'Do they even care that we're here? They're kinda cute,' Adam said, petting a garter snake's tiny head with his index finger. Clumps of snakes were falling from the trees and tumbling down the stony hillside like snowballs.
I climbed my way out of the writhing bush at Fort Livingstone feeling a bit dizzy from the sensory overload—the sound of reptile scales rubbing together with their rippling yellow stripes still lingering in my peripheral vision.
We were a group of nine—Sean, Matt, Nate, Gill, Mitch, David, Adam, Teisha and myself. It was the largest group yet and one I was eager to impress. This was going to be Teisha’s first time camping in the back-country and I was not sure what she expected. We had spent some time and money preparing, but she did not fully understand where we were going or what the plan was.
There was a river in the Porcupine Hills I had read about that was stocked with brook trout decades ago. Details were sparse, but there were hints that a naturalized, self-sustaining population might exist. It felt worth a shot—if not for fish, then simply the excuse to spend the weekend together exploring.
We continued northward into the forested hills north of Whitebeech, making stops at Townsend Lake and the peak at Brockelbank Hill. I was loosely aware of the amount of time we were losing, but everyone was enjoying themselves and I did not know how to marshal a group from smoke break to smoke break anyway.
After the stop at Brockelbank, we began our descent down the north face of the Porcupine Hills. There was a short bush road we took to get us close enough to the river and leave our vehicles. We donned our gear and strapped on our pans and plastic bags. “I’ve never realized how much we look like a caravan of hobos,” Sean pointed out.
We took a short trail down to the river. It was slightly turbid but not overly deep for spring melt. There were long stretches of stone and sand, broken up by short unavoidable sections of log jams, steep banks and dense shrubs. The further we made our way upstream, the more rugged the terrain appeared.
We bushwhacked to avoid a stretch of dense hazel and treacherous beaver runs and spotted a break in the forest. We shimmied our way down a steep ridge, dropping into a large sandy floodplain. There was room for a big campfire and plenty of tents. Teish and I decided to set up ours on a high edge along the riverbank, which offered a great view but was something I would come to regret.
By night, the valley had become a wind tunnel and our tent was fixed in a way that skimmed the edge of it. Our sleeping bags were far too light. Any warmth we could muster was immediately swept away by a stream of chilled air flowing over us. At one point I lit a lantern candle for the illusion of warmth. I did not sleep until birds started chirping at dawn.
The sun rose over the treeline, our bones thawed, and we groggily made our way toward the fire pit for breakfast. After some coffee, eggs and fried potatoes, spirits were renewed and we set out for the day in search of brook trout that might not exist. I had tried fishing the night before, but got no bites and did not find the water overly promising.
Having just endured the coldest sleep of her life, Teisha was ready to get moving toward whatever it was we came here for. She was not interested in fishing, but fine with poking around looking for interesting plants and rocks. She stuck nearby for most of the morning while the rest of the group formed cliques of varying degrees of laziness.
Making our way upstream in search of pools, the hills became more extreme and made crossing the river problematic. The riverbanks seemed the most appealing.
At one point, Nate and I attempted to shimmy our way down a steep bank to avoid bushwhacking. I leaned on my hand to stabilize while taking carefully angled steps along the crumbling wall. Each step produced a small avalanche of pebbles that tumbled down the wall and disappeared over the edge. I had read about ‘canyons’ in the Porcupine Hills and Pasquia Hills, but had never pictured what they might look like.
My curiosity got the best of me and I looked over—a sheer drop into the stony river.
'Nate?... I think we might be one step away from death here.'
I looked back and saw him looking confused and distressed, like an animal trapped under a cage of sod.
We turned back quickly, deciding bushwhacking was the lesser evil.
Those of us who were fishing tried every pool we could find, but by mid-afternoon, most of the group had retired their rods for shooting targets, playing with two-way radios and drinking lukewarm vodka. Their muffled laughter reverberated in the hills.Teisha was nearby, having much more success looking for wild fiddleheads while I wasted my time casting limply into pointless pools.
Then I hit a snag. The pool was silty and didn’t look very deep. It had to be a rock, I thought. I set the hook expecting it to snag further or release, but the rock fought back.
I snapped out of my sun-baked delirium and realized the wildly moving rod-tip was a sign to be taken seriously. I checked the drag, started reeling and saw a silvery flash of light darting at the bottom of the milky pool.
I kept reeling. The fish splashed and thrashed as I dragged it out of the water onto the beach. My hands shook with excitement. The rumours were true and I had proof. It was confirmation the stream was in fact alive.
The group’s interest in fishing returned for a few minutes, but waned again in favor of campfire comforts, booze and food. I caught one more trout that evening that Teisha helped pair with wild fiddleheads sautéed in butter and garlic. For dessert, we had an apple crumble she made from the group’s leftover dehydrated fruit. There was no reason to retire early and we kept the fire roaring well into the night.
It was difficult to pack up and leave the next morning, especially for Matt, who was very much hungover and appeared pale and grey—his lips dried like nightcrawlers in the sun. But none of us wanted to go home. The skies were clear, the air fresh and warm.
A short distance upwind, Sean decided to test out his bear mace and incapacitated the group for a short while. Teary-eyed, we left shortly after.