A Memorable Trip To Murphy’s Point Provincial Park
Remember those idyllic camping trips of your youth? Sun-drenched days, crackling campfires, the gentle scent of pine needles warming in the afternoon light… Yeah, this past weekend’s “relaxing” camping trip to a campground just outside of Ottawa wasn’t quite that. In fact, it quickly devolved into a white-knuckled, laugh-out-loud event, proving once again that even the best-laid plans (or, perhaps more accurately, the complete lack thereof) can go gloriously, hilariously wrong. It reminds me of the saying “Make the plan, execute the plan, then throw the plan out the window”
It all started innocently enough. My wife was working late (bless her diligent heart), while I, ever the responsible trip planner, sent my son to the grocery store to procure the essential road snacks. As dusk deepened and the clouds rolled in, I started to feel a familiar anxiety bubbling up – I despise backing into a campsite in the dark. We finally hit the road, spirits high, only to arrive at our destination – a campground I hadn’t seen in over a DECADE – well after dark, dank and now drizzly. And when I say dark, I mean that deep in the woods no moon or stars in the cloud covered sky kind of dark.
We pulled up to the gate, a faint hope reflecting off the gatehouse outside lights, only to find the office a desolate, shadowy void. Meg found a note taped to the window instructing late arrivals to check-in the following morning. A frantic rummage in the dim glow of our phones yielded a map that unfortunately not helpful, offered precisely zero actionable insight into campsite locations, or where to fill up the tank. Our mission, should we choose to accept it (and by “choose,” I mean “we were already hopelessly committed”), was twofold: first, to miraculously stumble upon our reserved spot, and second, and arguably more vital, to unearth some precious water to flush the toilet, prepare morning coffee, – because let’s face it, without coffee, things were only going to get darker. Plus Checkers waterbottle conveniently sprung a leak and ran out.
What followed was a harrowing journey through what felt less like an Ontario campground and more like our own personal reality show lost in the forest. Our truck our steady steed, transformed into a blinded beast, creeping its way into the inky black night. Meg, bless her brave soul and surprisingly steady hand, literally walked point with a single cell phone flashlightbeam, her silhouette dancing back and forth guiding us through the absolute darkness and a series of “white-knuckle” hills that seemed to materialize out of thin air then the road would disappear entirely once cresting the hilly twisty turny campground.
Meg somehow kept us on the road and out of the steep ditches on each side. We eventually stumbled upon our site – a drive-through, thankfully, which felt like hitting the jackpot. After a comical, hushed ballet of leveling shimmies and shakes we finally parked the truck, too exhausted to even bother unhooking the trailer. Our power was hiding deep in neighbouring gulley hidden from view, but we were home, or at least, close enough for a dark dank night.
Franktown Lilac Festival
The rising sun cast a warm glow on the scene; Meg nestled snugly in the pizza oven (aka bottom bunk), having clearly sought refuge from my nightly performance of lawn mower. I, meanwhile, embraced the quiet, walked the dog, and brewed some much-needed coffee, patiently awaiting the rest of the crew to emerge from their various, presumably less-snore-filled, states of slumber.
That’s when Meg dropped the bombshell, after we all crashed for the night she had other plans to find some water. She shifted into hyperfocus mode, logged on and saved map of the campground saved it to her cell, collected any container that would fit in her backpack, flashlight clutched in hand, and followed the map on her cell in the other. She returned quietly in the peaceful darkness, backpack heavy with containers filled to the brim. Early dawn she ventured out with Checkers for a short walk, and realized there was a watertap and vault toilets within direct eyesight that she’d completely missed in the impenetrable darkness – a truly epic facepalm moment for us all, Meg just laughed shrugging. Naturally, my very first act of the day, fueled by caffeine and a newfound determination, was to Google a detailed park map for myself. This proved to be a brilliant move, as it quickly became clear the park’s official signage was about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine, mostly because, well, it simply wasn’t there.
A much-anticipated trip to the office for a proper check-in finally yielded not only a legitimate paper map (a true marvel after our nocturnal adventures!) but, more importantly, precise directions to the water fill-up station. The park, bathed in the forgiving light of day, was actually quite beautiful, its air filled with the cheerful chirping of birds, sunlight flickering through the green canopy. After a brief encounter with a surprisingly tight turn near the water station (a moment where we genuinely thought we might end up in a ditch!), we successfully unhooked the trailer at our site, finally ready to truly embrace the day and all its newfound visibility.
