Trinity Lake - Day 7 - Evening

 

Vegetarian Chili

1 onion, sliced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 stalk celery, chopped
1/2 green pepper, chopped
1/2 red pepper, chopped
1 can tomatoes
I can black beans
1 handful of green beans
S+P
1 tbls. chili powder
1 tbls. cumin

1 tsp. dried chilies
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup grated cheddar

Brown onion, garlic, celery, peppers in oil. 
Add s+p, chili powder, cumin, water.
Add tomatoes.
Cook for 10 minutes.
Add beans and stir. 
simmer for 1/2 hour.
Top with grated cheese.




                                                    *



By early afternoon, I am entering my bay, yearning to return to my site.
All is quiet as I paddle to my hidden spot, hauling the canoe up a couple of feet. Before unloading anything, I hike up to my site, wanting to ensure that it is undisturbed.
All is well.
All, 

as I left it.
My large artwork, still wedged among the young birches.

Waiting for me.

My pilgrimage has left me filled with peace.

It has also left me filled with a raging hunger.
This, (I decide on the spot), is going to be my feast day.
I pull out my Day 7 Lunch and Day 7 Supper as well as gathering up all of my half-dying vegetable remains, quick-biscuit powder, crackers, marble cheese, trail-mix, chocolate.
After lugging my overnight supplies up to my site, I get a fire going, put on the kettle, add more wood, and settle in to feed what will be a beautiful cooking fire.
And, I dig out my half bottle of wine.
I make tea, nibbling trail-mix, cheese and crackers.
When the tea is gulped down, I pour a hefty glass of wine.

I spend the next hour sorting and chopping vegetables, nibbling, keeping the fire going, and sipping wine.
I lay out my journal and pens.
I remove my large artwork from its wrappings and lay it in the open area of my campsite.
I strip off, have a quick bathe, get into my hoodie, leggings, and the red wooly socks.
And then, I begin a sort of dance between the cooking, the artwork and the writing.

It feels good - so good.

It is a meditation of sorts, and I want to carry it on, this meditative rhythm, until it is too dark to see.
I feast on a hot spicy meal of chili and biscuits.
I draw and write.
Before I become unable to see what I am doing, I scour my pots at the water's edge, gather up all of the scraps and leftovers, and hoist them up into the treetop kitchen. It is dusk.
I open another bottle.
I add a few more good-sized sticks to the fire. It is cooler and I want to stay by it.
Hauling out my foam mattress and sleeping bag, I arrange a bed by the fire, slightly propping up my head and shoulders.
Another few sips of vino.
I am feeling so good. My solo canoe trip drawing to a close.
The cliff. And Ginny.

Bud, Wren.
So many tumbling memories.

Now seeming to be finding some order.



                                                        *



August, 1974

The night before we returned to the cottage, the last night of our August 1974 version of 
The Loop - the one canoe, three person, five day canoe trip - 
we decided to stay at the cliff.

Looking back, this was a mistake.

Though I can now see why we did.

We could have made it back to the cottage, but stopped at the cliff mid-afternoon, in order to have a final celebration on our own, just the three of us.
I was pretty certain that my parents would be at the cottage when we got back, and, as lovely as it would be to see them, I was, (we were), not in the right frame of mind to sit at table, chit-chat about holidays, and eat roast beef with my parents.

No.

We needed a raging fire, a big final meal, skinny-dipping, something to smoke, and wine.
It was to be a celebration of something that the three of us had accomplished together, 
something that, as fate would have it,

would never happen again.

The previous night had been perfect. 
If I could change the past, I would end our canoe trip there. The three of us, over the course of the week, had become so close. 
We worked hard through that day, ate, drank, and had wonderful conversations as the fire raged, sending showers of sparks into the star-filled night. 
I was filled with love for them both. 

I had told Wren and Bud about the cliff, and my one and only time there, as we talked into the wee hours. I hadn't mentioned it to pique their interests at all. I had mentioned it because we were baring our souls about life changing events. 
Not having been there before, they were understandably curious.
The truth was, I wasn't even sure that I could find it again. 
I wasn't even sure that I wanted to find it again.

Difficult to spot from the water, along a high rocky stretch of shoreline. 

In 1966, the entrance to the bay had been marked, unofficially, with  a small wooden homemade sign, (someone's idea of a joke), saying,
'PREPARE TO DIE'. 

Trinity Lake - Day 7 - Afternoon

 By 10:30 a.m., I am packed, in the canoe, and on my way across the south bay of

Trinity Lake.
I am, in a word, ecstatic.
And perhaps exhausted, mentally, from the invasion of memories which have been circling in my head.

