Slap. Slap. Slap. In the center of the canoe our son, Dashwa, knelt atop a pack and whacked his paddle on the water. He hadn’t yet learned how to make his paddle slap like a beaver’s tail, but that didn’t stop him from trying. We’d been paddling for an hour after finishing breakfast at our first campsite on the Misekhow River, which parallels the northwestern border of Wabakimi Provincial Park.

The slapping was calm compared to Dashwa’s tantrum before breakfast. He woke unhappy, and soon shuddered with tears, yelling and crying, feet and arms flailing. Claire, my wife, passed him out of the tent, and I carried the screeching mass of tears to our bug shelter. The previous day, our first, Dashwa had skipped most of lunch and refused dinner. The storm ceased when I fed him dried mango.

Slap. Slap. Sploosh! Dashwa swung too hard, and fell face first into the river. He was just out of reach. Before I could take a stroke to bring the canoe closer, Claire jumped in. She hoisted him up to me, dripping tears and river water. At nearly four years old, this was Dashwa’s third swim. I soothingly reminded him of his previous fish surveys. The first, like this one, was terrifying for Dashwa but easy due to warm water. The second, in early April, was different, both the water and air had been cold. That swim required a complete change of clothes and left him crying even after he was dry. Hearing stories about previous exploits calmed him.