Dazed but Not Confused: Tales of a Wilderness Wanderer

them.

PART ONE

Life as a Wilderness Pornographer

"You want to be a writer, don’t know how or when?

Find a quiet place, use a humble pen."

–PAUL SIMON

CHAPTER 1

Writing with a Humble Pen

Scott Adams, friend and canoemate, fell off an ATV two days before a major two-week canoe/filming trip in Quetico, injuring his legs, hands, and one ankle. Funny thing about it, Scott detests ATVs, which is probably why I teased him so much about the accident throughout the trip. I teased him a little too much, maybe. I mocked him while he limped over the portages, ribbed him while he crawled into the canoe, and poked fun at him every time he had to clean and redress his wounds.

He took the jokes quite well. That’s because, for starters, he knew darn well that joyriding on an ATV was a silly thing to do, but mostly because he knew that it wouldn’t be long before he could poke fun at some stupid act of mine.

He didn’t have to wait long.

On our next canoe/filming trip, Scott and I had the job of preparing a base camp for BBC while they filmed a television special with Ray Mears, the bushcraft expert from the United Kingdom. He’s the kind of guy who can carve a paddle out of a tree in minutes or get a fire going without a match and without breaking a sweat. The man’s bushcraft films are admired by thousands of fans worldwide, and here I was, charged with setting up his camp. So we were a day ahead of his crew on the river, making sure everything was set for when they arrived. And it wasn’t. We had no cooking pots. I had forgotten them back at the boat launch.

After taking an increasingly panicked inventory of the campsite, I stared at the river and considered paddling back upstream, but we were too far away and the current too fast. We were trapped, and I was humbled.

I think I have the humble pen thing figured out, though. It seems to come naturally when I write about my misadventures. Humility has taken me far on wilderness trips. Lacking humility in wild places is the surest way to get into trouble. I’m frequently awed and humbled when I’m out there. In fact, that’s one reason I go out. Frequent humblings are good for the soul.

The first evening, Scott and I ate PB&J sandwiches rather than cooking up our mac and cheese dinner. And that was okay. We dealt with the hardship. But not being able to boil water for coffee in the morning was unacceptable — as was being unable to prepare any meals for the eight-person crew about to arrive that day.

Scott and I tried numerous survival skills to heat up water. Placing hot rocks into a barrel pack containing river water was the first method, which gave us a lukewarm, murky liquid filled with dirt and ash (and most likely a few parasites). Next we spent a good hour carving a bowl out of a log, only to have it ignite, leak, and then spill its contents and douse the flames. The third method was a little more successful. We found an old whisky bottle back in the bush, filled it half-full with water, and then hung it a good distance above the flames of the fire. Not soon after, we had bubbling water to receive our coffee grounds.

A watched whisky bottle never boils.

At noon the film crew arrived, and I beat Scott to the punch by immediately telling them of our mishap. Then I humbly asked bushcraft expert Ray Mears how he would deal with the dilemma. I expected Ray to ramble off some of the methods we had already attempted, but instead he gave a giggle and lifted my pack out of his canoe, saying, Well, Kevin, we could use these pots left behind by some poor fool back at the launch.

It was a fantastic experience working

with Ray.

For a full month after that trip, as punishment for forgetting the cooking pots, I delivered a large double-double Tim Hortons coffee to Scott’s workplace each and every day, and I haven’t made a single mention of his ATV incident.

CHAPTER 2

I’m an Idiot

Ihad worked with Kip Spidell, a film producer from Toronto, for over a dozen years before I finally asked him why he chose me to be the host of his films; to be the guy on camera, to do all the media interviews, and to get all the attention. It was an evening around a campfire in Quetico when I asked the question. We were sipping good bourbon and talking about old times shared together filming in the wilderness. His answer wasn’t what I expected. Because you’re an idiot, Kevin!

It’s not that I was expecting something like, Because you’re talented, or, Because you’re good looking. I’m a little more humble than that. But being called an idiot was a bit of a shocker — that is, until Kip explained.

Kevin, you seriously have the worst luck in the world. Honestly, I knew right from the start that if we put a camera in front of you, something odd would happen every time.

I had to admit, Kip was right. My life can seem like a blooper reel at times. For example, standing in the snow with just my boxers on wasn’t my idea. The producer of my online camping show, titled The Happy Camper, thought it would be a good idea to show the layering system used for dressing properly in off-season conditions by having me dress from bottom up, showing layer after layer. I had a serious problem doing the deed. We weren’t in a remote area for the shoot, but rather a public park just outside my home in Peterborough. I didn’t have a problem with the backdrop at first; our budget was tight and none of us had the time or money to travel any farther for the segment. But I didn’t know I would be standing almost naked in a public park.

