Good Enough

Just north of Cherryville, we made a run at Sugar Lake, hoping to keep our streak of waterfront camps alive. We prowled the western shoreline for a good hour, hunting for that perfect wild spot — the kind you brag about later and pretend you “just stumbled on.” Instead, we struck out. 

By late afternoon, still digesting the pierogi feast from Frank’s General Store, we admitted defeat. A provincial park at the south end of Sugar Lake took us in — complete with all the chaos and background noise of weekend warriors. Not really our thing, but hey, we had four walls on wheels. So we shut the doors, let everyone else keep the party going, and tucked in early like the cranky neighbors we are.

Next morning, we pulled a ninja-style exit before anyone could ask us how we liked “the facilities” and got back to the real plan: Mabel Lake. This beast of a lake comes with an 88-kilometer stretch of dirt and gravel running along its side. Eventually it would reconnect us to civilization — but until then, it was us, the road, and every random side path that dared to catch our attention.

Here’s the thing about van travel: an hour of driving for a normal human equals an all-day ordeal for us. We stop, we scout, we rubber-neck. Progress is measured in “looks promising” detours, not miles. After a few hours of that routine, my patience had run dry. We still hadn’t found a place to crash, and my crankiness was setting new records. Finally — salvation. Another recreation site, and yes, it was paid camping again. Normally that’s a hard no, but the sites were right on the water. Decision made. Victory achieved.

Two nights there melted away in swims, naps, and the occasional heroic act of not tripping over the fire pit. One evening, just as the sun dipped, a series of screeches split the forest. Sounded like something out of a low-budget horror movie. I finally grabbed the long-lens camera and followed the noise, half expecting to find Sasquatch strangling a goose. Instead, there were two young owls hollering at their mom for food, while a third – presumably mom – sulked nearby. They carried on for over an hour, and we just sat back, grinning like kids at a free nature documentary.

Rested, scrubbed, and only slightly more civilized, we rolled north again. Dirt roads are like catnip for us — we can’t resist checking where they go. One trail, barely deserving the name, sucked us in. We scouted on foot, decided it was worth a gamble, and pushed Marcel through the mud. At the end? A hunter’s cabin straight out of a backwoods legend. We poked around, admired its rough charm, and debated staying. Then reality kicked in: nope, not today.

Not long after, another cabin appeared at the end of a decent road. This one looked promising from a distance — until we peered inside. Filthy. The kind of dirty where you hold your breath just looking through the doorway. Cobwebs, dust, probably a few horror-movie plot devices tucked in the corners. We didn’t even dare step in, just shook our heads and laughed. Some mysteries are better left sealed shut.

Next up was Wap Lake, which promised a couple more camps. The first site? Too small, too dusty. The second looked better, until we noticed it was already occupied. Full house. At that point, our standards had hit rock bottom. We backtracked a quarter mile, slipped down a faint trail I’d spotted earlier, and wedged ourselves into a tiny riverside nook. No epic view, no Instagram magic. Just quiet, hidden, and ours for the night. After the owls, the cabins, and all that scouting, “good enough” felt like winning the lottery.