CAMPING IN ARROWHEAD PROVINCIAL PARK, ONTARIO. JULY 20-24, 2023
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| Google satellite map of Arrowhead Park. It shows the Big East River and plenty of oxbow lakes, formed after meanders in the river have been breached. Over time, an oxbow lake gradually fills with sediment and organic material, eventually transforming into a swamp or bog, and finally drying up into a meander scar on the landscape. This process occurs because the lake is cut off from the main river's flow and loses its water source to evaporation, while also collecting sediment and plant debris. It is possible to see such meander scars on the map as well. The red dot marks our campsite. |
THIS IS AN INTERACTIVE GOOGLE MAP OF OUR TRIP
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| I should have brought my canoe and fishing equipment-we could have canoed and fished just at our campsite! |
After the rather disappointing trip to the French River, we were eager for a change of pace. This time, we wanted a “regular” camping experience—easily accessible by car, with fewer uncertainties and more predictable conditions. Arrowhead Provincial Park seemed perfect. Months earlier, I had reserved our campsite, number 337 (45°22'47.2"N 79°12'25.7"W), the very same spot I had stayed at before. The fire ban had finally been lifted, and the weather forecast looked promising—at least, relatively normal for midsummer—so we could anticipate the simple pleasure of an evening campfire, long missed on our previous adventure.
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| Our campsite #337. Fortunately, water did not collect on the campsite, just in the "driveway" only |
Interestingly, for the first time, no printed permit was required. The park sign clearly stated that if you had a reserved site, you could drive straight there. I silently congratulated modern bureaucracy for once being convenient instead of the usual headache.
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| The tarp turned out to be very useful. Somehow we did not mind the rain-it was gone very quickly |
When we arrived at our site, we found it dotted with large puddles from recent rains. Anticipating the showers forecasted, we immediately set about pitching our tents and tarp. It was a wise decision—by the time we finished, the sky opened, and heavy rain poured down. We took shelter in the car for a while, listening to the rhythm of water falling on the roof, waiting for it to ease. Once it subsided, we assessed the site: the puddles had grown even larger, reminding me that a canoe could have been very useful, and that fishing right at our campsite might have been possible. Still, the wood I had hidden under the tarp remained perfectly dry. Soon, we were seated around a warm campfire, enjoying glasses of red wine, reveling in the quiet, soothing sounds of the forest around us. Later in the afternoon, we drove into Huntsville, a charming city nearby (45°19'35.0"N 79°13'06.2"W). We wandered a bit, picking up some supplies and enjoying the town’s relaxed pace.
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| This is the park's major attraction, the Big Bend Lookout |
While in the park, we decided to explore a bit. Our first stop was the Big Bend Lookout, a short hike offering a panoramic view of the meandering Big East River (45°23'18.4"N 79°11'30.0"W / 45.388444, -79.191667). The river carved its way through the lush Muskoka terrain, the sunlight glinting off gentle curves of water. The surrounding forests were alive with bird songs, the occasional rustle of small mammals moving through the underbrush, and the rich earthy scent that only a post-rain forest can deliver.
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| Robinson's General Store in Dorset |
Afterwards, we headed toward Dorset, a tiny community perched between Big and Little Trading Bay on Lake of Bays. The Dorset Channel connects the two bays, and the water gleamed under the afternoon sun. The famous Robinson’s General Store (45°14'41.0"N 78°53'38.0"W) was our first stop. The store, operating under the same family ownership from 1921 until 2023, retained its classic charm It had all the charm of a bygone era: wooden shelves stacked with preserves, handmade goods, and trinkets that made you consider, briefly, that your urban life was missing something. Catherine had always loved visiting here during our trips, enjoying ice cream. This time, Chris and I indulged in ice cream, sitting outside near the narrow channel while watching boats glide past in the narrows. Lake of Bays clearly catered to an upscale crowd; the cottages scattered along the shore spoke of wealth and taste, and even groceries were priced accordingly—steaks selling for nearly $200 per kilogram was a stark reminder.
