The Happy Camper: The Camping Mistake That Still Haunts Me
“Set ’em up, Joe—I’ve got a little story you oughta know.” – Frank Sinatra
Whisky spillage while on a backcountry canoe trip has been the devil at my door for countless years. I think I’ve leaked more into the forest floor than I have quaffed down my gullet.
I seriously can’t make these stories up. Yes, I am a creative writer who has embellished a few tales throughout my camp life, probably due to my Irish and Scottish descent, which speaks volumes of my ability to garnish a story or two. But when it comes to my inability to tighten the flask cap or continue to use an old, weathered plastic liquid container to hold my spirits rather than do things properly, I’ve got to say, it’s one of my major downfalls in life.
My trip journals show proof on how foolish and unprofessional I have been over the years with alcohol leakage. As far back as the early 90s, I noted having a full litre of Bailey’s Irish Cream leak through and contaminate my sleeping gear, tent and clothes on day three of a 20-day canoe trip down the Missinaibi River.
Bear phobia became real after that. A black bear visited my camp that very night, by the way. It was an uncomfortable moment to say the least.
I also had a mini flask of Irish Mist spill into my canoe barrel on day one of six on a trout catching trip in Algonquin, where I had to drain what remained in the barrel into a medium-sized Ziploc bag to get me through the rest of the trip. Another time, I carried a good amount of 12-year-old Scotch in one of those sippy cups with a straw, and yes, it leaked as well. I once cheered my camp mates after we survived an all-out snowstorm while on an early spring trip, where I then accidentally over hurrah-ed when striking my fellow paddler’s mugs, spilling everyone’s content to the ground.
I could go on about my booze wastage while on trip, and my canoe mates will all confirm that I’ve been a darn fool about alcohol storage, but the worst ever camp misadventure when it comes to a whisky spillage mayhem happened a couple of weeks ago. It was a horrific event that will send chills up the spine for any fair-weathered paddler who loves to sip on a good single malt around the fire after a long day on route.
It started off innocently enough. I got a writing and video job to document some awesome paddling opportunities around Eastern Ontario’s Petawawa region. Each day, I went out with the tourism gang to experience and document some of their outdoor highlights. It was a good gig with good people. And, each night, I retreated to my backcountry campsite that I had booked on the border of Algonquin Provincial Park. It was cheaper than a hotel and a more reclusive escape at the end of the day.
It sounds odd, but writing, filming and taking photographs in semi-remote areas isn’t an easy job. It’s a great job, don’t get me wrong, but it can be exhausting at times.
That’s where the whisky story comes into play.
Let’s start with night one of three camping in the backcountry site. I arrived quite late, not long before dusk. To get to my site, I had to drive a good distance down a dusty dirt road and carry my gear down a path to a designated walk-in site. I simply cooked up a quick dehydrated meal, sipped on a cup of mint tea, gulped down some water and went straight to bed. No drama and horrors, just a long day on the road and hoping for good sleep in the woods before meeting the gang I was to work with early the next day. It was too late in the night, and I was much too exhausted for a wee sip of medicinal elixir.
Day two was slightly different, however. I left my backcountry site really early since I had to meet the crew quite a few kilometres away. It all worked out well. We paddled the lesser-known lower Barron River to document why this area of Eastern Algonquin is such a special place. Of course, following the creed of male ego, I didn’t apply sunscreen and drink enough water throughout the day. Let’s just say, by the time I left the group and drove back to my backcountry rest stop for the night, I was sunbaked, dehydrated and dog-tired. I had another quick dinner, crawled into the tent to read myself a bedtime story and then poured myself a wee dram of whisky into a camp mug while doing so.
I never read the book, and I never drank a sip of the whisky.
I was too exhausted from the day. I woke up around midnight realizing that I had spilled the cup of whisky, as well as the entire flask, all over the tent not long after I had drowsed off. My reading book, camp hat and even a quarter of my sleeping bag and mat were soaked in a peaty Torabhaig.
I wasn’t bothered so much, except for the money I had spent on top-of-the-notch spilled whisky. I worried through the night that bears might like the smell of an Island malt and come for a visit, though.
Once again, I got up early the next morning to meet the crew. We spent another long day of filming amazing places around the Petawawa region, soaking in solitude. And once again, I found myself overstimulated and exhausted after the day’s events. So, when I headed back to my backcountry site for my last stay on the journey, I took advantage of driving through the local town and bought a bag of ice and a large bottle of J&B Scotch to cheer the day.
When I got back to the launch before my site, I realized that Algonquin backcountry had a can and bottle ban. Like any ethical camper, I went to exchange the blended malt liquid from its lawn green-coloured glass bottle to a plastic flask I had stored in my gear kit. Sometime between the exchange, the bottle of J&B glazed the tip of a medium sized rock protruding in the parking lot. In what seemed like a millisecond, the bottom of the bottle smashed clean, and the entire contents of the whisky flushed to the ground.
I didn’t yell out any profanities, and I didn’t even curse the gods above. I simply exhaled an elongated gasp and then whispered to myself that mint tea with ice would be my salvation for this evening.
I then cheered the amazing sunset, the loons wailing across the lake and the owl hooting in the forest. All was good in the world, but maybe I should go about buying a new Platypus container, or a Hydro Flask, or a Nalgene, or a retro stainless steel hip flask, or just simply an old plastic mickey of Jack Daniels taken from the recycling bin for my next backcountry spirit.
Whatever new container I choose, it will follow the advice of Elizabeth Taylor: “Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together.”
