The moment I read about the La Cloche Silhouette Trail, I fell in love. The Silhouette is an 80km loop in Killarney Provincial Park that takes hikers along rugged trails that circle the ancient La Cloche Mountains, undulating hills that are all that remain of a range that once rivalled the Rockies.

I could picture the still, tree-lined lakes, the rolling hills of pearly quartzite, the loons calls at dusk, and I knew I had to do it.

My father is my camping buddy. We’ve been camping together since I was a small child. We’ve spent the last three years graduating from car camping to backcountry-lite (less than 20 minutes from the car) and we were ready for a new adventure. We had discussed paddling at Algonquin, but when the Silhouette came onto my radar, my focus couldn’t be shifted. I was going to do it, with or without anyone else. I had to. It was calling me.

Neither my father nor I had every backpacked before. Most of our camping gear was bulky and heavy and needed to be replaced with light-weight, compact alternatives, or ditched altogether. I was (over)confident, though, that my hundreds of kilometers logged as a guide on the Bruce Trail would have prepared me for this. (Those hikes? Three to eight kilometers on average, carrying nothing but a daypack. I didn’t even use hiking poles.)

I chose the dates (end of July 2025, nine days hiking with one rest day in the middle) and started researching. I quickly came across Jeff’s Map — a fantastically detailed map of Killarney for both paddlers and hikers with helpful hints (“access to water steep” and “watch out – make sure you go the right direction here”) and distances. The map estimated the time to get from site to site along the Silhouette route (30+ backcountry sites are interspersed along the trail). I zoomed into the map to capture just the Silhouette, and took the file to be printed. If I had read the map more thoroughly before cropping it, I might have seen the disclaimer on the right side that advised that inexperienced backpackers should double the estimated travel times.

I planned, purchased, and researched like a maniac for six months leading up to the hike. The only thing I couldn’t research my way out of was the fact that I had never backpacked in my life.

My dad arrived the day before our departure and we packed our gear. Our two backpacks were full to bursting and we hauled them from the kitchen to the living room to get a feel for the weight. They were probably about 70 pounds each. (My research also omitted a goal weight for the backpack. We probably should have aimed for 35-40 pounds.) Yes, they were heavy, but we could manage. We laughed giddily as we took them off and headed to bed.

Day 1: July 23, 2025
Start to H5

Journal excerpt: Do I like this? I think I might hate it, actually.

We were up at dawn, packed and ready for the five hour drive. We had a banging playlist, car snacks, and positive attitudes that carried us all the way to Killarney.

We hit the trail shortly after noon. By Jeff’s Map, we had about four hours of hiking to do that day to get to our first site, H5, on Cave Lake.

Within about 30 minutes, I realized that hiking with a bag nearly half my weight was not easy. Actually, it was terrible. Sweat poured off me. My shoulders ached. I was trying to get the hang of hiking poles to help me out, but there was a trick to it that I just wasn’t getting.

I looked back at my dad. “How are you doing?”

“Okay,” he said, after a pause. I could hear in his voice the same surprise that I felt at how hard this was.

We stopped after a while to have a snack and rest above a reedy lake that glittered in the high sunlight. Having the bags off our backs was an immediate relief, and we laughed and chatted for a while before setting out again.

The trail took us through the woods and over a little bridge, then up onto a quartzite mound covered with blueberries. There, we lost the trail. For an hour, we staggered around, not thinking to take off our packs, trying to find the trail again. The blueberries stuffed into our mouths at regular intervals were the only silver lining in an otherwise frustrating and sweaty hour. We finally located the trail near to where we had lost it. It was a lesson learned: Stop. Look at the map. Take off our bags. Find the trail.