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| Dorset, the channel |
In 2017 a plaque ( in the English and the Ojibwe language) was unveiled there, commemorating the Anishinaabeg at Lake of Bays:
A water-based people, the Anishinaabeg – the original people of this region – were a hunter-gatherer society that often travelled here to the narrows at Trading Bay (Lake of Bays). The area that is now Dorset was a special, spiritual place abundant in natural resources. For thousands of years the Anishinaabeg set up small camps here harvesting maple syrup and birch bark, fishing and trading in the spring and summer, and hunting and trapping during the fall and winter. Eventually, the Anishinaabeg realized that their hunting and harvesting rights and territory had been lost through a series of treaties. They continued to travel to the region to work as fishing and hunting guides and trading with seasonal tourists and cottagers. The descendants of the Anishinaabeg are members of the seven First Nations of the Williams Treaties (1923), the nearest of which is the Chippewas of Rama First Nation. The legacy of the original inhabitants lives on through the many landmarks, rivers, lakes, and islands that bear Anishinaabemowin (Ojibwe) place names.
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| Welcome to Dorset! |
Later I revisited the Herb Lake put-in point (45°14'44.8"N 78°47'39.1"W), where Catherine and I had spent a week canoeingin 2016 (https://ontario-nature.blogspot.com/2017/08/haliburton-highlands-herb-lake-ontario.html). The memories came rushing back: mist hovering over the water, quiet paddle strokes, loons calling in the distance. Even without the canoe, it felt as though the lake was whispering, “Welcome back, old friend.”
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| Mr. Albert Maw, the legendary canoe maker |
A real highlight was visiting Mr. Albert Maw, the legendary local canoe maker behind Northland Canoes (45°27'22.5"N 79°13'15.1"W). I wrote about Mr. Maw in my other blog, https://ontario-nature.blogspot.com/2023/05/arrowhead-provincial-park-ontario.html. I thought he wasn’t home, as there were eggs for sale and no one in sight—perfect opportunity to leave money in an envelope, Canadian-style (although this system of trust would rarely work in Toronto). But suddenly, Mr. Maw appeared. At 89, he was remarkably spry, full of stories and sharp wit. He shared accounts of accidents he had endured over the years, even showing me some disfigured bones, yet despite the physical toll, he seemed vibrant and energetic. We then walked to his workshop, where he was repairing an old canoe, replacing ribs and attending to decades-old wood. He mentioned this would be the last canoe he worked on, having decided to retire—but I’m convinced he’ll find a thousand other ways to keep busy, active and creative. Watching him work was inspiring; his focus and dedication were a testament to a life lived fully in harmony with craft and nature.
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| Mr. Maw was working on this canoe and he said it was his last! |
Packing up, we took one last walk around the campsite. The trees, the river, and the open skies had provided a welcome contrast to the French River experience. By 8:30 am on July 24, 2025, our tents were packed, the tarp folded, and the campsite returned to its natural state. Arrowhead had given us exactly what we needed: a manageable adventure, a touch of nostalgia, and a quiet connection to the natural world—reminding me that camping, whether canoeing through remote rivers or driving to a car-accessible park, always has the power to recharge the spirit. As we drove away, I felt a profound gratitude for the simple pleasures of camping: fire, forest, water, and the quiet joy of shared moments in nature.
To wideo/vlog jest również dostępne w języku polskim/this video is available in the Polish language.
Ten blog is również dostępny w języku polskim/this blog is available in the Polish language.
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| Our campsite #659 (since it's an older map, it appears as "614") on Boom Island |
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| Yet another map of the French River, showing our campsite (yes, the bear's paw!) |
There are places that draw you back again and again, no matter how many years pass. For me, that place has always been the French River—a wilderness of slow-moving water, sun-baked rock, and endless silence that has held me in its spell since 1995. Every time I return, it feels like I’m not simply revisiting a destination, but a part of my own past.
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| Usually there is a long lineup at Tim Hortons in King City... |
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| ...but it's worth the wait-the coffee is excellent! |
After a three-year break from canoeing (my last trip was with Bulent in 2020—see my blog, https://ontario-nature.blogspot.com/2020/08/french-river-provincial-park.html), I was restless to be back. The last trip had been in August 2020, and since then, my canoe had been gathering dust in the storage, a patient companion waiting for its next voyage. In early summer 2023, I decided it was time to bring it out again, clean it, and prepare for another journey down the river that has shaped so many of my summers.
