My Attempt at the Canadian Shield 400
Flashback to 2024, when I unknowingly launched myself into an adventure that would open my eyes to a lifestyle that quickly became my guiding north: the Log Driver’s Waltz.
It was my first real foray into multi-day bikepacking. Albeit at a slower pace than I'd prefer, I began down this crusty road of covering long distances on two wheels—self-propelled and self-motivated. I called it adventouring.
Flash forward to 2025. Chris Panasky—host of the Bikepack Adventures podcast, and more importantly for this story, the creator of the Canadian Shield Bikepacking Route launches the grand départ on a Sunday around 6:30 p.m., following a wet, humid, damp, and all-things-moist-and-cold edition of the Bikepacking Summit. Mind you, it was the first afternoon where the sun finally made an appearance. ’Twas a welcome change, though a short-lived one. Night was already tugging on the bright golden curtain of day.
The Canadian Shield 400
The Canadian Shield 400 is a mountain bike route that snakes through the Outaouais region of Quebec and into the Pontiac, making use of some of the best and most brutal unmaintained sections of “road” I’ve ever encountered in my 29 years of life.
I’m talking rocks so big you end up backpacking your bike, and sandy stretches that demand real bike-handling skills just to move forward.
The route begins at the covered bridge in Wakefield, very much like the kind you see in Christmas movies. Immediately, it dives into the inlands of the Outaouais: mellow hills, grasslands, farmlands, and trees. Lots of trees.
The first challenge is a short out-and-back to the Paugan Dam. It doesn’t seem like much at first, but it’s one of those route-making decisions that plants a seed of doubt: Will this whole route be filled with random detours? Will it sap my pace and energy stores?
After the dam comes Denholm, a quaint little village that greets you with one of the longest climbs on the route: steep, punchy, and seemingly endless. A classic example of the climbing you'll come to know well on this route.
After a weekend of celebrating bikepacking and hanging out with good friends, my legs already felt like jelly. This climb didn’t help.
At the top, the evening had turned brisk. 10 degrees Celsius. Sweat on my back, no food in my stomach, I figured the best thing to do was gear up for the descent on the other side. Windbreaker on, half a candy bar in my mouth, I launched down the hill.
Exhilaration.
The first taste of speed on this already exhausting journey.
A few kilometers later, I passed through a pine cultivation area that gave me the chills. In the dark, the perfectly straight rows of conifers felt eerie and oddly menacing. I tried to push past the feeling, focusing on pace, but the horror movies I’d watched came creeping in. I sped up—just enough to stay ahead of whatever imaginary ghouls might be chasing me.
That night, I slept near the Denholm community center. It was cold, damp, and I pitched my tent on a slope—an amateur mistake. My sleep was far from restful.
Day Two
4 a.m.
My alarm rang. I knew I had to get up before the village folk awoke and shooed me away like a stray cat.
I broke camp, packed my gear, and by the time I was pedaling, it was 5:30. Time makes no sense when you're exhausted.
I don’t remember much from that morning. I was groggy and hoping for just a bit of sunshine and warmth.
The route was heading toward Mont Sainte-Marie. Never having been there, I had no idea what to expect. So when I finally saw the sign welcoming me to the township, I perked up. I knew what awaited in the heart of that town: singletrack. Mountain bike trails. Oddly thrilling, considering how tired I was.
The first challenge was simply finding the will to keep going while freezing and soaked. Swearing Chris’ name up every switchback, I suddenly spotted an orchid - AN ORCHID. Being a passionate horticulturist, I stopped and took as many pictures as I could muster the patience for. It gave me just enough courage to carry on.
Later, I found a sunlit spot, pitched just the inner of my tent, and spread out my soaked gear to dry. I lay down for what became the most delightful two-hour nap of my life. Cars passed. Nobody said a word. It’s not like I looked like some crusty bike bum camped on the side of the road... oh wait.
Mont Sainte-Marie Trails
My next memory is of reaching the Mont Sainte-Marie bike trails, climbing what felt like a million switchbacks and being passed by actual mountain bikers. They asked questions about my strange setup (bags everywhere, sweaty mess of a rider) and what I was doing. Out loud, I probably answered normally. Internally, I was just screaming:
"CHRIS, WHY?!?"
On repeat.
The descent? Absolute chaos. I was laughing like a maniac, bombing down tight switchbacks and rock rollers on a bike that weighed two or three times what it should have. Honestly, one of the most electrifying experiences of my life.
The Blur
The rest of that day? A blur. Outaouais-style "rolling" hills welcomed my aching body. A few snack-stops lifted my spirits and filled my stomach with sugar, calories, and protein—the bikepacker’s delight.
I think I did something like 120 kilometers that day. I wasn’t even remotely prepared for how hard this would be, physically or mentally. When I reached Lac Cayamant and couldn’t find the public campsite, I gave up looking. I stealth-camped beside someone’s driveway, too tired to care.
Thousands of mosquitoes joined me, along with the thought of the sandwich buried somewhere in one of my hundred bags. (That’s an exaggeration, but barely.) Sleep hit me like a moth to a flame: sudden, thoughtless, and with no idea what the consequences would be.
The End (For Now)
I think I knew that next day would be my last.
My friends encouraged me not to scratch - “You’re only a few hundred kilometers away” - but the previous four nights had eroded my mental toughness.
The day began with a few paved kilometers, then hit the now-infamous sandy stretch. Ironically, my riding speed matched what I could have done walking. It was somehow one of the day’s highlights.
Then came the brutal 15% climbs. I walked most of them. The equally steep downhills only led to more punishment. I’m not ashamed to say I cried a few times. It was the most demoralizing section of the entire route. Every hundred meters felt like a victory. Even the downhills started to feel pointless.
And then... I scratched.
Reflection
At some point, you get hungry. Your feet hurt. Your soul is tired. I stopped to admire a gorgeous Pontiac hillside and treat myself to a protein bar. It could have been a perfect moment, if not for the bugs. The biting kind.
I couldn’t stand still without a swarm trying to drain what little blood and minerals I had left. That was it. My will to continue? Gone.
I stopped there. Or rather, I pulled the plug at kilometer 250.
Do I regret it?
Not one bit.
I loved many aspects of the route. I loved the challenge, the incredible riding, and the lessons learned. But next time (and yes, there will be a next time), I’ll bring better gear and be in better shape.
The mental side? That’s already been trained by living it once, and knowing how hard it really is.
For a 400km route, the Canadian Shield 400 is a journey—and it feels infinitely harder than many other routes of the same distance in the area.
A big thanks to Chris Panasky for creating this route. Without him, and IT, I wouldn't have faced many of my fears or learned what I was capable of, and what I’m not.
