Day 3 - There Are No Bad Trips, Only Bad Attitudes
Earning My Stripes
I woke up around 5:30 a.m. and immediately knew my body wasn't ready. The wind had been hammering through camp all night, and despite what the forecast promised, it was cold. Really cold. I had gone to bed comfortable enough in my sleeping bag wearing pajama pants and an undershirt, but sometime during the night I woke up shivering. On went the wool socks. Then a long-sleeve base layer. Then the hoodie. Then the toque. Eventually I was wrapped up inside the sleeping bag like a burrito and finally warmed up again. After that I went right back to sleep and didn't properly get up until around 9:00am.
Honestly, I think I needed it. The previous day may have been one of the hardest days of my life physically. Not just physically, actually. Mentally and emotionally too. Between the broken thwart, the endless portages, and the uncertainty of whether my repair would even hold, I had pushed myself harder than I realized. I don't really remember falling asleep the night before. I just remember my head hitting the pillow and the lights going out. Like flipping a switch.
The morning itself was slow and quiet. My lower back was sore, and I was wearing enough layers to survive what felt more like November than May. I collected some firewood while coffee heated up and oatmeal cooked, then settled into my chair overlooking Big Trout Lake. The wind was already ripping across the water. Every time I had briefly woken up during the night, I could hear it moving through camp, and by morning it was obvious I would be battling headwinds all day. Thankfully, this was supposed to be a shorter travel day on paper. Then again, Algonquin has a funny way of reminding you that paper doesn't paddle the canoe.
Eventually I packed up and launched sometime around noon. As I paddled away from camp, I noticed another canoe heading toward my site. It was a beautiful site, so I assumed they were probably planning to take it. About five minutes later I heard someone yell behind me. My first thought was that somebody might actually be in trouble, so I turned around and paddled back toward them. As it turned out, it wasn't an emergency. It was two brothers who were completely turned around on Big Trout Lake.
The older brother sat in the back of the canoe and did most of the talking. The younger brother sat quietly in the bow while his brother basically gave off the vibe of, "Just let me handle this." The older brother asked if I knew where we were. I was completely confused by the question at first. "Uh... yeah. We're on Big Trout Lake." Then he clarified that he meant where on Big Trout Lake. That's when his younger brother looked around and said, "We're STILL on Big Trout?" Apparently they had been trying to leave the lake for two or three hours and had become completely disoriented.
I pulled out my map and started identifying landmarks around us before comparing them to the map itself. This trip had been the first time I had truly navigated Algonquin without constantly relying on Google Maps. Previous trips always had some combination of GPS tracking, downloaded maps, or a phone showing my location. This time I had mostly been relying on shoreline recognition, terrain features, my map, and the position of the sun. I carry a compass and did not use it once this trip. Somewhere over the years I had just developed a pretty good sense of direction while travelling through the park. At one point the older brother looked at me and said, "Dude, how do you know all this?" because I had been identifying landmarks before even checking the map. I just laughed and shrugged. In my head, though, I was thinking, "You're asking me. I'm not the one who's lost."
What made the conversation even crazier was hearing about their route. They had travelled from Canoe Lake all the way to Big Trout in a single day. One day. To be fair, there were two of them, they had a proper yoke, and they weren't hauling around my ridiculous amount of food. Still, that's an impressive push. When they mentioned how deep into the park we were, I won't lie, it felt pretty good. Like earning a little wilderness credibility badge. Eventually we said our goodbyes and headed in opposite directions.
Then came the crossing of Big Trout Lake.
Holy smokes.
That paddle took forever.
The wind seemed determined to make me earn every metre. One minute conditions would calm down and I'd start making decent progress. Then the next minute I'd paddle straight into another wall of headwind. Looking across the lake toward my destination felt overwhelming at times, so I found myself returning to the same strategy that got me through yesterday: chunking. I wasn't paddling to Burntroot. I wasn't even paddling across Big Trout. I was simply paddling to the next point, the next bay, the next landmark. One section at a time.