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| This map shows just ONE part of the French River-it's a really amazing place for canoeists or kayakers! |
As always, packing was a ritual—and one that revealed, once more, that I was not a minimalist. My car brimmed with bags, tarps, tools, and all those “just-in-case” items that experience tells you you’ll never use but comfort tells you to bring anyway. Why not? The canoe was spacious, and this was camping, yes—but camping should be comfortable, too.
Chris and I set out from Mississauga on June 18, 2023, the start of yet another northern escape. The first leg was familiar—coffee at Tim Hortons in King City, a stop we’ve made countless times before, followed by a longer break in Parry Sound, where we browsed the Thrift Shop and stocked up on last-minute groceries at No Frills.
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| Our campsite number 113 in Grundy Lake Provincial Park. Not bad-very close to the lake |
We weren’t in any hurry. The rhythm of the road north isn’t about rushing—it’s about easing into the slower pace of the wilderness. By the afternoon, we arrived at Grundy Lake Provincial Park, where we’d booked campsite number 113 (45°55'39.1"N 80°32'59.6"W / 45.927533, -80.549900)—a familiar site that Chris and Catherine had shared with me on previous trips.
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| Just steps from our campsite, we could enjoy this view! I remember that over 10 years ago Catherine actually swam to one of the islands! |
The site was almost on the lake itself, with smooth, sloping rocks perfect for sitting and watching the ripples catch the evening light. As we settled in, I noticed a semi-dead garter snake on the road near our campsite, likely struck by a passing car. A park warden happened to drive by; he stopped, looked, and quietly confirmed what I already knew—it couldn’t be saved.
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| The rock formation very close to our campsite. Catherine and I used to sit here, enjoying red wine or cold beer |
Normally, a campfire would have followed dusk, but the north had been dry for weeks, and a total fire ban was in effect. Fortunately, we’d come prepared with extra propane canisters, though it didn’t quite replace the warmth and ritual of sitting by the flames. Without a fire, the evening fell silent quickly, and so did we—crawling into our tents earlier than usual, lulled by the quiet hum of the forest.
Morning came clear and bright. We packed up efficiently, ready to make the final push toward the river. Before turning off the highway, we stopped at the Hungry Bear Restaurant (46°01'41.5"N 80°35'37.4"W)—a local institution. French fries and coffee might not sound like much, but somehow, in that little log building surrounded by pines, it always tastes better.
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| My car & canoe at the Hungry Bear Restaurant and the Trading Post |
Inside, a photograph caught my attention: Terry Fox (1958–1981), sitting at one of the tables, smiling faintly, eating dinner. The photo stopped me cold. In 1980, he’d run across Canada—a marathon every day—to raise money for cancer research. His journey ended near Thunder Bay when the cancer returned, and he passed away less than a year later. Seeing his face there, in this modest roadside diner, made me think of all the quiet intersections between history and ordinary life. Not only had he eaten there, but he had stayed in the adjacent motel, now long gone.
By late morning, we reached Hartley Bay Marina (46°02'07.8"N 80°45'37.0"W / 46.035500, -80.760278), the true starting point of our wilderness adventure. The marina was quiet—only a few trucks in the parking lot, the faint smell of gasoline from outboard motors, and the steady buzz of insects.
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| The canoe being loaded at Hartley Bay. |
We unloaded the car slowly, savoring the anticipation. There’s always that peculiar mix of excitement and calm before launching a canoe—the sense that, for the next stretch of time, the world will shrink to the rhythm of paddles and the hiss of water against the hull.
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| I can never understand why we bring so much stuff... and it is always a miracles everything fits into the canoe! |
It was hot and cloudless, the kind of day that tests your patience and your sunscreen. As we pushed off and began paddling down the river, the heat rose from the water in shimmering waves. The wilderness had welcomed us back—with beauty, with silence, and with a fierce, unrelenting sun.
We paddled slowly through the familiar channels of the French River Delta, the canoe sliding soundlessly over the glassy water. It felt good to be back—every bend, every island, every ridge of wind-polished granite seemed like an old acquaintance. The air was still, heavy with heat, and the rhythmic splash of paddles echoed softly between the rocky shores.
