This is the story of one of our first and most uncomfortable backcountry trips we ever experienced. I am 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.
There's not much for photos, but I hope you'll enjoy my story. I am a more humble man because of it.
Including myself, we were a group of seven. Matthew, the dizzy. David, the mustard bringer. Conan, the vegetarian. Sean, the nervous. Nathen, the one who packed nothing but mangoes and beer. And lastly, Kyle, the scout master. Kyle was the most experienced woodsman in our group having been involved with Scouts Canada as a kid. Some of it certainly stuck. He believed in letting you make your own mistakes, though most of his advice was in the form of grunts, squeals and awkward touching.
Our target was McDougal Creek, a trout stream that marked the north-eastern border of Narrow Hills Provincial Park, Saskatchewan. The plan: hike the length of the river over three nights, from the McDougal Creek campsite off the Hanson Lake Rd 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 must have communicated my plans poorly as the entire group showed up with picnic gear. As the trip planner, I also skimped on my shelter, which was a “Ticket to the Moon” hammock I got for three bucks at Value Village. In this, I would shelter under the world's worst tarp picked up at the gas station.
After a night boozing around the campfire and eating our entire supply of perishable food, we lazily packed our bags and left on our journey around noon. We travelled a heroic 2 km 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 camp site in a clearing near the river, fished for a couple small brook trout and cooked around the fire.
Around sundown, it set in that this was our first trip we'd ever been on in the true backcountry. We were in the middle of nowhere, in a place we'd never been before, and no one expected us home for days. 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. This was something I could get used to.
The next morning was a different feeling.
Our fire was long dead, and the mosquitoes were out in full swing. Nathen woke from a cold uncomfortable night, having slept all night under a fully exposed bivy tarp. Sean's tent collapsed overnight requiring him and Conan to sleep in improvised tarp-hammocks. Lastly, a front had moved in, bringing non-stop rain and a drop in temperature. The day looked miserable and we knew we had to make at least 4 km to put a dent in our hike. 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 cheap Deal Extreme Chinese garbage, and one thing was blatantly clear: we had a serious lack of leadership. Turns out nobody wants to be at the helm when you’re leading your friends, more or less aimlessly, through the 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. Whether Kyle wanted to or not, he became our de facto leader. We simply gauged his mood to indicate whether we were about to do something truly stupid.
Not the most ideal shoreline for hiking.
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 wearing cheap water shoes inspired me to stop being a baby. We just needed to get out.
While blazing our trail, Nate spotted a bear-bait barrel. 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 a short walk later — the car. our way to the gravel road. I willl never forget this relief. We jumped and cheered, you would think we won the lottery.
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.
The next morning Sean and I left for Regina, feeling triumphant over our own shoddy planning and the soggy clutches of nature's bosom. We were just north of Humboldt, still reveling in our newfound appreciation for the backcountry experience, when we came upon a road block. The highway was flooded. Eager to get home, we mapped a new route and set out on a detour. But what appeared to be road was actually waterlogged mud so slick it looked like pavement and I planted the car firmly and thoroughly. 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 raining again.
Best worst trip ever.