We were still walking at five o’clock. And six. I kept checking the map. Why were Jeff’s times so off? Where was H5? We stopped talking, just trudged in silence. Finally, we saw the blaze that announced our site. We dragged ourselves to the edge of Cave Lake after seven thirty. We sat on the rocks for a long time, not speaking. After a while, I took off my hiking shoes and went to put my feet in the lake. Little brown fish limned in iridescent blue swam around my ankles. My dad eventually followed my lead, and we slowly emerged from the dark mood that had enveloped us for the last couple of hours.

We set up our tents, had a fire, and made dinner, and talked about where we had gone wrong today and how we could make tomorrow better. Our conclusion was that this wasn’t like car camping, where the site is central to the experience. This was about the journey. We would rest more, we said. We would stop to appreciate our surroundings. There were nine days to go and we were going to love every one.

Day 2: July 24, 2025
H5 to H16 H8

Journal excerpt: I think if we do this trail, it will be the hardest thing either of us has ever done, physically and mentally.

We woke in good spirits to fine, hot weather that lasted as we left the site and came to the first significant challenge of the Silhouette: the Pig. The Pig is a 1280 meter ascent and descent over loose, slippery rock. It was named by the paddlers who have to portage over its massive bulk to get from Baie Fine to Threenarrows Lake. Knowing what was ahead, my dad and I agreed to take it at our own paces. We split up and I went ahead. It was a hard climb, but I was getting used to my poles, and I pushed myself up, over, and down again without too much trouble. My dad caught up with me about 15 minutes later. Just a little bit further, we stopped for lunch at the Threenarrows dam. (Here, hikers can cut three kilometers out of the hike by crossing the dam instead of going around.)

Within ten minutes, the nice weather ended. Dark skies billowed up from the west, the wind picked up, and our cell phones started blaring with tornado warnings. We were elevated an exposed, and I wanted to get across the dam and to lower ground as quickly as possible. It took longer than I wanted, but eventually we were across and hunkered down in a low spot as the rain started to pour, and the lightning and thunder began.

We were soaked through in seconds, but the storm was right above us, and I wanted to wait before we started to climb again. After a while, we could hear voices that sounded like other people coming over the dam. A couple broke through the trees of our little refuge, as drenched as we were. They introduced themselves (K and L from Toronto) and we compared itineraries. They were following almost the exact same plan as us, except without a rest day. The worst of the storm passed, and we bid each other farewell, with them heading to H8 and us on to H16, another 2.5 kilometers ahead.

It was still raining, but not so hard, and I felt we were making decent time. I had come up with a trick: pretend that it’s easy. Whenever I started to feel bogged down by the weight of the pack, I reminded myself that this was easy — nothing had ever been so easy! I straightened up and quickened my pace and felt better. (It only worked for about 30 seconds at a time, but it was a key tool that helped me the whole trip.)

I looked back to see my dad had fallen way behind. He was also walking funny. I stopped and waited for him to catch up. I could tell he was in pain, limping badly.

It was his heel. It had bothered him a little yesterday, but now it was agony. Our rest after the Pig was ill-timed for someone suffering, it turned out, from plantar fasciitis. He could barely walk. We stood there in the rain for a long time. I didn’t know what to do. We had a satellite device for emergencies. Was this one? He couldn’t walk, but he wasn’t dying. Should we go on to H16? That would take us farther from the start, and farther from K and L, who at H8, might be able to help.

The six months of preparation and planning, the sleepless nights when all I could think of was this trip, the giddy excitement of the days leading up to this, it was all there in front of me with my father.

“Can you do this?” I asked.

“I don’t think I can,” he said.

I started to cry. He bent over his hiking poles and sobbed.

We went back to H8. K and L convinced us to set up camp there and wait until morning to see if there was any improvement. I knew there couldn’t be enough improvement for my dad to continue the rest of the way. We had barely gone 15 kilometers. We were going to have to go back. I imagined going over the Pig again, slowly, and I felt nothing but dread. And what could I do? I couldn’t carry my dad. I couldn’t take on his gear. All I could do is have the satellite device in case things got worse, and navigate.

