How do you come home from a trip that changed your life?

How do you talk to your loved ones about this trip? How do you tell them – can you tell them – just how much you have changed?

The morning of July 12th this year, I left home and didn’t come back until the 26th: fifteen days, the longest I’d ever been away on my own. I carried with me a sleeping mat and bag, a backpack full of essentials, my camera, and a good two litres of water. I thought I was prepared for the journey ahead. In truth, nothing could have prepared me for the trip I undertook.

The beginning of this adventure didn’t start on that morning. It actually began in early April, when, with shaky hands and a swirling stomach, I filled out an application form for Wildsight’s 2025 Columbia River Field School. I’d heard of the field school several years before – two weeks of canoeing, camping, and other outdoorsy things, with raving reviews and cheerful photos – and it’d always been on my radar each summer. But I’d always glanced sidelong at it with suspicion and unease. That’s too much for me this year, I would tell myself.

Well, I still felt the same this year. But the fact that I was graduating from high school made me consider it more seriously. Perhaps I needed a commencement of my learning, an adventure, a coming-of-age rite of passage if you will. Also, my family gently but enthusiastically encouraged me to sign up. And so I did, telling myself that there was a chance I might not get selected, and even if I was, I could always say no.

But then – I got an email two weeks later with Congratulations! jovially written in the first line. My cursor trembled on the screen as I read. I’d been selected for an interview. Not long after the interview came the next Congratulations! in the header of an email in early May. More trembling, more nerves: I had been accepted into the school. Then came the chance to say no, my last out . . . But if I’d already made it this far, what was the point in turning back? Better to just plunge into whatever was to come. And so I said yes.

The morning of July 12th, I carpooled with some other students from the area that had been accepted and arrived at Premier Lake (near Canal Flats) around noon. I was soon whisked into a life very different from the one I’d left behind. Was it terrifying? Yes. Do I regret going? Absolutely not.

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“I’m here! I made it! I still can’t really believe this is actually happening.”
– from my journal, day one of the field school

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The field school consisted of sixteen teens and four adults who were our leaders. Our first couple days involved introductions to each other, canoeing, and being out on the water. We intentionally capsized our canoes in the emerald waters of Premier Lake, tipping over the edge of the vessel and resurfacing bobbing up and down from our lifejackets, gulping for air. We learned how to rescue each other with the “T rescue” or “canoe-over-canoe” method. On the third day we drove to Canal Flats, where our learning began to pick up momentum.

I took these photos at the headwaters of Canal Flats, which is the marshy area that directly feeds the massive Columbia River. It is the life source and the birthplace. It holds especial sacredness to the Ktunaxa people; their creation story involves the headwaters and the Columbia River, as well as its tributary and sibling, the Kootenay River.

It was at this area that we began to learn about the Columbia River: its vastness, interconnectedness, and sacredness, and the politics churning rapidly beneath these waters. The river is a 2000-kilometre waterway that meets the sea in Astoria, Oregon. It winds across borders both governmental and natural; it heeds no boundaries but the gravity that continues to lead it down, down, down and the banks that curve and carve its path.

Anadromous (ocean-going) salmon such as Chinook and coho used to swim from Astoria to Canal Flats to lay their eggs. The return of the salmon each autumn attracted bears, birds, wolves, and other predators. Having fulfilled their instincts, the exhausted fish would lay in creek- and riverbeds and provide both animals and land with rich nutrients. Their young, the smolts, would then make the trip back to the salty sea once mature. Their journey was vast from wetland to ocean and back again. But salmon have not been able to complete their voyage for many years; their path is blocked by dam after dam after dam now. What would the headwaters look like with the return of such an important fish? Restoring anadromous salmon in the Columbia River/Basin would not only benefit the ecosystem and ecological diversity but also the Indigenous peoples who recognize the fish as part of their culture and identity. We met with two different guests, Shuswap Band Councillor Richard Martin and biologist Nate Medinski, who talked to us about the topic and efforts to bring the salmon home.

Our next stop was at a campground in Fairmont Hot Springs. It had a beautiful lookout (shown below) at which we practiced tossing throw ropes to invisible canoe mates and thought deeply about our goals for the next two weeks. We also discussed in detail our plans for canoeing the next day; it would be our first time canoeing in water with a current, and was to be the start of our first backcountry camping expedition. I was nervous and felt incompetent about my skills. Even with my previous canoeing experience, the unfamiliar terminology – ferrying, eddies, rafting up, entrapment – and explanation of some of the hazards we might have to deal with was overwhelming.

That evening I shivered in an outdoor shower as it rained and savoured the warm, comforting pad thai meal we ate afterwards. (Each meal was prepared by randomized students selected for the task. I have to note that the food was quite satisfying and always eagerly anticipated at every mealtime, by me at least.) I don’t think I’ll ever forget that dinner. (“Delicious,” I noted in my journal. “Should I mention delicious again? Maybe tasty suffices.”) It was comforting and welcoming after a damp day.

