Camping at Bon Echo Provincial Park

Some camping trips are all golden-hour sunsets and quiet mornings by the lake. Others test every ounce of patience, preparation, and calm you have. Our trip to Bon Echo Provincial Park during the derecho firmly landed in the second category—and it’s one I won’t ever forget.

Bon Echo is one of those parks that feels almost sacred the moment you arrive. Mazinaw Rock towers over the lake, ancient pictographs etched into its face, the kind of place that naturally slows you down. We arrived expecting stillness—early paddles, shaded hikes, peaceful evenings by the fire. Instead, we were met with an atmosphere that felt heavy from the start.

We started the afternoon at the dog beach, soaking up the sun and playing in the lake with Kaidy and Chase and the dogs. The sky was clear and the day was hot. We were not expecting what was going to happen. By late afternoon, clouds began moving faster than they should. We could see the storm rolling in from across the lake so we decided to pack up and head back to the campsite before the rain came. We are very experenced with rain when camping but this felt different. This came in fast and hard. The wind picked up in sharp, unpredictable bursts.

Then the storm hit.

A derecho isn’t just a thunderstorm—it’s sustained, violent wind that doesn’t let up. The rain came sideways, stinging your skin. The sound was overwhelming: trees snapping, branches crashing down, tents thrashing wildly. The forest around us felt like it was in motion. We rushed to secure what we could, knowing full well that once winds reach that intensity, you’re no longer in control—only reacting.

It was terrifying in a very real, grounded way. Not dramatic, not cinematic—just raw awareness that things could go very wrong, very quickly. We all piled into the screen tent and the adults grabbed on to the frame so our shelter wouldn't blow away. It was very scary for the kids, so Kaidy decided it would be safer for her the the truck. She curled up with a blanket and cried in the SUV until the storm passed.

When the worst of the storm finally passed, the park felt unrecognizable. Trees were down everywhere—blocking roads, crushing campsites, splitting the forest open. Some trailers had been hit directly by falling trees. One sight in particular is burned into my memory: a Dodge Ram pickup with a massive tree driven straight through the windshield. It was a sobering, unmistakable sign of just how dangerous the situation had been.

Shortly after, the decision was made to shut the park down entirely. Bon Echo was no longer safe. With so many trees down and infrastructure damaged, there was no water and no radio signal. Park staff moved quickly, coordinating a full evacuation. It was tense and surreal packing up amid the destruction, surrounded by the sound of chainsaws and emergency vehicles instead of birds and paddles in the water.

Leaving the park felt heavy. Camping is usually about disconnecting—but suddenly being without communication, without water, and without certainty drove home how vulnerable you can be when nature takes control. This wasn’t about inconvenience anymore; it was about safety.

Looking back, what stays with me most isn’t just the storm itself, but the aftermath. The scale of the damage. The quiet seriousness of everyone packing up. The reminder that no matter how experienced or prepared you are, the outdoors demands respect—always.

Camping at Bon Echo during the derecho wasn’t the trip we planned, but it was a powerful lesson in humility and awareness. Nature doesn’t owe us comfort or predictability. Sometimes it offers beauty and calm. Other times, it reminds you just how small you really are.

Bon Echo showed us its wildest side, and while I hope never to camp through something like that again, I’m grateful for the experience. The trips that challenge you the most often leave the deepest mark—and this one will stay with me for a long time.

This year, we’re going back. Not to chase another storm, but to give Bon Echo the chance it deserves—and to experience the park the way we originally imagined it. Calm mornings on Mazinaw Lake, long days exploring the trails, quiet nights under the stars. After seeing the park at its most chaotic, it feels important to return for the full experience—to replace those intense memories with ones rooted in peace, beauty, and everything that makes Bon Echo such a special place. Sometimes you don’t give up on a place after a hard experience. Sometimes, you go back and let it show you a different side.

Where were you when the derecho hit in 2022? I would love to hear about your experiences durning the storm. If you have been to Bon Echo Provincial Park after the storm, what are your thoughts?

Happy Camping🏕️

Love,

Liz💖