We played cribbage in the rain and cried. K and L were so kind, and I felt immediately at ease with them. How lucky, I thought, that they came over the dam just then.

Day 3: July 25, 2025
H8 to H17

Journal excerpt: This trip has been so important to me, and I couldn’t let it go, even when I should have.

I made plans all night. I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to go on. This hike was hard and awful and amazing and I could do it. I asked K and L if I could camp with them the next few nights, then go on ahead when they broke off to do Silver Peak (a detour that takes hikers to the highest peak in the La Cloche Mountains — I never intended to do it as part of this trip). They said I could. After the Silver Peak deviation, I would rely on kind strangers to share their sites, since I wouldn’t be on my booked itinerary any longer.

I gave my dad the satellite device, and I took pictures of Jeff’s Map.

“Reassure me that I won’t get lost,” he said.

I swallowed my fear and guilt. “You won’t,” I said lightly. “Just follow the blue blazes.”

(Later, he revealed to me that he did, in fact, get lost a couple of times — all too easy to do on certain sections of the trail. He remembered what I had told him: to go back and find the last blaze he had seen. In this way, he made it safely back to the start in two days.)

I left the site with K and L, then went ahead and hiked on my own. I ached with sadness, and a big part of me wished I’d gone back with my dad. But now that I had decided, I didn’t want to cry for the next week.

I pushed myself hard that day, getting to H17 in just a couple of hours. It wasn’t terribly difficult terrain, but I did get turned around badly enough at one point that I walked back to K and L before realizing I was heading the wrong way. There was a lot of moose scat around the trail now, and I made noise as I went, singing or cursing Jeff, depending on my mood.

There were more blueberries today, and raspberries for the first time. My gear was starting to dry in the sun. At H17, I chose the second-best spot for my tent (I did that every night — I wanted L and K to get the best spot, since I was piggybacking on their trip), set up my water filter, and jumped in the lake. Then I cried for an hour, until L and K arrived and the mood lightened.

My body was starting to really feel the effect of the long days, and the mosquitos and deer flies were relentless. My bag was heavier with some gear I added from my dad’s pack, but fortunately I had made an adjustment to the shoulder straps that made a big difference with how the weight sat on my body.

I was exhausted by eight o’clock. I slid into my tent and fell asleep.

Day 4: July 26, 2025
H17 to H21

Journal excerpt: I’m getting really good at bear hangs.

Today was a better day in all respects. I knew my dad would be over the Pig by now, and likely to get back to the start by the end of the day (this was later confirmed by text message when I had a bit of reception at the top of a mountain). I enjoyed the hike and made good time again. Threenarrows is a huge lake, and H21 would be the third site I’d spend on its shores.

H21 is on a peninsula that juts into one of the larger sections of the lake. It’s surrounded by clear, cool water, populated by loons (and bitey red ants), and is situated well off the trail. There was a cottage nearby, but it was empty, so I threw myself into the lake, clothes and all, to get clean.

I started to feel a bit poorly in the late afternoon. My first symptom was a little heartburn, but I ignored it, had a full dinner of spicy ramen and rehydrated vegetables, and tucked myself into bed around nine. By midnight, my stomach was in a riot. I don’t know what caused it for sure (even filtered water isn’t perfect), but my guess is dehydration and exhaustion. I had to run to the thunder box about four times in the night, and spent the rest of the time sweaty and shaky and terrified of what would happen if I couldn’t go on tomorrow.

Day 5: July 27, 2025
H21 to H32

Journal excerpt: I’m officially renaming the Pig. It’s now going to be called the Hill of Restfulness.

After a sleepless night, I ate a tiny bit of plain oatmeal, broke camp (it took ages in my sorry state) and headed off. I was brutally tired, woefully under-fueled, nauseated and cramping, and in a terrible mood. In this way, I set off on the most difficult section of the La Cloche Silhouette.

