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Canoe Trips
If you ask me to remember my canoe trips I will say that we
started always from Canoe lake portage store, that we were always so proud and
eager and that we set out across Canoe Lake, 3 red canoes, the lake indigo, no
sound but the sound of paddles dipping in the water.
I
remember that we often portaged and that the men carried the canoes and we
carried 50-pound packs and that we had towels on our heads to keep the
mosquitoes off but that they bothered our arms so we rhythmically brushed them
off as we walked along and hardly got bitten. I remember that we made a campfire and cooked dehydrated food called
Gumpert’s. I remember too that we would
go swimming and that we passed Tom Thompson Island but didn’t want to camp
there that they said it was haunted. And I remember that later we had to push the canoes through a swamp with
bloodsuckers and afterwards we used salt to get the bloodsuckers off. I remember too that there were no cottages
or stores or hardly even other campers and in the morning we set out in the
mist the only sound the cry of a loon across the still waters.
And I
remember that the scenery was breathtaking and that we saw deer and moose and
were afraid of bears but did not see any. I remember also that
there were no radios, or telephones, or newspapers
and that at night we would sing around the campfire and roast marshmallows.
No
toilets, no showers, no TV, and I remember that we didn’t miss them and wrote
letters to our families and friends on toilet paper. And I remember that one day, a girl stood up in the canoe and the
canoe tipped over, but that fortunately it was not too far from shore and
everyone was okay and that the packs did not sink. And we envied us and thought that we were terribly lucky and
thought that this was the greatest possible adventure. We thought we were so brave and so strong
and at night we gave each other back rubs and stared up at the moon and the stars
and wondered what subjects we would take at school in the fall for it was
August and summer was dwindling down and soon the forest would be a blaze of
crimson, but we did not think of that, but wished that the summer would last
and wondered whether we would be coming back, or was this just something we
would remember in years to come as one of the happiest times of our lives.
I
remember that the canoe trips were led by men called trippers and that they
carried the canoes and did most of the cooking and that no boys went with us
but that we were all girls, 7 or 8 of us, senior girls, teenagers. Later when I
was in Europe and very happy I asked myself where I was happier and it was a
toss up, though I loved Europe and it was one of my spiritual homes, Algonquin
Park and Haliburton were just as much a spiritual home for me.
I
loved the nature, the tall spruce and pine forests, the clear blue lakes and
streams, the glacial rock - the north of my youth for I was brought up in the Ottawa
Valley by a clear blue river, by pine and maple forests so that I felt at home
in the north and something spoke to me in those forests and in the landscape so
that I had always loved the Group of Seven and Tom Thompson and felt at one
with the rhythm of forest, lake and canoe.
I
remember that when we got to the campsite we had to gather wood for our fire
and put up the tents and that we washed and bathed in the lake. I remember being frightened only once, when
I swam to another island to see some other campers and got caught in a thunder
storm on the way back and that I was terribly afraid of being struck by
lightening.
I
remember that at night we would often sit on a rock and watch the sun go down
across the lake, first turning the lake to rose, and then to amber, and then
the moon would come up and there would be silvery phosphorescence on the
ripples of the water. And we would wake
at dawn and catch the first rays of the sunrise stealing across the water.
And
for breakfast we sometimes had Gumpert’s pancakes and syrup which was always a
treat and at night we would sit around the campfire and
tell ghost stories or sing songs like “If I had a
hammer,” or The House of New Orleans,” or “Lord I’m 500 Miles Away From Home,”
or Koombaya.
I remember that it was fun and that we laughed and
enjoyed ourselves. And sometimes we
were gone a week and sometimes ten days and that we despised civilization and
considered ourselves infinitely superior to those who used hair dryers and
stoves.
It
was sort of a Thoreau, back to nature, sort of thing. We did not miss anything and could have stayed there for weeks,
for the beauty fed us, the silence, the silence and the closeness to nature so
that if you ask me what I remember about my canoe trips I will say, that I was
happy.
Donna Bamford is a part time free lance journalist, EFL teacher, struggling creative writer, world traveler,
and would be actress. She resides currently in London, Ontario though she has also lived in London, England,
Paris, Athens and India and has travelled in Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Nepal as well as most
of the countries in Europe. Despite the travel she still calls Toronto home. She has written three children’s
books which she is trying to get published as well as a novella called My Villa in Tuscany and lots of poetry.
Her interests include anything to do with the arts and travel. She has an Honours BA in English from the University
of Toronto and speaks French fluently as well as passable Italian and German. Her poetry and essays have been published in
a number of online magazines and a few print magazines such as Qwerty, Bywords, Ascent, Ygdrasil, Great Works,
Scriberazone, 7:24, The Mag, Another Toronto Quarterly, Scrivener’s Pen, Tryst, and The Globe and Mail.
Email: Donna Bamford
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