What if someone walks along the trail? I asked. The producer basically ignored my concern, reminding me that we had seen no one all day and that it would take just a couple of minutes to film the scene.

I find myself presenting in the oddest places.

His words seemed comforting enough at the time, so I disrobed and stood there, showing off my black boxers and pale, glossy white skin to the elements. A minute into the dialogue, however, three men wandered up the trail. They stopped in their tracks and gawked at the mostly naked guy who had two cameras pointed at him, a mic boom pole hovering over, and a producer yelling Action!

In my earpiece the producer whispered, Kevin, for once in your life, say nothing. Just let them walk by and we can continue the scene. His suggestion seemed responsible, but there’s no way I can’t say anything. So I simply waved to the gentlemen hikers and said, "It’s okay, we’re just shooting a film called The Happy Camper."

Three women then came up the trailhead, who we assumed were their wives catching up on the walk. And that’s when the producer’s words of wisdom seemed prophetic — one of the male hikers quickly held up his arm to stop their female counterparts from continuing up the trail. Hold on there, honey, he said, "someone’s filming some dirty male porn film called The Happy Camper."

Needless to say, the crew made up nicknames for me the rest of the day, all of which referred to porn actors. I hadn’t known this before then, but supposedly if you add your street name and middle name together, it becomes your porn name. Mine is John Thomas.

I’ve had my worst blunders during live morning shows on television. I’ve shot off emergency flares by accident, and was the reason why one of the hosts of Canada AM was run over by sled dogs. (She refused to interview me for an entire year after that.) On the same show, with a different host (of course), I innocently agreed to do a winter-camping segment. What could go wrong? I thought. I winter camp all the time and consider myself a bit of an expert.

High winds were blowing off the nearby highway, the temperature plummeted to minus 21 degrees Celsius, and the only place to set up my Snowtrekker canvas tent and wood stove was between two old spruce trees decorated with Christmas lights. But I handled the circumstances. I’ve dealt with worse conditions while trekking in the frozen north. Then the host came out to the do the interview and the camera was turned on. That’s when the wind blew down into the stove pipe and filled the tent with smoke. When I opened the tent to greet the camera, it looked like a scene from the classic Cheech and Chong movie Up in Smoke. To make matters worse, I had cut my hand on the stove pipe, but because I was so numb from the cold, I didn’t feel it. The producer took notice of the red blotches on the snow, and when I looked down, I realized my glove was absolutely soaked in blood. I was bleeding like a stuck pig in front of the entire crew. Crap! How professional did that look?

Kip’s right, though. All this makes for good film. I must admit that my foolish nature has benefited me in the past. My first initial television blooper was on some little-known television talk show. I was scheduled to chat about my latest book, but I knew books were boring to talk about on TV so I gathered a bunch of the latest and greatest camp gadgets from my local outdoor store and planned on showing them off to spice up the interview. The items ranged from mosquito repellent for your dog to a solar-powered radio. I also had a Peemate, a urinary device that enabled women to pee while standing up. The crew and female host looked over the gear prior to the live broadcast, especially the plastic, tube-shaped substitute-penis contraption. So they knew full well what the darn thing was and how it worked.

Promoting wilderness values in the media has never really been dull for me.

The male host didn’t, however. He walked on set seconds before we went live, blatantly told me he thought camping was silly, began barking commands at the crew, and loudly declared, Let’s just get this over with so I can go for coffee. The camera light went on, we were live, and he grabbed the first gadget in front of me — the Peemate.

What’s this? he asked. I’m not sure what prompted me — maybe it was that I just didn’t like the guy — but I answered, It’s a whistle. Give it a try. He did. His less-arrogant female counterpart and the crew fell over laughing. The segment instantly became the joke of the century, at least in the world of morning shows, and almost every talk show in the country phoned me the next day asking to be on their show to talk about my book — and the urinary device.

The fact that I benefit from having bad luck became even more apparent just before I gave a presentation on wilderness protection at the Princess Theatre in London, Ontario. It was the first presentation of a very long speaking tour I had organized, and I was quite worried no one would show up for it. I arrived two hours early so that I had plenty of time to set up for the show. When I arrived, a crowd of people were lined up in front of the theatre. As I walked past I innocently asked the last person in line what movie was playing, thinking it was another showing of Avatar before it went to rental. She replied, It’s for Kevin Callan. My husband says he’s the Ed Wynn of the paddling community.

I ended up having to do two shows that evening. The theatre seated only 250 people, and there were well over 400 standing in line.

