My husband had been telling me for months about an idyllic yurt tucked into a pristine landscape of rustling aspens and ponderosa pines on a private lake in a remote corner of British Columbia’s Okanagan. He had gone there several times to savor the wilderness and relax, pole in hand.

It sounded like a lovely getaway. We took care to select a date when the days would be warm and glorious, the nights balmy and star-filled.

The morning of our trip, the sky is gunmetal gray, and it’s growing darker by the minute. “It’s hours from Seattle — surely the weather will be different there,” I note, cheerily.

“No, actually, since it’s farther north, it will be worse up there,” Eric says, a deep frown on his face. I hear my sun-worshipping husband mutter under his breath as he schleps our bags out to our waiting SUV.

The rutted dirt road to the yurt wound through dense stands of aspens, ponderosa pines and Douglas firs.

Hours later, as we struggle up a steep mountain pass on the Coquihalla Highway, a near-Biblical deluge of rain pummels our truck. Eric points dejectedly at a blank– Etch A Sketch wall of clouds and points out what I am unable to see: in this case, a soaring granite cliff, a thousand feet (305 m) high.

I imagine that there could be many things here. Maybe an alpine ski area, a glamorous resort … a roadside circus ... I steal a glance at him, wondering if he’s pulling my leg.

We turn off at a dirt (did I say “dirt?” how about “mud?”) road barred by a padlocked wooden gate. Behind the gate lie miles of rangeland and our private retreat, which Eric has characterized as a slice of luxury in the wilderness. Ahhh, I sigh. Our raft trip is almost over, and we can relax by a cozy fire in our own hideaway, enjoy a candlelight trout dinner and trade backrubs.

I haul myself out of the truck to unlock the gate. My legs are cramped from the long ride, and I slip and slide in the chocolate-batter mud. Splattered and wet, I fling myself back into the truck. My eyes scan every hilltop pasture, round every forested bend, for our lavishly-advertised hideaway.

“Settle in, it will be a ways,” Eric says, as we approach a barbed-wire gate. I sigh as I struggle to remove the pole from the vice grip of the wire loop and try to untangle the strands. We dodge mud-caked steers running crazily up the road and bump through knee-deep potholes to arrive at another fence. And another, and another: a dozen fences over the course of an hour.

Any feelings of freedom now begin to dissipate — there can’t be this many fences around a penitentiary — and I’m starting to feel claustrophobic. What would happen if there’s an emergency way out here? I pull out my cell phone. No signal.

Finally at the yurt, we slog through pouring rain to bring in our belongings. It’s a cheery, rustic place, with a tiny kitchen to the right, a wood stove to the left and two sets of bunk beds straight ahead. We pull foam mattresses off the bunks onto the floor, creating our own double bed.

I explore the kitchen and find the promised jerry cans of drinking water. A fuzzy green growth inside has created what would be a nice home for a pair of goldfish.

But Eric has a solution. He brings in a single liter bottle of carbonated water. “We’ll have to use this,” he says matter-of-factly. “That?!” I gasp. “For our entire time here?” “We don’t have a choice, do we?” He has a point there. We didn’t bring a filter, and I don’t think my socks qualify. We’ll have to practice ascetism.

“We’ll be fine,” Eric says. “The best part of this place is the fishing — you’re going to love the trout! I’ve always grilled it on the campfire outside.”