I jumped from the cliff.

I did it, without thinking too much about it - just did it.
Perhaps, being on my own, this was easier.
Easier without an audience.
The hard part, as it turned out, was finding the pen.
I dove down again and again looking for a small straight 'stick' among the green rocks and sandy bottom.
Until it finally occurred to me that a plastic-cased drawing pen probably would float, and there it was, lapping gently against the rocky shoreline.

Three times in my life I have been to this cliff.

The first time - 1966, age 11, on the Loop.

The second time - 1974,  age 19, with Bud and Wren.


                                                     *


The third time - 2014, age 59, by myself.


                                                     *

August, 1974

The canoe trip happened.

If I can separate out my emotions of today from what I was feeling then, I'd have to admit that it was a singularly fantastic week. 
Having Bud on a canoe trip was amazing. We got so that each one of us complemented what the others did. We had, except for one night, perfect weather. Wren and I, having done the route before, were the experts, Bud happy to do the grunt work, hauling, heavy lifting, cutting firewood.
In the evenings, exhausted, happy, full of conviviality, we cooked, drank wine, talked, laughed.
Bud shone in this environment.
Wren was so up for this week - funny, relaxed, open.
By the halfway point, I realized that these were the two people I loved most in the world.

It was, perhaps, an unconventional dynamic.

Yes, I can see that. 

But everything felt complete with the three of us, felt like, well,

a circle,

a circle of love, flowing from one to the other. 

For me, it was perfect.

Trinity Lake - Day 7 - Morning

 

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,

All good children go to heaven.
A penny on the water,
twopence on the sea,
Threepence on the railway, and out goes she.

-British nursery rhyme


A restless night.
Somehow, here on the cliff, my head is crowded with memories.

First  -  Ginny.
         
Impossible not to think of, to dream of, Ginny in this place.
I can picture her as clearly as if it she were now standing on the edge of the cliff in front of me.
Ginny.
Bud's sister.

My sister-in-law.
It made her a part of me - and an influence over me for nearly five decades.
Her unwavering love.
Ginny, retired United Church minister, (a very difficult thing for her Catholic parents to accept), still with Margie, (retired high school principal), living in an Old Toronto east end house where they have lived, ever since their move from the ramshackle house on Earl Street, nearly forty years ago.
The two of them, a loving couple, and still close friends and neighbours with my eldest brother, Arthur and his wife Jem.

Aunts to Arthur and Jem's kids.

The Cliff was absolutely a Ginny place.

Next - Bud.

My husband of thirty-five years, most of which had been happy, been together.
But not all.
Bud.
Bud had his BSc, and having then gone to trade school to become an electrician, had worked as a contractor and house builder for most of our married life. We had bought land near the town of Haliburton in the mid '80s, and built the house where we still live, less than an hour's drive from Trinity Lake.
The cliff, having only been there once, was not a spot that drew him.

And me.

Working at my art. Doing a bit of writing,
Having taught high school art for nineteen years, I had given up teaching to work at my art,

to finally create the body of work that I had thought about 

all these years.

My parents, 

gone now for many years. My mother died suddenly of a stroke the year after Bud and I were first together. My father lived to seventy-five, spending as much time as he could at the cottage with one or another of his offspring and their families.
He had his books, his pipe, his canoe to the end.
The cottage was sold after my father died. It had become one cottage in a crowd of cottages along the West Bay shoreline. West Bay on the weekends was now filled with motorboats and water toys, not as it was in our earliest memories, 

not what either I or my brothers wanted in a cottage any more.

I see my brothers occasionally, at least the ones in Ontario, and about every five years or so we all manage to gather - weddings, anniversaries, reunions - siblings, spouses, kids, grands.
Ginny and Margie too - part of the family.

Ginny and Bud's parents still going strong in the old Windsor house. It was a bit of a sadness for them that they had no grandchildren. I had had a hysterectomy at a relatively young age, which Bud and I had accepted with equanimity. 

It was just the way it was.

We needed to visit them soon.

And Camp Trident.

Chip, Jessie, and all of the friends made there, the faces that I see in my dreams from time to time, the names that pop into my head for no apparent reason.

The old camp, no longer in operation, but still a part of me.
Still so much a part of me.

The lake, the canoe routes, every rocky portage, familiar.

The Cliff, prominent in my dreams for nearly fifty years.

I think of Willie almost daily. 

