DERAILED:

Disappointment, Backup Plans, and Unexpected Surprises on the Temagami River

You can plan a canoe trip for months—studying maps, preparing gear, and trying to account for every scenario you might encounter on the water.

But sometimes none of that matters.

Sometimes the trip unravels before it even begins. Transportation plans fall apart, logistics fail, and the carefully planned route becomes impossible. When the train meant to carry paddlers into the wilderness broke down, months of planning disappeared in an instant.

The Temagami River became the unexpected alternative.

DISAPPOINTMENT

Trying to get north from southern Ontario on a Friday during rush hour can be an absolute nightmare. Unfortunately, it was my only option. I was leaving directly from work to guide a group down the Spanish River for the next four days.

Most of the group was already at our rendezvous point on the French River, where we would spend the night before heading to the VIA Rail station in Cartier. From there, the train would carry us deep into the wilderness to begin the trip—an essential link in the plan.

But first, I needed to get there fast. There were introductions to make, trip briefings to run, and last-minute packing still to finish before our early departure in the morning.

I made astonishing time, taking backroads from Cambridge to Barrie before linking up with the usual route north at Highway 400. Just before 7 p.m., I rolled into Alban, a small town on the banks of the French River and home to the Organic Boat Shop’s French River location.

With Greg (OBS owner), our guests, and myself finally together, introductions were made and we started discussing the game plan for the following day.

Then, at 7:30 p.m., Greg’s phone buzzed.

An email from VIA Rail.

The baggage car scheduled to carry our canoes to the Spanish River put-in was out of commission.

Without it, there was no way to get the boats to the river.

Knowing Greg, my first reaction was that he was pulling my chain—he’s always taken a certain amount of joy in winding me up and watching my reaction.

The problem is that Greg is very good at keeping a straight face when he’s trying to pull a fast one.

Then he turned his phone toward me and showed me the email.

BACK-UP PLAN

Immediately, we sprang into action.

Call VIA Rail—customer service was already closed for the evening. Convenient.

Maps came out. Could we access the Spanish River put-in by road? No. Was there a little-known logging road that could get us in? We started making calls—outfitters, contacts, WhatsApp groups, even reaching out to paddling YouTubers (thanks, Tosh). Nothing.

There was no way onto the river at the Forks—our intended put-in.

Our best hope was a logging road off Highway 144 that would get us close to the East Branch, but that option was quickly shut down. Closed to public traffic.

At that point, it was clear.

The Spanish River canoe trip wasn’t happening.

Time for Plan B. More maps came out. Where do we go that’s close and still gives a similar whitewater vibe to the Spanish (sans train)?

I get on the phone with Jeremie, our Franco-Ontarian friend who lives nearby and is joining us in the morning. He’s already got Greg on hold—same idea.

We start throwing out options.

There weren’t many options within a similar distance that could be completed in the same timeframe and still offer a true whitewater canoe trip.

But Jeremie kept coming back to one idea.

The lower Temagami River.

He had paddled it several times earlier in the year and had been planting the seed for months. Back in July, while we were running Five Mile Rapids on the French River together during another OBS guided trip, he had already started making the case for it.

At the time, it felt like a shorter option—maybe too short.

So we started looking at ways to stretch it out.

The solution was to begin at Red Cedar Lake, adding a stretch of flatwater travel before reaching the river. An overnight stop on a beautiful island site on Thistle Lake would break up the trip nicely before continuing into the Temagami River system.

In hindsight, we probably didn’t need to extend it at all.

THE RESET

It was settled. We would be heading to the Temagami River in the morning.

New territory for me—always a bonus, although missing out on another run down the Spanish River is never something to celebrate.

With no train to catch, the morning felt different. Slower. We took our time getting organized before hitting the road. There was still a long drive ahead, plus the added task of shuttling my vehicle to the take-out—logistically more involved than what we had planned for the Spanish.

Still, there was no rush.

By the time we pushed off from Red Cedar Lake, we had plenty of daylight ahead of us. The plan was simple: make our way across the lake, paddle into Thistle, and settle in for the night.

The paddle began quietly. Calm water, sheltered travel—an easy start to a Temagami canoe trip.

Red Cedar is an access lake, and like most, it came with a handful of cottages and the occasional motorboat traffic. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that took away from the experience.

But after a quick portage around a dam and into Thistle Lake, the afternoon weather started to shift.

The wind picked up.

And it was coming straight at us.

The final kilometre into camp turned into a bit of a grind, pushing straight into the wind. But before long, we made landfall and started setting up.

Most of the group tucked into the trees for shelter. I headed for the beach.

It stretched out in front of camp, open and exposed, with a wide view across the lake. Windy, yes—but worth it.

It quickly became our hub. Cooking area first. Then, once the wind finally eased, our fire spot for the evening.

All in all, it was a great day. The site was incredible, the food hit the spot, and the company made it even better.

The next day, we would leave the expansive openness of lake travel behind and enter the tight confines of the river—a completely different perspective.

THE SURPRISE

The Temagami River didn’t overwhelm us right away.

At first, the transition was subtle. The calm rhythm of lake travel slowly faded as current began replacing still water. The river tightened, picked up pace, and gradually pulled us into a different style of paddling altogether.

It wasn’t demanding everything from us yet—but it was getting there.

We gave ourselves two days to cover this stretch of river—just 11 kilometres in total. A distance easily covered in a single day.

But that wasn’t the goal.

We stretched it into two, choosing a slower pace over efficiency. Time to read the water. Time to take it in. Time to let this trip unfold without rushing it.

Day one’s target was modest—about five kilometres.