I couldn’t believe how hard it was. Even remembering it now, it’s hard to believe. I scaled a waterfall. I tackled wicked, near-vertical ascents and descents that were more rock climbing than hiking. How I would have liked to see a Pig — that rolling, gentle incline. That sweet and soft decline. I had floated over the Pig, swept up and over its back with no more effort than it took to breathe. This trail now, this was something monstrous.

I hated every step. When I was shaking with exhaustion, I’d shove a handful of dry granola into my mouth and carry on. This was not about being fit. This was a mental game, and that day, I was losing.

In one strange moment, I decided to sit down on a log. The next thing I knew, I was hiking again. I don’t remember getting up — the drive to walk was unconscious.

H32 was stunning. Shigaug Lake was crystal clear with a terraced shoreline that beckoned swimmers. It was lost on me. I sat on the rocks, my pack dropped somewhere nearby, stunned.

When K and L hobbled into camp a couple of hours later, they were in as desperate a state as I was.

I wanted this to be over. I didn’t like it. It hurt. I wanted it to be done.

I was halfway.

Day 6: July 28, 2025
H32 to H35

Journal excerpt: It kind of feels like this is my life now, going from site to beautiful site and having dinner and breakfast with L and K. How different this would have been without them.

Everything is different when you’re rested, fed, and hydrated.

This day was spectacular. The trail was high now, following rolling quartzite mountains, and marked with cairns of white stones. The views, one after another, were breathtaking, with lookouts over Killarney’s forests, cut through by rivers, lakes, and wetland. The day was accompanied by the song of hermit thrushes, a clear, ethereal music that rang through the woods.

I filled my water at every opportunity, determined not to let my mouth go dry, and I ate a little more. This was a big lesson for a first time backpacker: I had brought SO MUCH food, but I was not hungry. At least, not very hungry. At the end of each day, my body seemed to weigh eating and sleep, and sleep was always the winner. My watch told me I was burning through over 4000 calories a day, but I think I was taking in a little over 1000. The result was huge swings in energy and mood. The moment I felt myself becoming hangry, I got out the trail mix.

I was meeting Jeff’s time now. I didn’t trust my own navigation at first, thinking I was overestimating my travelled distance, but I was just getting better at finding and keeping the trail, at moving with my cumbersome pack, at picking my way across the uneven terrain.

H35 was another gorgeous spot. Secluded and a good distance from the trail, it was populated by wildlife — loons, beavers, a giant snapping turtle — and was utterly peaceful. K and L and I enjoyed our last dinner together, leaping up every now and again to gesture wildly but silently at some passing animal.

Day 7: July 29, 2025
H35 to H47

Journal excerpt: I’m ready for this to be finished, and yet I’m grieving at its ending.

This was the day I termed in my head “the Sprint.” I planned on leaving K and L behind and carrying on as long as possible, until I reached a site. I wanted to finish the Silhouette tomorrow. That meant about 16 kilometers each day.

I was emotional when I left K and L, still having their breakfast. I didn’t know who I would find (if anyone) at my last site, but it wouldn’t be them. I had loved sharing the experience with them — hiking alone for long stretches, but meeting again at the end of the day.

I had an infected cut on my right foot that was causing me some trouble. I had sliced it open on a sharp rock at H21, and with my constantly wet shoes and relentless pace, it wasn’t healing. My knees were also starting to complain on the downhills, no matter how much I leaned into my hiking poles. I had never done anything like this, pushing my body to the brink day after day, and I was really beginning to feel it.

I was blowing past Jeff’s times, now, motivated by the idea of being done tomorrow. Even on not enough food, I was tearing along the trail like a hiker possessed. It caught up with me in the late afternoon. There were sparkles in my eyes, and I sat down feeling like I might faint. I was near H47, and so that would be my resting spot.

H47 is on the tiny, perfect Heaven Lake, barely off the trail. I stumbled in, my heart sinking when I saw a tent already set up there. I called my hellos, and W emerged. I couldn’t go any further, I said. Please could I stay here? Of course, was the answer. I collapsed on a rock and caught my breath.

