Sunset on the lake — the best canoeing is at night

Most canoeists start on one of the rivers that feed the lake — and all of them present their own challenges. Coming via the Peace and Athabasca Rivers, the shallow west end of the lake can be perilous when there's a wind blowing out of the east. The William River, which winds through the dunes on the south shore, is riddled with rock gardens and shifting sandbanks, which means a lot of getting out and hauling. And once on the south shore of the lake there are no islands or sheltered bays to break the lake's wrath.

No matter which route you take, says Nora,"The best canoeing is at night, when the winds die down and the air is cooler." And, this far north, there's a certain charm to canoeing at night. Though it's not quite the land of the midnight sun, it never gets very dark — and, from late July on, the northern lights can be seen on virtually every clear night.

While a certain amount of canoeing experience is essential, anyone who has been here agrees it's not as critical as an ability to read the lake — and to know when to get off. It's important to remember just how isolated the lake is: You really can't afford to make mistakes. Changes in communication technology have made a difference, of course — assuming your budget runs to such things — but any response to an SOS call is going to be hours away. Adequate preparation is crucial, from food and first-aid supplies to mittens and thermal underwear (and, as Nora says laughing, "take a patch kit . . . take five!).

If it sounds a little intimidating, it is. But with good preparation and solid skills, it can be an extraordinary voyage. Because it's probably fair to say it's like nowhere you've ever been.

This is true wilderness. Most of the time our only companions are the wild things: beavers and loons, freshwater otters, the occasional rabbit or mink. There are fuzzy caterpillars, yellow and black like grounded bees; spruce beetles, with black antenna larger than their narrow bodies; and enormous jeweled dragonflies, ruby, azure, silver — when we swim they buzz up for a face-to-face encounter, no doubt puzzled by our bobbing heads.

The lonely, maniacal cry of loons, a rare pleasure in most places, is part of the rhythm of life here. In August, as they prepare to migrate, rafts of them gather on the open water, harnessing the strength to make the long flight to warmer climes. Curious pine martens sometimes dare to approach, speaking in a hoarse and guttural grunting, like an old man clearing his throat (when I attempt to respond in kind, they give me a look I can only describe as affronted). I leave small mounds of sunflower seeds for the fat russet voles — like most creatures here they have little fear of man, ignoring my presence as they spirit away the unexpected bonanza. And of course there are bears — a lot of them, brown, blond, black. Over time I find them a little unnerving, though, so while it seems a shame to break the peace, they're usually scared off by loud noises.