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| Yes, a major Canadian Railway Line passes through Hartley Bay! Passengers trains used to stop there, unloading canoeists and their canoes, but it was very long time ago. Since the railway crossings do not have any barriers or lights, the trains always use their very loud whistles, which we could faintly hear at our campsite. |
Our plan was to reach Campsite #659 (46°01'20.3"N 80°49'36.8"W / 46.022306, -80.826889)—a site I had camped on before, a small island that offered both shelter and open views across the river. I remembered it as a place of evening breezes, sun-warmed rocks, and the feeling of total solitude. Since Chris was not very keen on paddling too much, I hoped that we could set up our campsite on that very spot. So, we paddled just across Wanapitei Bay towards Boom Island and then headed south along its eastern shores. There were not too many canoeists; an occasional motorboat showed up here and there and quickly disappeared behind numerous islands.
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| Our tents were very close to the water, the (unused) firepit was on the rock on the left, and we usually sat under the tarp or in the shade. The beaver dam was on the right, a few meters above the river's water level. |
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| A different look at the campsite, from the firepit rock |
We had cold beer and quickly explored the area, which had not changed much since 2020. Just meters from the campsite was a sturdy beaver dam and a very big and picturesque beaver pond (Bulent and I had dragged the canoe there and spent over one hour paddling on the pond). We thought about setting up our tents farther up the hill, but eventually pitched them very close to the water, like in 2020.
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| This is the view from our campsite we could enjoy every day. The bay was a popular spot for fishermen, who often visited it, yet only once managed to catch a very small pike. |
There was a rocky outcrop with a fire pit. There was no better place to drink coffee or simply sit and watch the sunlight turn the surface gold. A few steps up the slope there was a more-less flat area where we set up a tarp. Several meters to the east was a thunderbox (i.e., a toilet), facing the beaver dam and pond.
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| It was also a good spot for pitching tents. Instead, we spent most of the day here |
When we walked farther up the hill, we saw additional clearings where apparently some people had been setting up tents, but for us they were too far from the water—besides, mosquitoes were always more active and numerous in forested areas. To the west of our bivouac was another campsite. We could access it either by walking through the forest, or by walking along the rocky shores; the latter path was a little precarious and required some maneuvering. During our stay, the other site remained unoccupied. For some reasons, French River Provincial Park had just decided to change the numbering of campsites in the whole park and the map I had with me had the old numbers. Thus, in 2020 our campsite was number 614; now in 2023 it was number 659 (46°01'20.3"N 80°49'36.8"W / 46.022306, -80.826889). I had no idea why the park renumbered the campsites, but of course, the government knew best…
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| This is how campsites are marked. The signs are visible from very far, yet it's much better to rely on a GPS unit or a map. In the past, we were unable to find certain campsites. And when Catherine and I embarked on our first canoe trip on the French River, we located a spot where, according to the map, the campsite was supposed to be, yet did not see any sign (at that time the signs were much, much smaller). Eventually I saw a fallen tree... with the sign attached to it! |
I was pretty sure that my cell phone would not be working there, yet I tried… and there was signal! Thus, I was able to send a few text messages to friends, get weather reports and call home–especially on July 1, 2023, my Mother’s name-day, to wish her “Happy Name Day!”. Alas, her last one… Chris was also able to call Poland.
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| Even a semi-intelligent black bear could have reached our food! |
French River Provincial Park, as most parks in Ontario, has plenty of black bears, so hanging our food supplies was a must. It took us a while to find an appropriate branch and even longer to throw the rope around it. Finally, I succeeded and each night, before turning in, we would pull the barrel up, a task neither of us was looking forward to! We also had to hang the cooler on a different tree branch. I am sure that a persistent and determined bear could have grabbed both the barrel and the cooler anyway—not long ago I had watched a video about a bear that was actually “walking” along a rope between two trees! So, I did not think there was a totally bear-proof way of securing our food. All I could say was that luckily we never saw a bear or any traces of its activity during our stay.
