Finding Warmth at -30°C: A Winter Camping Recap

Growing up in Toronto, my family and summer camp gave me a love of the outdoors from a young age. I've camped solo and with friends around Ontario for years, but I was looking for more shared experiences outdoors, particularly ones that were longer and more challenging. When my friend invited me on a winter hike with WU last year, I got a taste of what I'd been missing. I joined as a member for this trip, my first official adventure, and it would push me further than I'd ever gone before. Here’s how it all went down…

I don't know what time it is, but my fire watch shift ended a couple hours ago. I've woken up shaking in my -17.7°C rated sleeping bag, toes and nose numb. I rub my feet together and inch closer to the person next to me, trying to absorb some of her heat. I've come off my sleeping mat a bit onto hers, but maybe that's okay. After all, it's my first night of winter camping and it's nearly -30°C with the wind chill. I duck my head further into my sleeping bag and rest easy knowing someone is watching the fire, staying awake while the rest of us fall in and out of sleep, carefully adding wood from trees we felled, sawed, and piled together.

I've been left a bit in awe after my first camping trip with Wilderness Union during a record-breaking cold snap. Being a winter lover can be a lonely existence, and it's been hard to describe the experience to other people, most of whom only asked me "Why?" when I first shared I was going on this trip. I asked people the same question over the course of the weekend, and I think more often than not that "why" comes down to the love of a challenge and a desire to overcome that challenge with others.

We are better together, and togetherness can help you find warmth, even in -30°C.

Our trek into QEII Wildlands was done in a long line, weighed down by heavy packs and sleds holding what our lives depended on for the next three days. We had our marching orders to make our way across Devil's Lake with the wind freezing our breath against our faces as we moved. Moving in a straight line was soon replaced by winding portage routes as light snow started to fall. The first few hours were a process of discovery as we learned how to make it through the trip, stripping off layers we didn't need anymore and realizing what we could have left at home.

The moments when we were knee-deep in snow supporting someone's journey up a hill built trust, giving us the confidence that someone had our back every step of the journey.

When we got to our first campsite on Cooney Lake, our amazing guides made it clear that tasks like resourcing fuel, setting up tents, starting fires, and processing wood were not only good for the collective but also essential for the survival of our fingers and toes. Work has never been more warming or rewarding. So we collected, chopped, sawed, and delivered wood as others made dinner, the snow crunching under all our feet.

Perhaps it was a state of delirium, but I swear our chilli dinner was the best I'd ever had, and our tent was every bit as hilarious as it felt at the time. Our brief late-night strobe-headlamp dance party was definitely a vibe, but maybe that was just the giddiness of being where we were together, strangers a little over twelve hours ago.

Dawn bathed the campsites in pink and gold light, and we emerged from our tents for hot oatmeal, transformed in the circumstances into a gourmet breakfast. Fuelled up, we hiked from our first site, stopping for lunch in the sunshine on the lake, scouting out potential campsites for night two. We eventually settled on a bayside spot covered in deep snow with enough space for us to set up our four tents. Tents were once again pitched as bushwhacking parties dispersed to find fuel, and the sky started to become pink again. People naturally chipped in to process wood, working quickly knowing our need for fuel that night would be high and our bodies desperately needed the exercise to keep warm.

Work has never been more warming or rewarding.

Another member joined our group of three out of the goodness of her heart (or maybe she heard about the dance party) and helped us pull the canvas tent taut against the snow and nearby trees. Stoves ready to go, the biggest challenge facing our whole group gradually made itself clear: the wood sourced, sawed, chopped, and thawed wasn't burning easily. Our tent shivered and grappled with the night ahead as our new tent member kneeled in the snow for over an hour, blowing steadily on the embers of our fire, trying to get it lit. As the moon rose perfect and full through the bare tree branches, the temperature continued to drop, and the fires kept burning out.

Word on the site was that another tent was in the same situation as us, and that we'd be divided up into the remaining two tents for the night. The fires in the cooking tents mercifully grew strong enough to make our Plan A dinner, which people ate in between seeking out more wood on foot across the lake, processing wood back at the site, and patiently keeping the two fires burning.

We gave up individualism at that moment and packed together like sardines, a tight line of sleeping bags.

Once we got the call to combine tents, we quickly changed into dry clothes and waddled through the darkness with our sleeping pads and bags bundled in our arms. Crawling under the tent's door flap into a cozy warm space felt like heaven on earth. What had been set up as a tent for five people became a rather cozy tent for nine. We gave up individualism at that moment and packed together like sardines, a tight line of sleeping bags. Our guide selflessly committed to watching the fire all night to keep us sardines warm.

I found the warmth I was looking for wedged in between seven new friends, grateful for the togetherness we'd built over the past two days and the care our guides Sarah and Rob showed all of us that night.

The next morning featured more of the best oatmeal I've ever had (again, could have been the -30°C talking), eaten while washing dishes in snow and chatting with others about the hot baths and showers we were going to take when we got home. The final packing of tents and sleds was sped up by the promise of hot baths and showers awaiting us back home.

We set out on our final march across Devil's Lake back to the pickup point. With our tent's supplies on a sled attached to my heavy backpack, I cursed myself for slightly overpacking that extra bag of trail mix I never ended up eating. Every corner felt like it should have been the last until we saw our reliably orange-hatted guide, Rory, walking toward us from the parking lot. I hugged the bus when I got to it, watched a new friend plunge into a snow bank, took off my snowshoes, and caught my breath.

It's our good fortune to seek out these experiences by choice, wrapped in merino wool and a community of care. I'll always remember my frozen toes and nose that first night, but more so the moments when people offered their hand as I navigated uneven terrain or taught me skills that made me feel like I was part of something bigger.

Would I do it all again? Absolutely. That's the thing about Type 2 fun: it's tough in the moment, but you can't wait to do it again.

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