Taking a leap of faith
Exploring the winding waters and wildlife with a warden at Algonquin Provincial Park
To celebrate Canada’s 150th birthday, we are exploring all 10 provinces and three territories. Today’s issue is devoted to Ontario. Watch for our Quebec coverage on Sept. 2.
ALGONQUIN PROVINCIAL PARK, ONT.— Lying close to the campfire to keep away the bugs and staring up at a sky awash in stars, a lone loon somewhere lets out its haunting cry and our conversation inevitably takes a spiritual turn.
“This is my church — this is what I believe in,” backcountry warden Dan Willmore tells me, his face flickering in the flame-lit dark. “When you spend an extended period here, you’re away from everything else and you can just get in tune with yourself again.”
We’re at the western edge of Algonquin Provincial Park, at the Rain Lake Ranger Cabin, which once stood at the head of a small logging village. I followed Willmore to the cabin for a night before we canoed into the park’s interior.
Willmore’s nearing his mid-40s, but could pass for being a decade younger. Raised on a ranch in southwestern Ontario, he got his first job with Ontario Parks at the age of 17.
“When I started working up here, I thought, ‘OK, well, this is it for me — this is where I want to be,’ ” he says.
Twenty-five years later, Willmore oversees a swath of wilderness that encompasses 50 lakes. If you need rescue, Willmore’s coming for you. If you look woefully unprepared as you set off, expect an impromptu seminar. If you leave your campsite full of garbage, Willmore’s writing a ticket and tracking you down.
As a backcountry warden, he has all the authority of a police and fishery officer within the park’s bounds.
Over breakfast the next morning, just after mist had burned off the dawn lake, we ask about bears.
“People think it will be this growling, snarling bear that’s coming for them, but usually, predatory bears are really calm and really quiet,” Willmore says. “They’ll just follow you and keep following you until you get tired and let your guard down.”
Food should be in a bear-proof bin or hung up in a tree, Willmore says. And nothing foodlike should be in my tent (“Not even toothpaste”). If a bear does approach, he tells me to stand tall and make noise. Running, he says, will only inspire it to chase.
“It’s not bears that create problem bears — it’s people,” he adds. “A lot of people don’t realize that if they leave their campsite a mess with food and a bear finds it, they’re putting other people at risk for bears returning to that site.”
Willmore tells the story of a bear that repeatedly broke into the same backcountry cabin. Each time, the bear was caught, tagged and moved. After the second break-in, they decided to relocate him to the other end of the park, 170 kilometres away. The following summer, the bear was back in the cabin again.
“They have an amazing internal GPS,” he says.
We pack up our gear into drybags and bear-proof barrels and set off in our canoe.
Rain Lake stretches out silently before us, trees coming in close to the rocky shore and loons bobbing on the surface before slipping into murky depths. At the other end of the long, twisting lake, Willmore steers us toward a marshy creek.
We punt, then get out of the canoe to pull it along, sinking shin-deep in foul-smelling, sucking muck that nearly claims my sandals.
Sawyer Lake is ahead, its water like glass, and we’re soon at our campsite, where a rocky promontory juts into the lake next to a stretch of wild beach that’s dotted with moose prints.
We spend the day lounging on the rocks and jumping into the cool water. The entire time, we’re the only people on the lake — just us, the loons and a neighbourhood beaver.
It’s the height of blackfly season (I’d been warned that late May through late June can be hellishly intense). But the payoff is a dearth of campers.
“Just think, without black flies, we wouldn’t have blueberries,” he says.
I have to say, I’m more than a little impressed with Willmore, who seems to be the embodiment of the perfect Canadian outdoorsman. There’s a proficient stoicism to him that’s paired with a gentle, contemplative demeanour. He even lives in a cabin he built himself on a sprawling wooded property near the park. In the park, he fills his canteen right from the middle of the lake (“I don’t recommend it to campers — you need to develop an internal ecosystem first”). And I’ve never seen anyone build a fire faster.
Willmore tells me that he relishes his role as a gatekeeper, protecting this important stretch of wilderness and seeing it transform people from as far away as Asia or as close as Toronto.
“People drive up from the city, and I can see that they’re stressed out,” he says. “They want their permit as soon as possible and they need to get in there as soon as possible. And then I see them after their trip, after they come out, and there’s just a glow. They have this aura — they’re totally relaxed and everything else is gone. It’s part of human nature, I think — the need to be in nature.” Daniel Otis was hosted by Ontario Parks, which did not review or approve this story.