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| A view from our campsite, of the moon's reflection in the water |
We were planning to spend at least a couple of hours fishing (both from our campsite and the canoe)–in fact, we did not even bring enough food, being very confident in our fishing abilities and expecting to catch at least 2 fish every day, enough for lunch and/or dinner. I also wanted to explore other areas of the French River and perhaps paddle around Boom Island (on which we were staying). Unfortunately, our plans were thrown off by a number of factors beyond our control. Whereas I did try to enjoy the two-week long trip, it was certainly quite disappointing and not very successful.
Of course, listening to the radio, and especially several times to the daily news, was our daily custom. Several newsworthy events occurred while we were camping.
As I mentioned before, we never saw any bears, which was a good thing: whereas I knew that they were extremely unlikely to attack humans, Chris and I had already experienced the damage they were capable of causing: while camping on the same island in 2015, we had had up to 4 black bears visit our campsite daily, and one of them destroyed some of our camping supplies and all water containers.
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| This Midland Painted Turtle was trying to create a nest to lay eggs |
Incidentally, we brought 4 cans of bear spray. One canister had no safety clip and I dropped it, without even realizing it. As it hit the ground, it struck the trigger and there was a minute discharge of its content… right into my face. Suddenly I sensed that horrible taste in my mouth, which lasted for a while. It took me several minutes to realize what had just happened!
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| We saw the Midland Painted Turtles daily |
However, we did see other animals. Of course, there were seagulls, which quickly descended on the bare rock where we left the fish guts and heads. It was amazing to watch them swallow huge chunks of meat and slice bigger ones with th
eir beaks! A few fights even broke out among them over who was getting the best chunks.
Only once did I see a small deer, at the end of the bay. Despite being so close to the beaver pond, we never spotted any beavers, which are mainly nocturnal creatures, yet we heard them at night.
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| Garter Snake |
There were a number of Midland Painted Turtles, which were often walking on land and digging holes, most likely to lay eggs. Sometimes I was observing (and videotaping) them for well over one hour! They were very determined to dig the holes in soft soil and kept working very diligently. I hoped to eventually watch them lay eggs, yet the heavy rain literally obliterated their work.
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| The beaver pond almost at our campsite looked amazing! In 2020 Bulent and I paddled on it for over one hour. Unfortunately, this time I really wanted to take the canoe up here and go for a paddle, but one of us was too lazy... |
I saw a garter snake; another snake must have gotten under Chris’ tent and met its demise under his weight; it was only when it started to smell that Chris realized what had happened! A huge snapping turtle once swam to the rock on which I was sitting and fishing, but quickly vanished in the dark water.
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| Thanks God, the beaver dam was very solid and even though it was leaking a little, it did not burst during the horrible downpour! |
However, the highlight of our trip was seeing, twice, a bald eagle! It was majestically flying above our campsite. Interestingly, Bulent and I had seen a bald eagle in 2020 too, almost at the same location.
Since fishing had always been good on the French River, instead of bringing a lot of food, we brought oil, veggies, onions, garlic and spices which we were planning to use along with the fish we would catch. I even brought a few recipes on how to make a fish soup. Well, in the past it took just an hour or less to catch a pike or two.
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| Despite Chris' and my efforts, we only caught 3 fish in 2 weeks!!! |
We began casting from our campsite the day after our arrival and caught a pike; then the next day, after fishing for a few hours, another pike and bass. And that was all! Yes, we caught just 3 fish in 2 weeks!!!
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| The scenic coves and bays should be teeming with fish! |
I knew that we were not top anglers, that our fishing equipment was simple and cheap, and that we were no longer as determined as many very serious fishermen. But it was no excuse for such pitiful results! We would often continuously cast for an hour or even two in the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening, yet we did not even hook any fish! We never saw any fish jump out of the water either–usually a positive portend. After a while fishing became such a tedious, monotonous and unproductive activity that we treated casting as a form of exercise or entertainment, not even thinking about catching anything.
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| I don't even know if we should be proud of this relatively small pike... |
But it was not just us. The bay where our campsite was located turned out to be a perfect fishing spot, as many motor boats, with up to 5 anglers, visited it, often numerous times per day. We were curiously observing them casting in all directions. Most, if not all the boats, were equipped with fish-finders, had sturdy nets, and their occupants had superior equipment, much better than ours. Yet they had even worse luck than we did–only once did we see somebody catch ONE very small pike, which was immediately released! One morning a family of 4 spent over 2 hours in our bay, incessantly casting and checking out all nooks and crannies of the bay. Eventually they got very disappointed and left empty handed.
