Is Backcountry Canoe Camping With a Baby Worth It?

Jennifer Malloy

July 1, 2023

    

A sudden squall whips down the shores of Maligne Lake. The calm waters that our paddles slice through with such ease only moments before are now a sea of wild whitecaps that beat against the side of the canoe. Before I became a parent, this type of chaos would have made me uneasy, but now, despite the fact that my nine-month-old son is sleeping soundly at my feet in his infant life jacket, I devolve into full-on panic. In the stern, my husband navigates along the shoreline looking for a spot to to wait out the storm, but the tangled foliage offers little room to land and secure a canoe.

^{Seamus Malloy}

Eventually, a narrow opening emerges amidst the gnarled logs and twisted shrubs. I leap out of the canoe, and, ignoring the chill of the glacial water licking my shins, I grab my son and scramble up the bank. While the surrounding trees offer little respite from the howling wind, it gives me a harried moment of reflection, to dig deep and ask if canoe camping in the backcountry of Jasper National Park with my baby is truly worth it.

^{Seamus Malloy}

In the summer of 2020—when my son was no more than an idea yet to be explored—my husband and I found ourselves with cancelled international travel plans and an absence of tourists in Canada’s most famous national parks. We figured there was no better way to scratch the quarantine itch than to take a trip to Jasper, where we landed on a golden hour boat tour to the iconic Spirit Island of Maligne Lake (also known as Chaba Imne or Beaver Lake to the Stoney Nakoda). 

^{Seamus Malloy} 

I believe that nature is meant to be experienced in solitude—something that has become increasingly rare even in the confines of our national parks. The pulsing crowds jostling for the best photo and the engines chugging to-and-from Spirit Island felt distracting and disruptive. As a red canoe drifted towards the island, I recognized the need to disassemble and throw away the package deal of the tour. I knew that only then would we be able to truly immerse ourselves in the magic of this place. 

^{Seamus Malloy}

It took two years, but I managed to land reservations to spend two nights at Fisherman’s Bay. Only accessible by boat, it is one of three backcountry campsites located directly on Maligne Lake, 13 kilometres away from the northern end and only two kilometres from Spirit Island. Hidden Cove campground is a mere four kilometres from the boat launch and a great option for families who want a gentle introduction to backcountry canoe camping. Coronet Creek, however, is a challenging 21.3-kilometre paddle.

While there are rental companies in the town site of Jasper that will drive a canoe up to the lake, we choose to rent from WildCurrent Outfitters as they store their canoes at the boat launch across the road from the trailhead for Bald Hills. This way, we aren’t beholden to a strict schedule. Babies are unpredictable in the best of times: trying to pack up camp, attempting to boil water for a much-needed injection of caffeine and containing our now crawling son—all the while losing a battle to plump, bloodthirsty mosquitos—is a challenge not for the faint of heart. 

^{Seamus Malloy}

Just as we decide to call it quits, the squall abruptly ends. Our son, now content and snug in a merino wool and down cocoon, is burbling away as the sun cleaves the clouds and the lake once again beckons with a gentle ripple.

Wanting to encourage nature as a playground, we pile pinecones, rocks and twigs into the bow of the canoe for entertainment while we paddle. We take breaks at the two rest points along the way (both equipped with fire pits and picnic tables) where our son encounters his first spider, attempts to chase a chipmunk and, apparently impervious to the icy water, splashes happily on the edge of the lake. 

^{Seamus Malloy}

We set up camp at one of the eight tent pads that dot the shore at Fisherman’s Bay. An insulated pad and infant sleeping bag where our son will sleep has also conveniently doubled as a way to make him more comfortable in the canoe. After we put our son to bed, we watch the sunset coat the mountains in a rosy glow.

^{Seamus Malloy}

That glow is quickly extinguished when for the third time our son’s cries shatter the silence of the night. His burgeoning front teeth are making their painful presence known and while we eventually soothe him, we now struggle to sleep, stressed about his comfort and the noise that may be disturbing other campers. Unsurprisingly, the morning arrives with a mixture of lethargy and discontent; sunrise at Spirit Island eludes us. 

^{Seamus Malloy}

When we finally reach the island later that morning it is awash with a sea of people. The boat tours overlap so it is never quiet. It is hardly the moment of solitude that I had craved years before. Discouraged, we leave behind the crush of the crowd and make our way to Spindly Creek, a rest stop about four kilometres from Coronet Creek. We discard our fleece layers and swim under the shadow of Mount Paul; we lose count of waterfalls cascading off of rocky cliffs and our son points and squeals with delight at each bird he sees. The noise of the modern world fades, and as our son naps, rocked to sleep in the cradle of the canoe, I sense an unburdening—a release of the tightly coiled stress of this choice we have made.

^{Jennifer Malloy}

That evening, we toss our son’s bedtime routine out the side of the canoe and venture back to Spirit Island. When we arrive, the crepuscular sky brushes the tops of the trees; Mother Earth’s paintbrush is interrupted only by the ripple of the wind sweeping down the slopes of the peaks that surround the valley. The reverence these mountains can inspire would overshadow anything else, but Spirit Island is no single note in the sacred song of the Stoney Nakoda. Even my son falls still as the deepening emerald glaze of the lake unfurls before us, stretching towards the Valley of the Gods. The holiness of this place is palpable, the silence a divine cloak muffling any internal noise.

^{Seamus Malloy}

In this moment, everything else melts away; we are gifted a space where we can reconnect with the hidden parts of ourselves, the parts that we felt we had lost when we became parents. Where we were once enveloped in uncertainty and exhaustion, we are now consumed with contentment and awe. 

We rest in nature’s church, a haven from life’s storms.

     

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