At one point I caught myself slipping into the classic trap of focusing on everything that still remained, and how hard it would be. The distance. The wind. The portages. The hours still ahead. That's when I remembered one of the mottos I'd carried into the trip: there are no bad trips, only bad attitudes. The wind wasn't doing anything wrong. Big Trout wasn't doing anything wrong. This was exactly what I came here for. No no, this is a good thing because I’m getting a true sense of adventure. One day I'll look back on this crossing and remember it. Nobody tells stories about the easy paddles.
Taylor Swift and Drake helped too.
Throughout the day, Taylor Swift's music and Drake's Nothing Was the Same became the unofficial soundtrack of the trip. I'd play songs quietly from my phone while I paddled. Not loud enough to disturb the wilderness experience, but enough to keep me company. Between the music, the wind, and the endless water in front of me, there were moments where it felt like I had been crossing Big Trout forever. Eventually I stopped to filter water, eat some snacks, and reset mentally before continuing on.
Finally, I reached the 300-metre portage into Longer Lake. There I ran into another couple travelling in the opposite direction. As with every other party I came across, they had no tools that would assist my repairs. We chatted briefly before continuing our respective journeys. At this point my pack somehow felt heavier than it had the day before. I think the damp gear from rain, condensation, and the general humidity of the trip had added weight to everything. The canoe wasn't doing me any favours either. The thwart repair was holding, but carrying that canoe without a proper yoke was still miserable. As Ray from Trailer Park Boys would say, "That's the way she goes."
Longer Lake absolutely lived up to its name. The lake seemed to go on forever, and the headwinds continued for most of it. At one point I looked at my map, saw how much distance remained before Red Pine Bay, and genuinely thought, "There is no way." But somehow there always seems to be a way. Paddle stroke by paddle stroke, shoreline by shoreline, I kept moving forward. And honestly, the farther down Longer Lake I travelled, the prettier it became. The narrowing creek-like section near the end was one of the most beautiful stretches of travel I had seen so far.
This was also where Pardon My Take entered the story. I had an episode playing quietly while paddling, specifically the segment where Big Cat and Max spent what felt like twenty straight minutes arguing about softball. For reasons I still don't fully understand, listening to two grown men passionately argue about softball while paddling through remote Algonquin wilderness was exactly what I needed. Sometimes adventure is funny like that.
Eventually I reached the short 40-metre portage into the Petawawa River section. Compared to the previous couple days, it barely felt like a portage at all. The biggest challenge was avoiding the ridiculous amount of poison ivy growing along the trail. Thankfully most of my skin was covered, and I managed to get through unscathed. Then came the final 80-metre carry before Burntroot. By this point I had been travelling for close to six hours and was completely cooked. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I dropped my pack, ate a Clif Bar, drank some water, and just sat there for a few minutes gathering myself.
Then came the canoe carry.
The launch at the end of that portage was ridiculous. Instead of a calm landing area, the trail basically deposited you directly into moving current and a small rapid section. I remember standing there looking at the water and thinking, "This is the launch point? Seriously?" The sign said the portage ended there though, so I carefully lowered the canoe into the water, tied it off to a tree, loaded my gear, climbed in, untied the canoe, and immediately found myself running a short rapid.
Honestly, I probably shouldn't have done it. I probably shouldn’t have skipped curfew in grade 12 either, but that ended up fine (sorry mom).
Later, after looking back upstream, I noticed that somebody appeared to have moved a portage sign farther down and there seemed to be a much easier launch point available. At the time, though, I already launched in the swift moving water. Once I pushed off, there was no turning back. Thankfully, after several days of reading current, studying water movement, and navigating creeks, I managed to keep the canoe straight. At one point it started turning sideways and immediately got my attention. One thing every wilderness paddler learns is that moving water does not care how experienced you are. A canoe pinned sideways between rocks can be crushed surprisingly quickly. Thankfully I corrected it in time and made it through without incident.