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| Probably our second day, Christ is cleaning a fish. Little did we know that it would be the last one! |
One evening I saw a fishing boat, slowly trolling along the rocky shore of one of the islands some one kilometer from our campsite. Since it was very calm, and the sound carried quite well over the water, I could hear voices coming from that boat, inferring they were fishing. After an hour or so, I suddenly heard a commotion coming from that direction.
“A walleye, a walleye!,” they were shouting excitedly, as if they hooked a trophy musky! I bet it was the only fish they caught in a long time!
The lack of fish–and thus nourishment–eventually caused us to one day paddle back to the marina (almost 2 hours). We tied the canoe to the dock, got into the car, drove to the town of Noëlville (46°08'01.1"N 80°25'53.9"W / 46.133639, -80.431639), a French-speaking community, went to the local supermarket (Foodland) and bought some food items. We also brought empty bottles to get drinking water. Yet we were told to better buy water in the local store (Home Hardware) and did; even though I had a water filter with me, I preferred to avoid drinking lake water, even filtered. We also bought two big salads–both of us had a craving for fresh vegetables–and we drove to the Hungry Bear Restaurant, where we sat at a bench outside, near the big map of the French River, and consumed it. Then we drove back to Hartley Bay Marina, put our stuff into the canoe and paddled back to our campsite. Of course, we also bought beer and ice—cold beer was absolutely delicious in such a hot weather!
I presumed that due to the hot weather conditions, mosquitoes would be less bothersome than normally. Unfortunately, it was not the case–and I should have known that: while camping on the French River with Chris in 2018, on a campsite not far from our current one, it was very hot, too. Well, so hot that a fire broke out in the park and we were told to evacuate immediately. At that time, despite very dry conditions and lack of rain, there were so many mosquitoes emerging in the evening that it was literally impossible to do anything whatsoever, and we had to hide in the tents between 8 and 9 pm.
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| It may look gross, but this contraption worked like magic! |
In terms of mosquitoes, this summer was quite similar. At around 9:00 pm (the best time to enjoy the view of the area while sitting on the rock, or even go for a quick paddle, or do some fishing, or, of course, to sit around the fire IF there was no fire ban) swarms of mosquitoes materialized–so many that spraying with DEET was totally pointless, as in no time they were getting into our eyes, nostrils, ears and mouth. So we had to hastily head to our tents and stay there until the morning. Because of the hot weather, canoeing at night would be perfect, yet the mosquitoes made such an undertaking impossible!
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| A very typical scenery on the French River. Many cottage owners are from the United States. When I was canoeing on the French in 2020, during COVID-19, quite a few cottages were vacant, as their owners/occupants were unable to cross the border to Canada |
Although there were some mosquitoes active during the day–actually, plenty deeper in the forest–because we were sitting in the clearing, they hardly bothered us. Yet other insects were extremely annoying–horse and deer flies! They were all over us and we had to be very careful not to let them inflict painful bites! Using DEET in this case was somehow effective. However, we also employed a method that eliminated over 90 per cent of such insects. For some reasons, such flies always hovered over our heads and tended to sit on our heads–or head coverings, as we were wearing hats. So, we attached sticky patches designed to catch flies to the top of our hats. They worked perfectly! Each time a fly landed on the patch, it stayed there… forever! In less than two days our patches were full of dead or dying flies and had to be replaced with new ones.
The black fly season was usually over at the end of June, but there must have been some, as I got bitten a few times. Of course it was nothing—had we camped in May/June, I was sure we would have quickly headed home!
The weather turned out to be the biggest problem and to a large degree it really ruined our vacation.
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| My car shows that the outside temperature was +35 C |
It was so hot and dry that on June 1, 2023 a fire ban was implemented in all areas of Northern Ontario, which was understandable: it was scorching and many forest fires, especially in the province of Quebec, were raging out of control. The inability to sit around a campfire in the evening (let alone using it for cooking) was already a big letdown, but of course, we accepted it–and as far as I knew, so did everyone else.
