This is the story of our first backcountry camping trip and one of the biggest learning experiences I ever had. I'm not saying I envisioned frolicking through bush and skipping down cobblestone paths, but I definitely overestimated the wilderness skills obtained watching re-runs of Survivorman.
Including myself, we were a group of seven. Matthew, the dizzy. David, the mustard-bringer. Conan, the vegetarian. Sean, the nervous. Nate, the-one-who-packs-only-mangoes-and-beer. And lastly, Kyle, the scoutmaster.
Kyle was the most experienced woodsman in our group as, his family was heavily involved with Scouts Canada growing up. Some of it certainly stuck. He would offer helpful advice when needed, but seemed to keep a lot to himself, which was fine. Most of his advice was couched in high-pitched squealing and cryptic messages that left you wondering if he was a genius or had some mystic form of Tourette's.
Our target was McDougal Creek: a trout stream that marked the north-eastern border of Narrow Hills Provincial Park, Saskatchewan. The plan was to hike the length of the river over three nights, from the McDougal Creek campsite off Hanson Lake Road, to where the river crosses the old 920 highway. It would be roughly 8km as the crow flies.
We met up the first night at the drive-up campsite by McDougal Creek.
The first of many bad omens was observed: Conan brought a cooler full of meat and beer, an eight-person gazebo tent and a broad sword. I realized I communicated the plans poorly as the entire group showed up with picnic gear. My shelter was also lacking: a three-dollar “Ticket to the Moon” hammock from Value Village and a rather lousy tarp I picked up at the gas station as an afterthought.
After a night boozing around the campfire and eating our entire supply of perishable food,1 we lazily packed our bags and left on our journey around noon. We travelled a heroic 2 km (probably much less) before calling it a day and taking it easy.
Initial confusion aside, the trip was turning out to be a lot of fun. We built a campsite in a clearing near the river, fished for a couple small brook trout and cooked around the fire.
Around sundown was the first time the remoteness set in for me: being in the middle of nowhere, in a place we'd never been before, with no idea what to expect. It was awesome! Time flew by until I found myself alone, rocking in my cheap hammock underneath the stars. The mosquitoes were no longer biting, and I fell asleep to the sound of running water. It was everything I had hoped.
The next morning, that feeling shifted.
Our fire was long dead. The mosquitoes were out in full swing. Nathen woke up from a cold, uncomfortable night, having slept the entirety of it under a fully exposed bivy tarp. Sean's tent collapsed overnight requiring him and Conan to sleep in improvised tarp-hammocks. A cold front had moved in and it was raining lightly but steadily. The hike would be miserable but we knew we had to make at least 4 km to make up or the previous day. Reluctantly, we packed our soggy gear and trudged through the rain-soaked bush.
Narrow Hills Provincial Park gets its name from the prominent eskers and push moraines throughout the park. The hummocky terrain coupled with the young forest made for some tough bushwhacking. The hills were exhausting on their own without having to push oneself through a fine jack pine membrane.
Within a meagre 20 minutes of hiking up and down these hills, it was difficult to tell if we were wet from rain or sweat. The rain continued and the thought of hypothermia came to mind. Our gear, which for the most part was made for “first day at school” not backpacking, was now saturated and taking on extra weight. Conan still had his broad sword to carry. Most of us did not think to wear anything besides cotton shirts and thin rain jackets. And what else? The crappy topographic map I printed out had bled and was no longer readable.
We decided to take a break after reaching what had to be the halfway point. After 30 seconds of rest, we were shivering. A choice hung above us: we could stay the night and risk getting dangerously sick, or we could try to finish the trek that day. We uneasily decided to keep moving.
An hour later, things were tense. Our map was useless, our compasses were Deal Extreme Chinese garbage, and it was blatantly obvious we had a lack of leadership. Turns out nobody wants to be at the helm when you’re leading your friends - more or less aimlessly - through a remote mosquito-infested wilderness. So we argued about which way was east, west, whether to take the high land and lose sight of the river, or trudge through the hazardous riverbanks and risk breaking an ankle. Kyle was elected leader by default. We simply gauged his mood to indicate whether we were about to do something truly stupid.
We continued pushing our way through the pine membrane at a snail's pace. Each river bend gave us a glimpse of hope, immediately followed by dread and disappointment. I was beat down by anxious thoughts. How far have we actually travelled? Was this even the same river? How long would it take until someone falls and snaps an ankle?
We trudged our way through another wetland, our minds detached from our aching bodies. We clung to anything for morale: a conversation, a sign of humanity, a patch of blue sky, a joke, whatever it took to stay sane and keep moving. David would squirt mustard all over anything he passed. Strangely, this was a bit of a boost. That was until Kyle mentioned we created a delicious trail leading directly to our group through infamous bear country.
We hiked in the rain for six hours. Every muscle in my body begged for rest. I looked at my brother Matt to check on him, but my face gave me away. I was scared. I wanted to collapse, but seeing my brother hike through thorns and ravines in water shoes inspired me to stop being a baby. We just needed to get out.
While blazing our trail, Nate spotted a bear bait. Just the thought of someone having been there before was enough to lift our spirits and pick up the pace. Chainsaw-cut trees gave us another boost and finally led us to an ATV trail. There was always the possibility the trail could take us in the wrong direction, but we were all sick of bushwhacking, so we took our chances. Minutes later, we emerged on the old gravel highway and began to walk. Shortly after, we could see the car. I will never forget this relief.
We were so drenched at this point we might as well have been pulled out of a lake. We escaped down the waterlogged road and searched out a cabin at Caribou Creek for the night. They were ATCO trailers that were all work and no play, but it might as well have been the Delta Bessborough for all I cared. We turned up the heat, dried off, chugged several pots of coffee and ate enough poutine to kill John Candy.
We were stuck, unable to move another inch. We called for a tow, but no one would do it past 6 pm on Father's Day. The only thing left to do was walk the highway and look for help.
Then it started to rain.
Best worst trip ever.
Footnotes
1. One of the few memories I have of this night was sleeping in my hammock for the first time, trying to get comfortable in the somewhat eerie atmosphere of the McDougal Creek campground. In the tent across from me, I overheard Matt complaining about a terrible smell and getting progressively agitated about it. He snorted and wheezed, demanding to know where it was coming from in an almost panicked state, as if his air mattress had sprung a leak of chlorine gas.
"Well, I did just take my boots off," Nate said. The perpetrators lay guiltily in the vestibule: two ripe wet socks, airing out in what I imagine was a state of advanced decomposition. Upon seeing the horrid origin, Matt flew into a fit of high-volume, gutteral dry heaving that ended with him puking somewhere outside the tent. I really enjoyed this and fell asleep shortly after.↩
2. My (ex) girlfriend's car — which I did not precisely inform her I would be taking on this trip.↩