It didn’t take long to reach our first real feature on the river—a wide ledge stretching across the channel, and our first true obstacle.

At the current water level—and with the skill level of the group—it was a straightforward call. Mandatory portage.

Once around the small falls, we pulled everyone together for an impromptu session—River Reading 101—followed by some hands-on practice: entering and exiting eddies, upstream ferries, getting a feel for how the current moves and how to work with it.

After a few laps, the learning curve kicked in. Smiles got wider. Confidence built quickly.

From there, we continued downstream to our stop for the night at Island Portage.

The site was something special.

It was an island split from the mainland by two small rapids—one in full view of camp, the other tucked just out of sight…though not entirely out of mind. It also happened to offer the best view I’ve ever had from a thunderbox.

We had arrived early, with plenty of time to slow things down. Lounge. Nap. Eat.

And, of course, run laps.

A small Class I rapid flowed right past camp, and with the portage trail cutting straight through the site, resetting for another run couldn’t have been easier.

More laps. More progress. More smiles.

Our final day was light on distance but packed with scenery, excitement, and problem-solving…not to mention potential portaging. There were five spots where we might have to carry boats if running or lining the rapids wasn’t possible.

The first of these bypassed several ledges and Island Falls—a mandatory portage.

After sizing it up, we decided to line over the ledges. There wasn’t a clean line around them, but careful boat handling got us through safely. On the other side, a calm pool offered a brief reprieve before we continued onto the portage around Island Falls.

Island Falls was a spectacle—Temagami at its best.

There’s something magical about a waterfall in an untouched wilderness setting. It may not be the biggest or most famous—speaking as someone who has lived in Niagara Falls my entire life—but in the backcountry, it feels different.

You hear it first. A distant hum. Then the unmistakable crashing of water.

Soon comes the cool mist and sudden drop in temperature, as though you’ve stepped into some hidden microclimate of a forgotten world.

For a moment, it feels impossible. Unreal. As if no one has ever stood where you’re standing before.

Of course, they have. But it doesn’t feel that way.

You take in the moment with your team. Cool off in the mist. Absorb it all. Then move on.

The carry itself wasn’t especially long, but the trail made sure we earned it. Poorly maintained, with steep climbs, sharp descents, and a 16-foot cliff at the end where gear had to be lowered down by hand, it quickly turned into an adventure of its own.

Type 2 fun at its finest.

For the short distance we covered, it was a long, demanding day. Technical water from start to finish—and a tremendous learning experience for everyone.

We scouted multiple rapids from both banks, searching for runnable lines. Long discussions followed at nearly every feature: run it, line it, or portage?

Smart decisions won out. Always a plus.

By late afternoon, with several portages behind us and only a few longer rapids remaining, the group was starting to show the wear of the day. Energy was fading. Focus was harder to maintain.

So we stayed calculated.

A few rapids that may have been runnable under fresher conditions were instead lined to safer starting points before getting back in to finish the set. Some would call that cautious. I’d call it smart.

Fatigue is when mistakes happen.

Adrenaline high. Energy low. Never a great combination.

Everyone had kept the open side of the boat facing up all day. No sense changing that now. The goal remained the same as always—make the right call, keep the group safe, and get everyone through as dry as possible.

That last part was becoming more important by the minute.

For the first time all trip, dark clouds were beginning to close in.

With the two largest rapids of the trip still between us and the take-out—and the weather beginning to turn—the urgency to get off the water was growing.

The first of these rapids demanded significant scouting. We spread out along the bank, debating options and searching for a clean line. In low water, it was an especially technical run with no obvious path through. A sizeable hydraulic formed river-left, and it wasn’t something I felt comfortable pushing the group through.

Instead, we chose to cross above the rapid and line the boats halfway down before getting back in to complete the run. Easier said than done. The right bank was a chaotic boulder garden that made moving boats downstream awkward and exhausting.

Still, we got there.

Back in the boats, we finished the run cleanly.

The feeling afterward was incredible. We had read the river correctly, made smart decisions throughout the day, and successfully worked our way through the biggest challenge of the trip. It felt like the perfect ending.

Still riding that high—and not wanting to push our luck—we chose to portage the final rapid rather than risk a late-day mistake on water that sat just beyond the group’s skill level. We put back in below the technical section, ran the remaining stretch with ease, and soon had the take-out in sight.

Right on cue, the skies finally opened up.

After three days of near-perfect timing, we loaded the boats in the pouring rain and began the soaked drive back to the OBS outpost.

THE TAKEAWAY

Despite everything that went wrong before the trip even began, it was hard not to laugh on the drive back.

The Spanish River had fallen apart before we ever launched a boat. What started as a backup plan had quietly turned into one of the most rewarding river trips I’d been a part of.

Not because everything went smoothly.

Because it didn’t.

And maybe that’s exactly why it worked.

There’s something different about rivers—something you don’t get from paddling a big lake.

Lakes can be beautiful, no question. But after a while, they start to feel familiar. Predictable.

Rivers never do.

No two are the same—and even the same river changes every time you paddle it. Water levels rise and fall. Banks shift. Obstacles appear and disappear. What was a clear line in low water can vanish completely in high flow. Maps help, but they’re often outdated the moment you unfold them.

A lake gives you space to drift—to think, to disconnect.

A river doesn’t allow it. It demands your attention. Every bend, every current, every sound pulling you back into the moment.

And yet, in all that movement, there’s something else.

The river carries you.

Where a lake feels open and exposed, a river feels enclosed—held within its banks. Things feel tighter. More immediate.

More alive.

 

Bill Wilkie