Our spirits lifted considerably, we set off for the nearby reknown Lilac Festival in Franktown. It was a delightful change of pace. We ambled down Lilac Lane, inhaling the sweet aromas, and even encountered a charming, horse-drawn carriage that, predictably, sent Checkers into a flurry of startled barks, never having been face to hoof with giant work horses. Frightened as the lane is very narrow and little space to move aside, he yanked us all further into the ditch, the next few times we passed them he eventually was calm and ignored them altogether as we paused to watch a team of workers meticulously rebuilding an ancient stone wall that clearly needed some TLC around the infamous Church.
Meg and Dylan went inside and learned from a volunteer that the Church was the Oldest Anglican church in Ontario, perhaps Canada and was actually older than Canada. Then, in a sudden rush of pure nostalgia, we caught the unmistakable rumble of an engine and the distinct, almost forgotten aroma of old-fashioned leaded gasoline as a vintage car puttered past the church, instantly transporting me straight back to the sun-drenched summers of my childhood in rural southwestern Ontario. It was a much needed relaxing and peaceful time.
Back at the campground, the afternoon settled into a leisurely pace. We indulged in a relaxed brunch, followed by a blissful nap (for me, at least; my wife, I suspect, enjoyed reading in the peaceful quiet). As the shadows lengthened, we even managed to squeeze in a movie – the classic Up Periscope – and were treated to the truly glorious sound of our son howling with unbridled laughter during the infamous sailor-fart-in-a-sub scene. The evening wound down with a few spirited rounds of cards and plenty of hearty laughs, a perfect end to a day that had started in utter darkness.
A Royal Pain in the… Road to the Silver Queen Mine
The next morning dawned with the familiar ritual of coffee, muffins, and the start of the tear-down. Once the RV was packed tighter than a can of sardines after a hurricane, we figured, “Hey, let’s squeeze in one more adventure!” Google reviews raved about the Silver Queen Mine, so naturally, we pointed our trusty vehicle in that direction. Little did we know, we were about to embark on a journey that would make a roller coaster feel like a leisurely stroll through a rose garden.
The road to the mine was… an experience. I’ve traversed my fair share of questionable paths, but this one shot straight into the Top Ten Terrifying Tracks. Speeding was out of the question unless we fancied a starring role in a tow truck commercial from the “neatly groomed” ditch beside us. Seriously, it was less a road, more a chiropractor’s dream come true.
Upon arrival, the parking lot was blissfully, eerily empty. We had the whole place to ourselves, which was either a sign of supreme luck or a massive hint we should’ve stayed home. The trail to the mine was a “short hike,” or so they said. My son, fueled by an unknown pre-teen urgency, was practically speed-walking to the finish line. I, meanwhile, was doing my best impression of a startled gazelle trying to keep up, while my wife, Meg, lagged behind, documenting every single blade of grass with her camera. We lost sight of her quickly, probably because she was trying to capture the exact moment a particularly photogenic pebble decided to shine.
The trail itself was a dragonfly convention. They were everywhere, a tiny, iridescent air force buzzing around us, seemingly fending off the local mosquito mafia. And these weren’t your average, dainty dragonflies; these looked like they’d been hitting the protein shakes. Every step sent a new squadron into the air. As we neared the mine, the shade increased, and our aerial escort mysteriously vanished. It turns out even dragonflies have their limits when it comes to covering our every move.
The ground around the mine glittered with shiny bits, remnants of its silica-mining glory days. The mine itself was boarded up, so no Indiana Jones-esque explorations for us. But that didn’t stop us from channeling our inner echo champions, yelling into the dark abyss and listening to our voices bounce back. We vowed to return when it was actually open for a proper tour, which, considering the journey, would require a slightly higher level of commitment.
Given the unexpected time warp getting there, we scrambled back to the parking lot under renewed dragonfly air cover. Then it was a quick dash back to the campsite to finally hook up the trailer before it was time to check out.
The Grand Exit (and Another Near-Ditch Experience)
Then came the moment of truth: tackling the dump station. And wouldn’t you know it, that “extremely tight turn” decided to rear its ugly head once more, proving it wasn’t just a figment of our Friday night delirium. Our front passenger side tire sank, perilously close to the ditch, and for a heart-stopping moment, it felt like we might just permanently become part of the campground’s landscape. But with my wife’s truly amazing guidance (and, I’m convinced, a healthy dose of divine luck), we managed to maneuver the trailer into position and successfully empty the tanks, narrowly escaping need for a roadside rescue.
Finally, with all tanks emptied and dignity (mostly) intact, we were homeward bound, dropping the trailer off at the storage lot with a sigh of relief. All in all, it was an adventure for the books – a chaotic, often comical, testament to our teamwork, enduring patience, wildly questionable navigation skills, and the surprising, almost heroic resilience of those brand-new trailer batteries.
What’s your most memorable (and perhaps most comically disastrous) camping trip? Share your tales of woe (and triumph!) in the comments below!