Like many times throughout the trip, I underestimated myself that next day. Our first day of paddling on one of the many sloughs within the Columbia River was exhilarating.

An eddy is a current in a waterway that creates a swirl or circle because of natural formations or additions to the water, such as a jutting bank or log sticking out of the surface. Its circular and therefore reversed current can make a difficult crossing for paddlers; hence what I was most worried about this day.

Once my partner and I had lowered ourselves into our canoe, we angled ourselves in such a way that our canoe was “caught” and pushed by the current. This helped us cross the slough diagonally using a method called “ferrying”. As we approached the eddy that our leaders had taught us about the evening before, we built up speed, leaned into the turn, and shakily but successfully made it through. We met up with the other canoes on the opposite bank and exchanged exhilarated smiles. The hardest part was over, and we’d survived! I rewarded myself with some generous handfuls of my gorp.

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“There were a couple eddies we needed to deal with [today], but it wasn’t horrible… And WOW. Once we got onto the water, it was gorgeous. The weather was cloudy but not too warm, and everything just looked absolutely beautiful. There were birds chirping, eagles soaring…”
– day four

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We spent a few hours canoeing leisurely through the sloughs, our leaders in front navigating which diversions from the main channel we should be taking. Everything was communicated in hand and paddle signals, passed down from the leaders in front to the sweep canoe at the very end. For instance, a paddle held up vertically meant “continue forward”, whereas angled to the left or right indicated the need to change course to avoid a potential hazard. Eddies were pointed out through a swirling motion with the pointer finger and then a point to the direction the eddy would be.

As I wrote in my journal, the land we paddled through was wild and biophilic in its beauty. Mosquitoes were abundant, and so subsequently there were swallows, dragonflies and damselflies, hawks and eagles, beavers, snakes, and a wealth of healthy, diverse plants along the banks of the water. I was once again among familiar faces. I didn’t know it yet, but this wildness would contrast starkly in comparison to our canoeing during the latter half of the trip.

Though the waters we paddled that day had a current as opposed to the still surface of Premier Lake, the Columbia River had unknowingly slowed me down. I was calmer, appreciative, more at ease. Taking in the marshy air and gentle breeze on my skin. Listening to the splashing of my paddle poking and then cutting through the water. Feeling the ache in my tired arms and gratitude as my partner in the stern of the canoe called out, “Switch!” to change paddling sides. I still remember how much I relaxed once we got through the eddy. Oh, I realized. I’m going to be okay.

We reached our first backcountry campsite by late afternoon. Our canoes were docked below tall, dusty banks by the slough; a small trail led us up the bank to a gently rising grassy meadow. Though we were all tired from the day, a team of twenty makes light work of transporting gear. We made a winding line of people up the trail and passed barrels of food and equipment, backpacks, lifejackets, and drybags to one another.

There was a kind of easy simplicity about backcountry camping. Everything we needed had been transported in our canoes, passed along through our hands, and settled in our camp. There was no more complexity than figuring out where to dig the hole for our bathroom. Because this was the sixth field school, a well-maintained and practiced routine had already been established and was now being taught to us by our leaders. And because we were fully immersed in it, it was easy to catch on.

Though it was sometimes cumbersome or awkward to pack, my camera was a fantastic addition to my travels. I felt the urgent need to document the field school and our journey, not only for my loved ones at home to view later but also for myself to be brought back to these magical moments. I only took it out during mornings or evenings once we’d arrived at a campsite or had yet to pack up from one. Many times I wished I’d been able to take photos as we canoed, but I reminded myself that simply witnessing the landscape around me and remaining reverently present in the moment was more than enough to reciprocate for its sublimity.

The next day I was up at 6:30 am admiring the morning fog on the slough. (“Breathtaking,” I observed in my journal. Boy, I’m just full to the brim of adjectives, aren’t I?) While I took photos of it, my comrade Maya snuck up behind me and asked for a photo as well.

That morning I noticed the beginnings of a sore throat and hoped for the best. Other people were feeling under the weather as well – four others, which was concerning. However, we did our best to pack up the campsite, load our canoes, and depart in a timely matter by late morning.

By this point I was beginning to feel more comfortable around my peers. I didn’t know it at the time, but the river was teaching me yet another lesson: the importance of human connection. This only became more apparent as the trip went on. It was a lesson that proved immensely useful, yet oftentimes was experienced as challenging and unfamiliar. Regardless, I will never forget what I learned.

Above I’m shown bright-eyed (?) and bushy-haired at the start of day five’s foggy morning on the way to brush my teeth.

Little did I know, the next few days would prove to be more nerve-wracking adventurous than I could have imagined . . .

to be continued