Cedar Canoes & Glassy Morning Portages in Algonquin
Returning to the Ontario backcountry lakes I grew up paddling—loons calling across mirror water and packs hoisted onto sore shoulders.
No matter how tall the mountains I visit later in life are, my nervous system resets fastest to the sound of water dripping off a wooden canoe paddle onto a flat Canadian Shield lake. Growing up in Ontario meant summers measured by provincial park permits, pine needles stuck to tent floors, and learning to balance a Kevlar yoke across your collarbones.
By night three, zero cell reception stops feeling like an absence and starts feeling like rare spaciousness. Loon calls echo from the far bay, stars double in density, and dehydrated ginger-scallion ramen eaten out of a titanium mug tastes like three Michelin stars.