Petawawa (wawawawawa)

Night falls before our first day on the water

Lucky me. After a decade of paddling whitewater in many corners of my backyard mountains, I finally am in in a position to take it on the road . . . well, at least once per annum.

A splendid site

It was the spring of 2014. The one-day adventures that end with beers at the take out followed by a comfy bed are wonderful, but I'm not that old yet and can handle more. And while boating a steep, narrow line with little margin for error is a rush, I have more on the line and am not young enough to be doing that all the time. I was chasing something that would really stand out. An overnighter with good whitewater, but even more than that: To be dropped off in the middle of nowhere with a few days' worth of food and gear; to see nobody other than my own crew; to have no way out other than paddling the river for days; to see little sign of the hands of man; to camp wherever it felt right, just pull over to the the riverbank and set up; and even to paddle quietly across water so calm that I could watch rings originate from the drips of water off my paddle blades. For miles.

One of the many rapids

It is in Canada, on the Petawawa River in Ontario's Algonquin Provincial Park.

Sunset on Cedar Lake

I teamed up with two competent outdoorsmen and boaters for the trip. This was a very deliberately formed team. For one thing, Joe can build a fire in the middle of heavy sleet with nothing but his teeth. Oh, and he offered to drive. Brian's role on the team was equally important. He is an amateur astrologer. We didn't tell him that celestial navigation is actually astronomy and that you don't need it when you just point your boat downstream. He happens to be able to get rid of tendonitis, too. My role? I'm not sure, but the guys sure were appreciative when I agreed to carry a case of beer in my boat.

The Petawawa flows like a typical Canadian river. Between vacant miles-long lakes are long, powerful and thundering rapids. Most of those rapids are friendly enough, some of them are worth a look, and then there are the ones that are too dangerous to paddle, especially when all the gear you need to survive is weighing down your boat. But most of them are just plain beautiful and fun. A perfect river for my first-time expedition style trip.

A sneak

Our hired shuttle driver brought us deep into Algonquin Park to the edge of spectacular Cedar Lake, one of the few lakes in the park accessible by vehicle. The next morning we paddled away from the few trucks, trailers, and bass boats we saw until they were nothing but specks behind us. We were totally alone as the mirrored lake water transformed into a rushing torrent over the Cedar Lake Dam.

Looking for a line

Flat

As it turns out, the dam is runnable and not even much of a challenge. And so are many of the other "unrunnable" rapids on the Pet. That very first rapid set the stage for most of the rapids we encountered. We thought that our detailed guidebook would allow us to run most rapids without scouting unless a portage was necessary. Unfortunately, the book was usually wrong, either downplaying a rapid with monster holes worthy of a scout or overblowing a really great drop as being "deadly." Truthfully, we would have been better off without it. Any detailed map of the park would have have been sufficient.

A pool at a spectacular spot called The Natch

Our expectations of this kind of trip were also way off.  On our first day, we paddled about 25 miles which included two lakes, much less than I thought we'd get in. Getting out to scout took time, and while it was necessary, we didn't walk any of the rapids, even the mile-long set of rapids called McDonald that contained several "unrunnable" falls (Note: McDonald is outstanding and would be worth carrying upstream 8 km from the Lake Travers access just to get it, and all of its successors, into a super day trip).

Lake McManus: The third and final night

Camping the second night at the foot of "Portage Falls," the three of us examined the rapid for hours. There had to be a line. We had left our boats above the falls and carried our camping gear below so that in the morning we could attempt the drop with no gear in our craft. It worked well; we all dropped over three successive cascades with only one minor incident (but no yard sale!) and came back to our site to break it down and move on. It went on to be our eventual fall back plan: get the gear out and I might consider running a rapid that I wouldn't touch otherwise.

