Fish Lake to Rose Lake Loop, Canada

GG
Jun 4, 2023
7 min read

My friends kennel who gave me route directions, thank you!

From the minivans limited stash of goods, I threw meal packets into the rear of the pulk sled. I refilled fuel canisters with white gas. I wrapped and and counted Gales beef, salmon, and kibble. I then went through my mental checklist as where items should be positioned in my sled. Sleeping bag and pad, tent in the very front – check. Stove, fuel, and pot sitting behind – check. Human food bag beside – check. Inflatable luxury sleeping pad, extra set of clothes, camp boots and puffy pants, all sitting on top – check. In the very rear Gales food collection – check. I zip up the bag and bind it to my pulk sled. Wham bam. I am going on an adventure. For how long, I'm not quite sure, until the food runs out. Where to – I've got a rough idea although I'm not certain if the trails are put in or not. Perhaps Ill be back in a day or two, or a week, if I've packed enough food. Its all a bit questionable. That is part of the allure. Packing for a possible week long trip in the span of half an hour. Its a get what you get kind of mentality. And man – I tell you – I got it good.

Day one - bluebird beginnings

The sun rose on a blue sky day. The snow was twinkling pink, red, blue, glittering radiantly in the light. A new friend generously offered to go ahead of me the first day by dog sled, I followed her tracks from Fish Lake where we began and then turned off into the trees. The trail immediately began to climb. Up up up. With the vigor of first day energy Gale and I stormed up the hills. With food for a week, our heavy sled pulled us down the steep hill. With the trail packed firm as it was and garnished with fresh snow, I took off my skis and walked ski-less. After a short while, we climbed above the forest and found ourselves in the high hill country, with scattered spruce striving to survive in the rough and windy country. Every step and every heartbeat was repaid with the glorious views. The now gently meandering trail skirted around the steep hills and wound its way through open undulating hills. The spirit of the land was awake and glowing. The hills, the snow, the sun, all the land - it too ignited in me the simple joy of living, of breathing and being. Gale with her tongue lolled out breathing heavy from our toil, would not of had it otherwise. See too was overjoyed to be running in lands aglow.

Pulk compagnion throughout the days

As afternoon wore on, clouds rolled in and snow flurries developed. For a few miles we connected with an old mine road laden heavy with uneven hardened windblown snow, then turned off of the road onto a narrow winding willow-whomping trail before connecting with the next ridge line. This ridge had two faint trails leading up it. I choose the flatter route which led me to a near vertical face climbing up to the ridge. Some idiot had decided this was a better route than the gradual climb which I too had not chosen, and this fool followed. A quarter the way up, dripping sweat we conceded this was a very bad choice to not go back around and up the gradual way. Willows barred the trail catching and holding the sled. Almost crawling with our heavy sled, I took one or two steps, my heart demanding rest beating out of my chest, then stopped to allow my heart to settle back into my chest. The face was almost naked of snow, our stubbornness and tenacity got us to the top and we put back on our skis. At the conclusion of the ridge, our wild ride began. Down down down back into the trees we flew. White expanse consumed by willows, spruce and evergreen. Occasionally foot walking a steep hill, the downhill trend continued for what seemed like miles. The trail having just enough snow for a semblance of control. Down in the trees the early April weather was quickly melting out the snow. Sometimes I had to lift a ski to avoid a root rising out or a patch of dirt which had thawed through. Time wore on and weariness from the day caught up. Only ten miles to an old trappers cabin.

With such fine weather and fine skiing, it should take us hardly any time at all.

Yet as four became five oclock and five became six oclock, the day still young, plush with long daylight, our muscles were waning. I looked at my garmin – still approximately three miles from the point where the cabin should be. How could we be going so slow? The snow lightly falling now was wet and big flakes, melting instantly on my body and melting on contact even on my gear. The sun and clouds had warmed the air. We've made it this far to the cabin, just a little bit further then food and getting off these tired feet. What has instilled me to travel so far and long today? Much nicer if everything doesn't get wet.