His words of wisdom, the intonation of his voice, his long, often rambling lectures after meals, leaving the campers figiting, the councellors half-listening, gazing out the large south-facing dininghall windows to the waters of Trinity Lake.

But still, his musings on life have shaped me.

His words, a part of me, with me still.

Finally - Wren.

Not as happy a story to tell.


                                               *


I boil some tea water, and looking out toward the cliff, drink this with half a pita and a piece of cheese.
Enough.
It is a still warm morning.

I draw from this spot as my memories tumble and churn.

When I'm satisfied with what I have drawn, I carry my journal and drawing pens up to the cliff.
It is ridiculous, but my heart is pounding as I make my way along the rocky edge.
I sit, forcing myself to the very edge, my legs hanging over. With a trembling hand, I begin, gazing at the outlook over the bay, from the cliff's very edge.
I adjust my thoughts.

The panic ebbs away.

I draw.
I think of the little silver cross, lost on Ginny's jump from this spot so many years ago, now somewhere at the bottom of the bay, buried in the pebbly silt of the lake bottom.

And now a part of Trinity Lake.

The sparkling light, perhaps, a sign that this is where it lies. 

Like a holy relic marking a sacred pilgrimage site. 

These thoughts somehow infuse my drawings. 

There is a quality to them that I can't explain - a stillness.

An energy to the line and space, yes, but a distinct simplicity.

A balance. 

A balance of the darkest darks and the lightest lights. Perhaps it is just my thoughts, and being in this place. Perhaps when I tape them to my studio wall, the unusual quality will be gone.

I carefully shift backwards, my left arm, my drawing arm, numb. 

I want to move back out of the bright morning light and have a proper look. 

I have forgotten that one of my drawing pens lies in my lap, and as I move, I see it all in slow motion.
The pen.
Diving end over end, downward, flashing in the twinkling, dancing light, visible against the flat lake,
piercing the water.

It disappears.

How long did it take, I wonder.
Less than five seconds?
Laying my remaining drawing materials back from the edge, I strip off.
I can do this.
Not only "I can do this", but now, "I've got to do this".

If my pen can, so can I.


                                             *



August, 1974

Wren came.

The odd stilted dance between Bud and me, now became an odd stilted dance between Bud, Wren and me. 
Bud and Wren had never met, but knew of each other, through me.
Unspoken, was my new intimacy with Bud.
An intimacy which left us both hungry for more.
I now saw him in a totally different light. 
To be truthful, I wanted to, yearned to be alone with him. 

And in a crazy way, I wanted the same with Wren.
As I say, all of this, unspoken.
Bud's and my intimacy remained so.

Wren and I spent the day, largely, planning, packing, organizing food for our canoe trip. 

If it felt somewhat half-hearted on my part, I thankfully managed to put all of that aside for Wren's sake.
Bud worked outside for most of the day replacing boards on the cottage deck, and as the three of us had a beer and a meal on the late afternoon sun-warmed new cedar, he mumbled something about heading out.

Wren, in her innocence, asked Bud, "Why don't you come with us?"

It was all arranged before I had time to inspect carefully the ramifications of this decision. 
So I merrily went along.

Trinity Lake - Day 6 - Evening

 Left Over Pasta and Stir-fry Stuffed Pita

Prepare the night before. Seal in ziplock bag.
Eat cold.
(This is extraordinarily good - More on this later.)

                                                           *

After an hour of hard paddling, the dot of red on the far shore becomes a small square, then gradually gradually, a red door on a boathouse.
I am, for several minutes, baffled by the grand cottages on the western shore of South Bay, non-existent in my camp days, the landscape altered, obscured, from what it is in my memory.

But the shoreline, (except for the addition of docks, rafts and water-toys), hasn't changed.
I spot, what we used to call 'Chip's Kybo', a rocky point slanting into the lake to the south.
'Chip's Kybo', (named for my old friend not seen now for many years), an emergency pit-stop where she was put ashore the morning after the excesses of a hot-dog eating contest.

I get my bearings.

I paddle along the shoreline, the lake lapping at the edge, green and clear, stopping at 'Chip's Kybo' for a rest-stop. I lie on my back under the pines, my shoulders aching.

I stretch out, just out of sight of the closest cottage.
And sleep.

When I wake, the sun has moved well behind me into the west. I set off again, knowing where I am, where I am heading, with the confidence that I can arrive at the cliff in under an hour.

                                                         
I arrive.

