Don’t go on a canoe trip with a dog named Tipper

Going with the flow is necessary for survival in the wilderness.

Don’t get me wrong, planning is also necessary. As a canoe trip guide with more than a decade of experience paddling on the Cambrian Shield, I planned routes with ideal picnic and moose-viewing sites, and learned about ecosystems, so I could offer visitors richer experiences of the land and water. 

I also planned for potential emergencies and evacuations, though luckily those plans were rarely needed. The reality was that once we had paddled well away from phones, hospitals, and roads, we were on our own. So I made plans and packed our first aid and rescue kits accordingly. 

Guides plan, and nature laughs. Thunderstorms roll in, rivers run high or dry, fires rage, and on occasion, tornados touch down. Groups of people on ‘wild’ adventures can be just as unpredictable, like the family who unwittingly put an entire trip at risk of bear attacks by sneaking treats into their tent at night for a private indulgence.

Identifying and mitigating risks is a constant when guiding. Looking at a rock sloping into a lake, the first thing I would notice is how a visitor could trip and hurt themselves, or even drown. Figuring out how likely and severe an accident could be, requires reality testing. How slippery is that rock today? How sure-footed are individuals in this group? How sturdy is their footwear? Are they wearing lifejackets? Are people paying attention to their footing or are they chatting and laughing? Worst case scenarios and safer options were constantly running in the back of my mind, because with each moment we were encountering new situations. 

Over the course of each summer guiding, it became harder and harder for me to set those calculations aside and experience the beauty of nature – to notice the gorgeous mix of granite and quartz, and let the sound of waves wash over me. 

So every Fall, I would go on a solo canoe trip to fall in love with the land and water again. By then, visitors were long gone, Park Rangers had packed up for the season, the waters had cooled (but not yet frozen over), but the days were still warm-ish. Over the years I learned that five days was ideal. It was enough time to ease into my own paddling rhythm, enjoy the company of non-human beings, and start missing the company of people. 

One year a co-worker and aspiring guide – let’s call him Bob – asked to join me on the large lakes and winding rivers of Teme-augama (Temagami), because he needed to log 11 more days for his outdoor education training program. Although he had significant experience canoe tripping, Bob had never been on a solo trip, and I shared his concern that 11 days was too long to start with. 

So Bob and I negotiated a bunch of conditions to ensure that we would both get what we needed out of the trip. He would play the role of guide in terms of route planning and navigation, we would share the campsite workload, and I would take the canoe and leave him on the shore for chunks of ‘me time’ to reconnect with the land and water. 

He also asked to bring his dog,Tipper. I sought assurance that the dog was comfortable in canoes, because the big lakes of Teme-augama can mean big winds and big waves, not to mention the very cold waters (about 5-7 celsius, or 40-45 fahrenheit at that time of year). Looking back, I wonder if my concerns were seeded by the dog’s name – Tipper, i.e. “he who tips canoes over”. Bob was reassuring and persuasive, so I agreed to go on a canoe trip with a dog named Tipper.

Off we went. By day four, as we were paddling and walking up a river, I realized we were lost. Bob’s outdoor education and tripping experience had not yet translated into competence. Feeling guilty about the pickle he had put us in, Bob tried to carry more than his weight up the river. With a very heavy food barrel on his back, he bent down to pick up yet another heavy backpack, and fell. Bob’s wrist was a mess. He couldn’t put any weight on it – not to paddle, not to pick up packs, and not even to stuff his own sleeping bag. 

Going with the flow, I was now guiding the canoe trip. I figured out where we’d gone off the map (literally), and charted a route to the spot where we were going to be picked up in 7 days. 

Reality check: It was very unlikely that we would make it to the pull-out in time. With me as the sole person paddling a heavy load – Bob, Tipper and all of our gear – and doing the bulk of work around the campsite, we were moving slowly. 