Finally, after quaint popular forest and quick river crossings, we arrived the packsaddle cabin. Rather, the packsaddle shack. I had forgotten my friend had told me it had a dirt floor. Truly a cabin made from wood and earth. Its windows cracked and bolted shut by planks. Daylight peeping through between the logs. No wonder I had to stomp down the snow to open the door. Not often frequented by visitors. I looked at the pine trees across the trail from the cabin, and considered tenting there instead. No – not after our long push to get to this cabin. Besides, I've been sweating and sweating with the heavy sled and hill climbs. I could really use this flimsy sheet metal stove to dry out my gear. This day absolutely killed my triceps more than any other trip. With the heavy pulk and fresh snow, I used my arms frequently to help me get up and chose not to use skins, which would have slowed me down considerable. The hills were just managable with a bit of arms added in.

The fire bursted to life with wood stocked up last year by my new friend who had sent me this way. Thankful for the warmth and happy in my t-shirt, letting the moisture evaporate from body and cloth, I melted snow, gave Gale her meat and kibble, and ate food and quickly went horizontal myself, all before the darkness of night. About 42 miles. Phewie.

Open-ish hilly country

Alarm at six. Set about melting snow. Waking Gale and setting out her food. Motivated to get going early, for the its a new day and we're off to Rose Lake, and the days are warm. A fresh inch of snow was laid down overnight making for the most beautiful trail. The day began as another bluebird day, a good morning smile from the heavens above. Along the Watson river valley we traveled. Over bog, over field, over water we weaved. Rising and falling on forest edge we watched the river flow as the canyon near us grew sterner and steeper. Stopping for lunch, Gale ate a piece of salmon and I laid on my sled taking my boots off to let them air out for a few minutes.. The sun shining bright and warm, we rested, both of us closing our eyes for just a minute. Slowly, we climbed up above on another ridgeline. I looked at the bumps and warts popping out along the edge of the river, big lumpy rocks and mounds of dirt. Strange apparitions I am not accustomed to see alongside a river. Gale and I traveled quickly on the fresh snow. Soon we reached a windy plain where the mountains met each other and trees hid behind each other or behind small ridges, vying for protection. Open and vast again was the air. Off in the distance mountains protruded establishing their dominance and demanding attention. Towards them we were called, our names heard in the wind, which pushed us along. And there was Rose Lake, who we wanted to visit.

The corridor to Rose lake took us down back into the forests. A wolverine had been her way that very morning, her tracks fresh, weaseling alongside the trail. There we found Miss Rose, ready and waiting for us, her ice yet holding fast. At the lakes edge was a bunch of cabins, some ramshackle, and some fine. The locked public use cabin had a great big porch, which the sun had melted off the snow for us. Here we set up camp for the next two days. The clouds again rolled in and flurries began, winds pouring forth. And there we were, drinking hot tea with our backs against a wall, enjoying being still and watching the trees sway about.

Break time on our way to Rose Lake

Watson River

Rose Lake Cabin - Patio Camping

On Rose Lake

Our return journey was to be on a known more frequented and established trail. The journey to here I had counted on it taking me twice as long as the trail conditions were unknown. So, instead of rushing back hauling extra food, I decided to loaf about depleting my food supplies. The next day while reading, dogs started appearing at my campsite. First one, then two, and then a few more. We were not alone. Out of the woods came another woman tall and strong. She too also was called upon by Rose Lake for a visit which her team of dog were eager to accompany her. Wielding axe she built a fire warm and licked her fingers from the juices of the ribs cooked upon, telling stories of river ice travel. Gale frolicked in the woods with her new friends while I chatted by the flames with my new friend. We didn't go day skiing that day as I had intended. Instead, I sat and listened.

The next morning, Gale and I heard our new friends excitedly harnessing up for their return journey back to Fish Lake, taking the same trail as I would be. I too packed all my belongings and dropped my pulk sled at the turnoff to head back – and went out exploring on Rose Lake and over on Primrose River for just a few miles. The sky again was blue with many-a cloud and the wind blew hard and fierce in the warm sun. Returning to my pulk sled, I decided to walk up the hill away from Rose Lake instead of plodding along in skins. And there at the top of the hill to camp out where the mountains met and the wind blew. The next day we would return to Fish Lake, or camp out somewhere along the way if so inspired. And the next day we did return about 35 miles to Fish Lake where we began, giddy again after our rest so rejuvenating, basking in the awe-inspiring views.