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| Chris sitting around the firepit, probably imagining a campfire! |
Nevertheless we did not expect such a weather. The scorching heat (temperatures were in the mid 30s C) made our stay unbearable. It was just impossible to be in the open–each morning we would head up the hill and sat under the tarp or sought shaded areas. Canoeing on the open water was out of the question! Every hour or so we had to move our chairs to stay in the shade. We were reading books, talking and just relaxing, frequently drinking water.
I brought a few books with me. “Lenin's Tomb: The Last Days of the Soviet Empire” by David Remnic, a Pulitzer Prize Winner, turned out to be an excellent book about the collapse of the Soviet Union. Those who for some inexplicable reasons still defend that system, should read this book!
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| This is a view we could enjoy from our campsite. There was a cottage on one of the islands and we could see as well as its residents. |
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| This is the same place... and no, it was NOT a morning mist (we never saw any mist), it was the smoke coming from the forest fires hundreds of kilometers north in Quebec! |
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| Again, this is NOT mist, but SMOKE! |
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| Some photos were quite artistic because of the mist! |
We kind of hoped that after the thunderstorms, the fire ban would be lifted, but it was not—after all, the storm could have been relatively localized and most of the area was still very dry. Besides, many Ontario firefighters had gone to Quebec to help fight forest fires there and thus the province did not want to take any chances.
When we arrived at our campsite, I drove a stick into the ground to mark the water level. When we were leaving, the stick was over 2 meters farther from the water level–yet another indication how dry it was!
On June 04, 2023 we packed and at 8:30 am left the campsite for Hartley Bay Marina. It was a very calm, sunny and hot morning and it took us 90 minutes to reach the marina. Even though it was still early, the sweltering heat and scorching sun were so bad that after one hour of paddling both of us were exhausted. Nevertheless, we realized that it made no sense to take a break–besides, finding any shade was next to impossible.
Incidentally, a week or so later one of the MeetUp groups I belonged to organized a weekend canoe trip that did not involve any portaging. I was quite interested in signing up, yet the thought of paddling the whole day in such a weather immediately deterred me from participating in this otherwise easy expedition.
As we were paddling, I thought about how many times I’d returned here since that first trip in 1995, and how each visit has marked a different season in my life. The French River never changes, not in its essence, but somehow it reflects back whatever you bring with you — excitement, exhaustion, nostalgia, hope. It’s a mirror more than a place.
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| From time to time, we saw canoeists or kayakers |
When the landing finally came into view, I felt that familiar mix of relief and reluctance. Civilization was only a few minutes away, but part of me always lingers behind — in the sound of water against the hull, in the light on the rocks, in the quiet that follows after you stop paddling.
Every return trip ends the same way: with the promise of coming back. Because no matter how many times I visit, the French River always has another story waiting to be found.
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| Very original designs, which were quickly sold out. Alas, "Made in China"! |
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| Yet another original purse |
Afterwards, we drove to Alban to the grocery store and the liquor store, and drove to Grundy Lake Provincial Park, again staying on campsite number 113 (45°55'39.1"N 80°32'59.6"W / 45.927533, -80.549900). The fire ban was still in effect, so we cooked some steaks using our dependable iron cast frying pan. In the morning, July 5, 2023, we spoke to a camper staying nearby–I showed her the map of French River Provincial Park and explained the place I had camped. She had never been there, and I was pleasantly surprised that a young Canadian woman could be enthusiastic about visiting and exploring a part of her province, instead of traveling to faraway countries abroad.
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| Despite the hot weather, the fire ban, smoke, mosquitoes, flies and the lack of fish, I'm looking forward to coming back to this beautiful piece of paradise! |
In the morning we packed up and Chris washed the iron cast frying pan, leaving it somewhere to dry. Unfortunately, that was the last time we ever saw it… After breakfast, we left Grundy Lake and drove back home to Mississauga. On our way home we stopped in Parry Sound, went to the Salvation Army Thrift Shop, then paid a quick visit to the Stockey Art Center and soon were on our way back home. The trip was over, yet it had left its mark, as all French River trips do — memories etched in sunlight, water, and rock.
Ten blog jest dostępny w języku polskim/This blog is available in the Polish language.
