Alright, so picture this: me, a tent that looked like it had been through some stuff, and three days of Canadian wilderness so far north my phone thought I was in a different timezone every ten minutes.
We rolled into this spot—Lapie Canyon—after driving what felt like seventeen hours on a road that was mostly gravel and regret. The campsite had this little pond, nothing fancy, just water and mosquitoes the size of small aircraft. But the trees. Dude, the trees were massive. You’d look up and forget what you were complaining about.
Day one, we set up the green tent. Took four of us, three arguments, and one near-death experience with a tent pole. By dusk, other campers had arrived and suddenly it wasn’t just us versus the elements—it was a whole community of people who also made terrible life choices. Someone had a guitar. Someone else had whiskey. We had instant noodles and dignity, but only barely.
Day two, I fell in the pond. On purpose at first, then definitely not on purpose. The water was so cold my soul left my body, looked around, and decided to stay gone for a bit. Worth it though. There’s something about being that uncomfortable that makes the campfire that night feel like the greatest invention in human history.
Day three, we packed up. The tent went back in the bag on the first try—miracle. I smelled like smoke, pond water, and victory. Would I do it again? Ask me when I’m warm. But yeah. Probably tonight.
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