Our delay would cause our loved ones to worry, and as per our safety plan, they would send out a search party. Many people would be affected, and many resources wasted. Even though all I might need is a couple more days of paddling, we had no way of sending a message that we were running late. 

But if we could get as close to the pull-out as possible, I could set off flares at the meeting time, which our pick-up person might see. That could reduce the scope and duration of the search party. So I paddled on. 

Guides go with the flow and nature shines, every now and again. On one of those massive Teme-augama lakes, a big wind came up behind us. I rigged a little sail out of rain jackets and paddles, and we picked up speed. I leaned back to steer, Tipper nestled deeper into the canoe, and Bob laughed with joy. We made up three days of paddling in one day! 

Suddenly it looked like we might make it to our pull-out on time?! Surprising and amazing. 

On the last day of this epic canoe trip, we started out across a long and narrow lake. The wind was now pushing at our side, so rather than cutting across the middle of the choppy lake, I paddled along the calmer shores. It would add a couple of hours of paddling, but would still get us there on time. 

Bob wanted to take the shorter route. I explained that with the waves coming at our side, I would struggle to paddle and steer the canoe. Bob thought I was over-estimating the risk. 

So after a week of not paddling, Bob started holding his paddle in a “cross bow cut” – which pulled the nose of the canoe toward the middle of the lake. I paddled us back toward the shore. He steered us out, and I reversed us back toward shore. Rinse and repeat. All the while, we were arguing about the best way forward. Eventually, I relented. “We’ll try it your way, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll try it my way.” 

With much effort I was able to paddle us to the middle of the lake, where waves started to crest into the canoe. Tipper was startled by being splashed. As if in slow motion, he stood up, put his front paws onto the side of the canoe, and pressed it underwater to launch his 100lb body into the lake. Tipper tipped the canoe. 

The water was so cold that it shocked me out of my body. I watched as my arms started swimming toward shore, as Bob swam towards the canoe – which was blowing down the lake – and as Tipper made it to shore. I yelled at Bob to swim to shore. I watched as my strokes got slower and slower, and fuzziness made it harder to calculate how many strokes it might take me to get to shore. I watched as some of our packs washed ashore. I watched as my body crawled out of the water. 

Going with the flow, I was now organizing our evacuation, albeit clumsily. Get to a backpack, strip, put on dry clothes. Keep moving around. Yell encouragement to Bob to keep swimming toward me. Get Bob out of the water, strip him down, and put him in a sleeping bag with Tipper. Do a visual check to confirm that the canoe is washing ashore. Take a quick bearing for the pull-out and start moving toward it. Walk and jog clumsily through the bush, warm up, then run. Meet pick-up person. Scream with joy, hug, and laugh. Warm up in the car while planning how to retrieve Bob, Tipper, and our gear. Implement the plan. Exhale. 

Over the years I have told variations of this story at dinner parties. Sometimes it is as short as, Never go on a canoe trip with a dog named Tipper, which always elicits laughs among fellow paddlers. And sometimes my telling of the story has zoomed into surprising moments of ease, such as the breezy sail down a big lake.

But there is a consistent line of inquiry: 

Some twenty-five years after that fateful canoe trip, I noticed an option I had missed at the time, and in every re-telling since: 

The options we see are shaped by our past experiences, our expectations, our thoughts, and our emotions.

I had always started and ended canoe trips in my canoe. But I didn’t have to. I didn’t have to stay in a canoe with someone who was paddling against me! A canoe is not a prison; it is a vessel that I choose to be in.

The problem wasn’t my choice to try Bob’s shortcut rather than sticking with my (obviously safer) plan, and it wasn’t Tipper’s response to that choice, either. The problem was that I was so immersed in the canoe trip experience, that I couldn’t see the full range of options.

Zooming out from our experience – whether by considering the bigger picture, trying out differing perspectives, or projecting through time – can make reality testing more effective. And that is the key to knowing when to take a walk with a dog named Tipper.

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