Don’t worry. All the attention definitely didn’t go to my head. Well, it did for a little while, but my high came crashing down when I woke my young daughter up for school the next morning and told her the good news about how famous her dad was. Her reply: I hope you had your fly up this time. Mom said you didn’t during your last presentation.

CHAPTER 3

Moose Radio

Ilove being interviewed on radio about camping, especially CBC Radio. A lot of famous people work there — really nice famous people. That’s the one thing I love about CBC: the nice people you hear on the radio are just as nice in person.

I do most of my CBC work at the Toronto studio, and the only drawback is the robot mail guy. (Or is it a girl?) It’s not nice at all. It’s an actual robot that delivers the mail. Mind you, it looks more like a shopping cart or a mini Zamboni moving around by remote control, but it is a robot. A sign posted on the front reads MOVE IT OR LOSE IT. When it passes by and you want the mail, you simply touch it and it will stop. Sounds simple enough, but I find it’s not as friendly as the radio people. It takes turns too sharply or knocks into chairs and gets stuck, and when you attempt to help it, the robot tries to give you mail.

For pure enjoyment, I decided to say something nasty to it when it rolled past my booth. The darn thing turned around and came back to me. The whole studio laughed hysterically as I ran away.

And picture this: between live interviews with Goose Bay and Sudbury, I ran to the washroom to pee, having literally three minutes to do the act, and there was the robot blocking the washroom door. I tried to move it to the side, and it tried to hand me a mail package. I panicked and used the women’s washroom instead, and thank goodness I didn’t run into anyone like Shelagh Rogers in the stall — even if she is a really nice person.

Most of the radio I do is live, which is something I prefer — most of the time. When my daughter was four, I was doing a number of live radio interviews from home, averaging one or two every morning. The way my wife, Alana, and I worked out the morning schedule was that she would make sure our daughter, Kyla, would stay downstairs with her while I went upstairs to do the interviews over the phone. Everything went well until Collingwood’s Peak FM called. A couple minutes into the interview, Kyla wandered upstairs, pulled on my pant leg while I was talking live on radio, and asked me a question: Dad, what’s the place in Canada that rhymes with vagina?

Needless to say I didn’t answer right away. The host of the show wanted me to, but Alana, listening online downstairs, discovered where Kyla had gotten to when she heard her sweet little voice on the radio, and was able to take her back downstairs before she repeated the question.

I found myself the next day in the CBC Radio syndicate studio in Toronto again. I was to do fourteen interviews from coast to coast during a four-hour stint. How it worked was pretty cool. Hosts from various Canadian cities — Whitehorse to Charlottetown — would phone in one at a time and interview me for ten to twelve minutes, leaving me a two- to three-minute interval to prepare for the next interview. It’s a hectic pace for sure, but the main advantage was that I was able to do the interviews away from home and from Kyla’s possible question period.

But, as I’ve stated before, my life never goes as planned. You guessed it: the first city to phone in for the radio interview was Regina. When the host announced himself and stated where he was calling from, I had a giggle fit for the first minute or so. He didn’t find the story behind my uncontrollable laughter very funny, but I certainly did.

The best ever radio misadventure, however, was my battle with the moose. The story began on a canoe trip down the Kopka River that flows out of Wabakimi Provincial Park and into Lake Nipigon. It was a three-week trip, and CBC Radio had scheduled a number of live interviews by satellite phone.

It was an amazing trip, one that made for amazing radio. The river was remote, and wildlife sightings were unsurpassed. The host of the show was happy, except in one regard — he wanted a moose story. We saw eleven bears and five bald eagles, and had a close encounter with a skunk. But no moose.

This was one of the scariest moments of my life.

I had one more interview scheduled with CBC at the conclusion of the trip. The plan was to load up the vehicle at the take-out and then drive to a nearby lodge so I could make use of their land phone. (The satellite phone was acting up.)

My canoemate, Andy Baxter, and I happened upon a moose feeding along the roadside not long after we started the drive to the lodge. I was desperate for a moose encounter for the radio interview, so I pulled over to take a picture. Andy called me an idiot tourist and warned me of the dangers of photographing moose along roadsides.

I stood my ground when the moose initially started to charge, not believing it was a real threat. When it was only a few metres away, and changing its gait from a gallop to an all-out sprint, I suddenly changed my tune. I ran my ass off, making a beeline back to the truck.

What was I thinking? If I had come across the same animal while out on a trip, rather than by the side of the highway, I would have admired it from a distance, not blindly walked up to it snapping photos as if it were a supermodel. A few seconds into the chase, I realized that my time in the high-school running club was far behind me, but the moose wasn’t. It was closing in, and the only thing to do was to start zigzagging in hopes of confusing it.

It was the blast of a logging truck’s horn that saved me in the end. Not