W was a solo hiker, celebrating his 60th birthday with an extravagant present to himself: a week of hiking. He was kind and welcoming, encouraging me to set up camp, cool off in the lake, and take in the views, which from up here, included a vista that stretched all the way to Georgian Bay. We compared equipment and itineraries. He was finishing tomorrow, too.

“Your pack looks very heavy,” he said, an echo of everyone else I had met on the trail during my journey.

(I only saw 11 people in all eight days until I reached the Crack. The Silhouette trail is truly unpeopled for the first 60 kilometers clockwise.)

I slept that night without my tent’s fly, falling asleep under a bejeweled sky.

Day 8: July 30, 2025
H47 to End

Journal excerpt: My body is bruised and bitten and swollen and chafed and slim. I’m probably stronger than I’ve ever been. I’ve walked 106 kilometers in eight days.

I was up at 5:30 when a few sprinkles of rain threatened my flyless tent. I packed up and was out just as W was getting up. A few hours later, I was at the Crack, shaving an hour off Jeff’s time.

The moment I realized where I was, with Killarney Lake laid out below, I burst into tears. I was alone — no daytrippers had arrived yet from the Crack access parking lot a few kilometers away. I enjoyed 20 minutes of solitude, listening to a loon’s call cut the still air again and again, before the first day hikers appeared. I chatted for a while, sharing some of my experiences with through hikers doing the Silhouette counter-clockwise, before starting the descent. The Crack is very challenging, and involved mountain-goating from boulder to boulder down a perilous path. Staying on the trail was difficult, but made easier by daytrippers, who I looked for instead of cairns.

I stopped at Sealey’s Lake to fill my water bottles for the last time, and there met W, who shared encouraging words before overtaking me.

The last six kilometers were a muddy, buggy slog. Crossing a dam, I rolled a log beneath my feet and went down, sinking up to my elbows in stinking mud. Cursing Jeff (I don’t know why), I went on, now smelling like frog excrement. The mosquitos loved my new bouquet, and orbited me mercilessly.

Every corner I turned was the last one, every ascent the final rise. It dragged on and on, but at last, there was the La Cloche Silhouette sign, and there was my dad, standing nearby, waiting for me. (We had been in touch by phone two days before and I had given him my estimated arrival time.)

I had done it. It was over. I expected an outpouring of emotion, but there was none. I was glad to be finished, and thrilled to shower off the frog feces. I was happy at the prospect of a Fanta (I’ve never craved pop in my life until that day) and a Coffee Crisp. But the emotional processing didn’t come until later.

It’s been a little over a month since I got home, and I would say I’m experiencing a low-grade melancholy akin to summit depression.

K and L told me that after everything, I would get home and want to do it all again. At the time, I scoffed, but now I’ve got a 30 kilometer hike booked for the end of this month, just to not be done for the year yet.

I will never be a first-time backpacker again. I will pack lighter. I will take Jeff’s advice with a grain of salt. I will stretch each morning and evening. I will wear hiking boots, not hiking shoes. I will bring more toilet paper. I will pretend that it’s easy to get through the parts that aren’t, not even a little bit.

I will remember my dad dunking his head in a river to cool off. I will remember our one game of cribbage under rainy skies. I will remember K and L and the friendship we build from nothing in just a few days. I will remember W’s kindness. I will remember the feeling of sliding into a cool lake at the end of a long day. I will remember moose calls and wolf howls and loon cries at night. I will remember blueberries bursting sweet on my tongue. I will remember the bad days, harder than anything I knew to expect, and the good days, trekking all alone under warm sun, singing as loud as I could.

I want to go back, and I will. I’d like to go counter-clockwise this time, or maybe just do a short section. I’d like to return to Shigaug Lake, sit on the edge of that cold, clear mirror of water, and listen to the song of the hermit thrush.