Preface
I had just doused the evening fire and was walking toward the tent to curl up inside my cozy sleeping bag for the night when I heard it -- a single wolf howl. The haunting cry of the wolf lured me into my canoe and I paddled quietly down the weedy shoreline toward the echoing call.
A few minutes later I stopped paddling and gave out a long, drawn-out howl. Immediately I heard a response coming from the nearby roadway. In hopes of spotting the canine, I dipped my paddle blade into the water and pushed my canoe slowly around a rock outcrop. To my surprise, instead of a wolf, I came upon a group of over two hundred campers standing along the shoreline in silence as a park interpreter sounded out a third howl.
Not wanting to be discovered, I slipped back behind the point and waited there in silence until the crowd moved back toward the road. I sheepishly paddled back to my campsite feeling somewhat cheated out of my wilderness experience.
Let's face it, at times, canoeing Algonquin can be downright frustrating. I've had bombers from the Petawawa Air Base scare me silly as they flew low over my campsite on Pen Lake; I've had to clamber through an entanglement of logging roads and railway tracks along a portage; I've photographed moose equipped with radio collars; and I've dealt with nuisance bears with colored tags clipped to their ears. I've also spent countless hours pushing the redial button on my telephone trying to make a reservation on my favorite lake, only to get through and find out that it was completely booked. Even after I was finally able to reserve a spot, I was forced to line up at the gatehouse to receive a list of rules and regulations before I could push my way through the crowds on the portage.
So why do I bother? Why do I still spend every possible moment paddling and portaging Algonquin's semi-wilderness? Because, for me, this 2,955 square miles (7,653 sq kin) of Central Ontario parkland holds innumerable memories: photographing a merganser mom as it tried to lead seventeen fluffy ducklings along the shoreline in a straight line; watching as a trophy-size trout gurgled up to the surface of the river to snatch the fly on the end of my line; waking up on time to see the early-morning mist blanket the lake around my island campsite; and sleeping under the rustic remains of a ranger cabin as a storm was building outside. One of my most unforgettable memories is the moment I caught a quick glimpse of a real wolf lapping up the tea-colored water of the less-traveled Nipissing River. This book is both a collection of my memories and a guide to places where you can escape to gather your own.
Anywhere a large number of canoeists gather there is a lengthy list of rules to follow. There is, of course, a ban on bottles, cans, chain saws, radios, firearms and motorboats on the majority of lakes, and a valid interior camping permit must be carried at all times. The permit allows up to nine canoeists (local camps traditionally traveled three per canoe) to camp at any designated site marked by an orange sign. At each access point you must lay out your projected route to the gatehouse attendant, and you must keep to it, especially within Controlled Camping Zones (lakes within a day's travel from the put-in).
Equally important to park rules is canoe-camping etiquette. On a portage (marked by yellow signs), the person carrying the canoe should always be given the right of way (even if the canoe is made of lightweight Kevlar). Also, be sure never to block either the put-in or the take-out with gear or canoes while carrying across a portage. In camp, dishwashing and hair washing should be done at the back of the site, away from the lake, and a stack of dry wood should be left behind for the next campers. Finally, keep the noise to a minimum: no wolf howling after midnight!
