Serenity and lifethreatening decisions in a solo canoe

“DON’T DO IT! DON’T BE SUCKERED!”

My words bellowed over the water, into the teeth of a black, evillooking storm. Across a half-kilometre stretch of open lake water, I could see my island campsite totally exposed as the maelstrom approached. Never had I seen such a boiling, lightning-studded sky, stretching from horizon to horizon. And my tent door stood as wide open as when I left it hours before.

My eight-day solo canoe trip was supposed to be a gentle, rejuvenating time to refocus life in peaceful, unhurried surroundings. In a flash, it had come down to a single, tension-filled decision: Should I attempt to race across the channel ahead of the storm just to rescue my campsite? Could I make it?

A self-preservation siren screamed in my brain.

For a second my paddle hung suspended above the foaming, choppy water. My arm and shoulder muscles tensed. Every fibre wanted to plunge the paddle blade downwards and head across the channel. But I knew I’d never make it to the island.

“Forget the campsite!” I shouted to myself. “Let it go!”

Hesitantly, slowly, with an air of almost regret, my paddle descended into the water. It dug deep before executing a graceful sweep, turning the canoe into a nearby sheltered cove.

Forty-five seconds later the storm exploded onto the lake. Visibility dropped in moments from a spectacular 40 kilometres to 50 metres. Such devastating force I’ve never experienced in decades of wilderness adventures. Blasts of thunder echoed off rock.

The granite shoreline protected me from most of the storm’s fury and for the next half hour I lay on the shore huddled under my canoe as black clouds pelted its upturned belly with giant raindrops, then dime-sized hailstones. Even here I wrestled with fierce gusts that threatened to tear the canoe from my grasp.

I peered out at the tortured water channel separating the cove from my island campsite. Mean gusts whipped across the white-capped surface, ripping the tops off waves, vapourizing them instantly. I shivered not from cold, but from the thought of what would have happened had I disregarded common sense.

Yet the day had begun so differently: blue sky, calm winds, quiet lapping waves, and a sandy beach stretching away with no signs of humanity. Half-way through my solo canoe retreat I had decided to spend a day exploring the far corners of this huge lake of scalloped bays. Hours later, I lay facing south and baking under a hot sun, peace and contentment settling deeply into my bones. Life was great. Then a shadow swept overhead, and I turned to see blackness approaching fast from the north. The Magellan GPS lying nearby said my campsite lay precisely 4.7 kilometres away. Could I make it in time? I raced for the canoe.

The storm raged for a full hour around the cove where I sheltered under the canoe, until the black clouds slipped away over the horizon, leaving complete calm.

When I finally crossed the channel, my campsite was a mess. A tall pine had fallen only 15 metres from my everfaithful Eureka tent – its door flapping open.

Here are four lessons this experience taught me: • When paddling on water or when walking in the woods, always trust warning sirens that sound in your head. Common sense switches them on for a reason. • Before leaving camp for a day trip, zip up your tent and firmly anchor down any loose flaps or flies. • Carry a dry bag in your canoe for day trip essentials. At a minimum, pack a large zip-lock bag for your camera and other valuables. • A lifejacket provides warmth, whether you’re huddled under a canoe during a wild storm, or sitting around a campfire on a cool, fall night. ≈ Allen Macartney is the managing editor of Ottawa Outdoors Magazine, and an avid camper, cyclist and hiker.