attention came back into the present about an hour later. The sun was warm, and my little tent felt like a toasty fortress. I wasn’t sure if I’d fallen asleep, or just checked out mentally. However, I immediately noticed the absence of wind, for the first time all day. I peeked my head outside my tent and sure enough, the water was calm. I checked the weather forecast and came across some disappointing news. The wind was going to pick up, starting overnight and reaching 20km/h for most of the next day. This meant I was going to be stuck at my campsite and not be able to make the trip to CPR Slip. But the forecast had also given me a 3-hour window of calm. I knew that I couldn’t anticipate better weather for the rest of the weekend, so with a heavy heart, and failure tugging at my insides, I decided that I would make a run for it, back across Nipigon Bay and return home.
Back in my boat, my muscles were tight, and my hands were sore. Frog Island was a speck in the distance, and I was determined to take advantage of the calm to get there. The bay was peaceful, and the sun was sparkling off the surface like precious gems. It was the calmest it had been all day. I made it to Frog in great time, 1 hour and 40 minutes. My energy level was waning, but I was motivated by the fact that it was just over 10km between me and home. Leaving Frog behind, I pressed forward. I was a quarter of the way to Burnt Island when Lake Superior decided to change her mind. A fast transformation, with aggressive gusting, this time from the North. It started with a trembling surface, but within 20 minutes the waves were over 2 feet high coming straight towards me. They were close together and a few were managing to come over the bow of my little bateau. Burnt was still far away. I stopped moving forward and the waves began to toss me around. All my energy was spent keeping myself upright. My desire to get to Burnt was starting to override common sense, but I knew I had to turn back before Superior swallowed me.
I started to make a quick turn. But as I maneuvered sideways, I noticed a monstrous wave coming for me. I kicked my foot down, swung my rudder over and dug my paddle in hard. The wave sent the stern of my kayak around and I felt myself starting to tip. A second wave, tailing the previous, caught my side and corrected me, pushing my boat in the proper direction. I don’t know why, but somewhere in my heart, it felt like my Papa Joe. No matter the reason for the celestial intervention, I had a thought, palpable and resounding, so much so, I said it out loud: “You’ve got this. Get going”.
I paddled hard back to Frog. The waves got bigger, and I surfed through the whitecaps. By the time I reached Frog, I was exhausted. Physically and emotionally. I called my family for a check in and indicated that I would likely have to camp out on Frog, not knowing if I could make it home the following day with the anticipated wind. In talking to my mom, my voice cracked, and my exhaustion came through. Although I knew I was ok, and that I was safe, I felt helpless and at the mercy of this huge body of water with a mind of its own. The discomfort was raw and exposed my vulnerabilities. I was temporarily stuck on this tiny little island that was more swamp than land.
So, after reassuring my mom I was going to be okay through my cracking voice and tears, I hung up and started to look for somewhere to put up my tent. I made my way from the shoreline into thick wet bush. I noticed several game trails and moose beds, which was surprising at first, considering the size of the tiny island. But, after some thinking, I realized that it was the perfect place for cows to give birth. A great nursery for moose calves, not so much, a great place for me to stay. I continued to look, creeping my way through thick ground cover. I saw a dark lump in front of me, and to my surprise a huge moose stood up and stared at me. She wasn’t close, but her size was overwhelming. I didn’t know if she had a calf, or if she was injured and couldn’t leave the island. Rather than risk her coming closer, I blew my air horn in the hopes of creating some distance between us. Thankfully, she took off through the bush to the other side of the island.
I went back to shore and came back to a text from my mom.
“Don’t be mad” it said,
“Your Dad is coming out to get you”
A weird sequence of feelings came over me then. Disappointment, appreciation, annoyance, relief, anger. I sunk onto the rocky beach beside my kayak and lit a cigar. Now, typically these are my celebration cigars, for when I have accomplished something meaningful. I was saving it for that night, sitting by a campfire at CPR Slip looking back at the journey I’d hope to complete that day. This felt more like a failure cigar. Wet and exhausted, legs spread out on an uncomfortable rocky beach, with one eye on the bush looking for moose and one eye on the water, I waited while the back flies feasted.
The sun was sinking lower and periwinkle twilight crept back into the sky by the time I heard the boat. When it rounded the corner, I saw my husband at the bow and my dad behind the wheel. I went out into the water up to my waist, because the boat couldn’t pull directly onto the beach. I handed over my gear and went back for my kayak, we lifted it onto the boat. I took one more look over my shoulder to make sure I hadn’t forgot any of my gear, and because I almost expected the moose on the shoreline to be pointing and laughing at my shameful departure from Frog Island.
I turned back to the boat to push us off from the shore. Resistance. We were stuck. In panic I put my shoulder into the stern and used every ounce of strength I had left to try and release the boat from the jagged embrace of the rocky bottom. In that moment, I felt my Papa for the second time that day. “You’ve got this. Get going.”
To my relief, I felt the boat move and start to float. I pulled myself onto the stern and sprawled out on the floor. The engine came to life, and we made our way back across the bay. A few minutes passed before I pulled myself up into a seat.
When I sat up, I was welcomed by cotton candy skies and pink fluffy clouds. It was so indescribably glorious. The sun, sinking behind Red Rock Mountain painted the water gold. I was thankful for the beautiful distraction, from my exhaustion and internal conflict. Nature has the incredible ability to remove you from inside yourself and allow you to dial into the amazing or beautiful or terrifying or peaceful things that surround you.
Rescue mission sunset Sunset and choppy gold water
It was then, I looked down at my Garmin and saw how far I’d gone that day. It read 56,740 meters (56.74 km). Lake Superior and I had been together for over 15 hours, 11 of those paddling. Disappointment and frustration melted away just as the sun lowered and the day ended. I was left with soft relief, a sense of achievement and sore muscles. I was so grateful for the lessons Superior had taught me and for the prodigious beauty she shared with me. I was also thankful for the spiritual connection I have with my Papa, who was watching out for me that day. Finally, I was damn appreciative to my husband and dad for the rescue and relieved I didn’t have to spend a romantic night with a swarm of black flies and a giant moose.
Getting Lost on The 49th 