Then came Red Pine Bay. Absolutely beautiful. I would stay there in a heartbeat on a future trip. The island sites looked incredible, especially one larger island that seemed perfectly positioned for sunset views. But as beautiful as Red Pine Bay was, I had my eyes on something else. Something I had been thinking about for years.
Burntroot Lake.
As I rounded the final bend and entered the lake, my jaw literally dropped.
For years, Burntroot had existed in my mind as one of those legendary Algonquin destinations. A place I'd read about in trip reports. A place I'd seen on maps. A place Nicole and I had talked about reaching one day. And suddenly, after all the portages, all the headwinds, all the planning, and all the uncertainty, there it was. I saw Anchor Island … and it was open! I honestly don't know if I've ever been so relieved to see an empty campsite.
By the time I pulled the canoe onto shore, the emotions hit me all at once. I wasn't sobbing or anything dramatic. But I definitely cried. Sitting there looking out across Burntroot Lake, realizing how far I had travelled alone to get there, realizing that I had actually done it, it was impossible not to feel emotional. The lake was every bit as beautiful as I had imagined.
After setting up camp, filtering water, and changing into warm clothes, I decided there was absolutely no chance I was cooking pasta that night. This was a freeze-dried meal situation. Jambalaya won. I carried my chair up beside a rocky cliff overlooking the lake and ate dinner while watching the sunset. It was one of those moments where everything just feels right. The meal tasted incredible, the view was incredible, and for the first time all trip there was nowhere else I needed to be.
Later that evening I wandered over to the giant anchor that gives Anchor Island its name. The history of the place is fascinating. The anchor came from an old alligator logging tug used during the logging era, sometime in the late 1800s or early 1900s. Somehow that massive piece of history ended up on this tiny island. The craziest part is that it is rumoured someone actually stole it years ago from the lake, and it was eventually recovered. How anyone managed to steal a giant anchor from deep inside Algonquin is beyond me, but I have to admit I'm impressed by the effort.
By the end of the night, I was sitting beside the fire under a crescent moon surrounded by stars. Snacks were scattered around me. Kool-Aid, gummies, chips, chocolate. The essentials. I was exhausted, sore, and completely isolated from the outside world. Not lonely. Just removed. For the first time all trip, and really in all of my backcountry travels, I truly felt deep in the park and alone.
The last three days had been hard. Really hard. My body ached. My shoulders were cooked. My lower back wasn't exactly thrilled with me either. But sitting there beside the fire, staring out across Burntroot Lake, I finally understood why attitude had become such a major theme of the trip.
The wind had been real. The broken thwart had been real. The exhaustion had been real. None of those things disappeared because I chose a positive attitude. But the attitude I brought to those moments shaped how I experienced them and how I'll remember them now. The same challenges that felt frustrating in the moment had become some of my favourite memories only a day or two later.
I kept thinking about that phrase I'd carried with me since the beginning: there are no bad trips, only bad attitudes. These days are hard. And these days are beautiful. For years, Burntroot Lake was just a place on a map.
Tonight, it was home.
Trip at a Glance
Trip Length: 8 Days / 7 Nights
Solo Trip #: 3
Backcountry Trip #: 8
Planned Route:
Canoe Lake → Otterslide Lake → Big Trout Lake → Burntroot Lake (3 nights) → Big Trout Lake → Burnt Island Lake → Canoe Lake/Home
Actual Route:
Canoe Lake → Burnt Island Lake → Big Trout Lake → Burntroot Lake (3 nights) → Big Trout Lake → Little Otterslide Lake → Canoe Lake/Home
Paddling Distance: 88.8 km
Portaging Distance: 27.6 km
Total Distance Travelled: 116.4 km
Total Portages: 26
New Lakes Travelled: 6
New Creek Travelled: 1
Favourite Campsite: Anchor Island, Burntroot Lake