Run out of a long rapid

By 4:30 pm on the second day we had made our way a grand total of 3.5 miles for the day. Rather than paddling, we spent the day bushwacking, scouting, attaining back to a better vantage point, bushwacking again, dragging boats across islands, wading across tiny channels that are typically dry, repeat, bushwack to the portage trail, repeat, go back for a dropped paddle, repeat. It was a memorable day. Brian missed a ferry and we didn't see him for an incredibly long 20 minutes. Brian and Joe foolishly followed my instincts (or followed my foolish instincts) and went down the wrong channel. Twice.

Kayakers call those "holes."

The truth is that we didn't even SEE the biggest whitewater on the Pet up close, Poplar Rapids. We definitely heard it on that second day, and we all saw the pool below it from above as we got too close for comfort, but you can't see a waterfall from above. By the time we were in the woods dragging our gear-laden kayaks toward the bottom, the idea of getting back to the river so we could look at a rapid that we could hear and clearly not run was too much for any of us. When we got back to the water we were at the point where the Pet's current ends at Lake Travers. We paddled more mileage in the next hour across that lake than we had in the previous eight. But we didn't come for a picnic, right?

My friends are so ugly, they have to wear bags over their heads

By the third day of paddling we had settled into our routine. Mental inventories of gear location (surprisingly elaborate given that anything is either in the bow or in the stern) as well as understanding of the river itself had materialized. We got out to scout only once we heard the roar of whitewater, rather than where the guidebook suggested. We didn't spend time pondering. We ran it or we walked, efficiently, and we got through 30 miles of river by mid-afternoon. One of the rapids we portaged, the Crooked Chute, gave us a glimpse of what the Pet could dish out, and what Poplar Rapids may have looked like. We all saw the line. We all considered going for it for about 0.15 seconds. Then we all dragged our boats.

While I have some normal friends, others are not so much

We passed through an amazing gorge at a place called the Natch. Looking back on the trip now, it was the moment I fell in love with paddling multi-day trips. Thoreau would have been proud. There was perfect harmony in the scenery, the boat's motion across the water, and my mentality. I was buzzing from three days in the wilderness, continuous all-day effort, sleeping like a hibernating bear at night, and eating everything I could consume. I had become desensitized to how badly I smelled. Unfortunately it didn't last long and for the first time on trip I started to really miss my family.

When we camped that night on Lake McManus, a whippoorwill irritated us all night long. I've never had a better excuse for a lousy night sleep.

The final morning on McManus

Upon reaching the car the next morning, we had several days left before we had to head home. Our next destination, the Adirondacks on New York, would wait a day as we drove further down the Pet to attempt the "town section" through the city of Petawawa. Our shuttle driver from above brought us to the launch and described the line through the first rapid. "Everybody I've seen runs it on the right," he confidently told us as we peered downstream. There was nothing for us to see but whitecaps and disappearing water, but we took his word for it and foolishly shoved into the current. It was a mistake. As the river swept me down, I stayed right as I was told. Before long I was going uphill. This particularly unique scenario -- uphill, downstream motion -- is not anything to ponder for long. It means one thing: there is some really huge feature just over the hump of water. At the apex, I looked down through about 15 feet of vertical space into a very wide and supremely powerful hole. I screamed out loud.

After working to exhaustion for a few seconds, I found my way out of a vicious side-surf. Feeling victorious, I hollered out some kind of war cry and then felt that awful feeling again. I was rising. At the top of the next hump I looked down into an even worse looking V-shaped hole and just about puked at the sight of it.

Several minutes later, as I hugged the rocks along the mighty Petawawa adjacent to a huge, swirling eddy, both my kayak and my paddle obediently swirled over to me. It was like my dog had come over for another walk around the block after mauling me. I was bloody and coughing, and just as I would have done with the dog, I said "no more today, buddy." We all walked the next big rapid and headed back across the border.

If you are a boater and are looking for an introduction to multi-day kayak excursions, definitely consider the Petawawa. May is a bit early in the season, though in most of the rapids we did not feel that we were being pushed around. However, whenever the river is channelized and steep, you're looking at big water.

And don't trust the guidebook.