The cliff, in (what is mercifully still) a small secluded bay, appears mostly unchanged. The tree topography, slightly different, some of the pine, birch, spruce, fir, having died off, fallen, rotted, making way for young saplings, some now twenty, thirty, forty years old.

I put in at the same spot I did the last time I was here.
Forty years ago.

Bud and I never came here again after 1974.
Not surprising, given the memories this place conjures up.

The cliff has some history for us.
That and, canoe trips with Bud are Bud-driven.
By that, I mean that I am happy to be canoeing on Trinity Lake. Period.
Happy to stay at one site - draw, canoe, swim.
Where as Bud has definite ideas, set goals, shoreline to be explored, waterways to be traversed, things that must be accomplished, checked off his 'list'.

Besides, the cliff was really my spot, belonging to my past, until now.
And this pilgrimage, now a part of my solo canoe trip.
So, a necessity.

Taking my small food pack, groundsheet, sleeping-bag, I scramble up through the trees to the level spot where I had last spent the night here.
It looks surprisingly small, a flat pine-needle covered area set back a few yards from the cliff path, halfway up the trail to the cliff itself.
Other than the cliff-facing view, this site is surrounded by dense woods.  I follow the overgrown trail back down, and retrieve my foamy, water bottle, and my small emergency cook-stove,

haul up the canoe, tie it to a tree, and flip it.

I realize that I am starving, and, although I have only used this compact cook-stove once, I manage without much difficulty to assemble it and get half a litre of water on the boil.

I extricate a stuffed pita-half from the food pack, and begin to hoover it down.
Without being refrigerated - (that great deadener of taste) - the flavours have melded, become more pronounced, complimented by the breadiness of the pita. It is extraordinarily good.
Before I have the second half, I make a large cup of tea, lay out the groundsheet and sleeping-bag, and begin the very necessary rumination about my decision to come to this spot.

I am here because I have unfinished business.
All of my life I have had dreams involving this spot, (although there have been gaps of months or years), and then have lain awake, turning over and over in my mind unanswerable questions.

Dusk.

I lie on my bed - on my foamy, sleeping-bag, my folded hoodie pillow.
It is warm and I am weary. I dig out my book of Earth Meditations, and climb into my sleeping bag, cup of tea next to me.

I hear myself mutter, "This is my pilgrimage. I am here because I need to sort something out."
Just saying these words aloud seems to justify my reasons for being here.

I feel more relaxed about it all.
In the morning, I will draw.
I will draw the cliff, and I will draw from the cliff.

"As I go into the Earth, she pierces my heart. 
As I penetrate further, she unveils me."

- Susan Griffin (from Earth Prayers)


                                                                                  *



August, 1974

And my first summer away from camp.
A number of factors:

The camp, it became clear, was undergoing a number of changes. Some of these I wasn't sure I liked, being, I suppose, a bit of a traditionalist. 
None of my old friends were returning.
Willie, who felt that he and Mrs. D were getting too old for the ins and outs of running a camp, had hired a program director and full kitchen staff.
Chip and Jessie, my longtime camp friends, were working at a lodge in Haliburton (Jessie), and running a summer playground with Parks and Rec in Toronto (Chip).

And no Wren.

Wren was working for a small publishing firm in Quebec for the summer.

My two eldest brothers, Arthur and Mark, now working in Toronto, found little time for the cottage. 
My brothers John and Dennis were running a summer basketball league at U of T. 
My parents were spending two months in Jersey.

The cottage, badly in need of maintenance and some minor repairs, was up for grabs.

I had decided that, in preparation for beginning my studies in Art at U of T in the Fall, I would have a time of hermit-like existence, and spend eight weeks, solo, at the cottage, working on art, and making some repairs and improvements.

The prize for getting through this, was a planned reunion of sorts, the last week of August.

The previous summer's canoe trip, just Wren and me, had been amazing. In spite of seeing virtually nothing of each other through the year, we spoke frequently, planning a repeat. She had said that after two months in an office, she would badly need a week in the wilderness. We would have a night or two at the cottage, prepare, pack, and spend the following week doing the Loop.

I should say at this point, that Ginny was still in Toronto, working and living with Margie in the old Earl St. house.
I saw them frequently through the winter, either at my parent's house or spending a weekend with them. It was always lovely to be with the two of them. They were very keen on cooking, particularly fusion asian and vegetarian cuisine, and I had, (had always had), an interest in food and a voracious appetite. I loved Ginny like a sister, Margie too, for that matter. They were solidly a couple, but it wasn't talked about in those days. I didn't spend much time wondering about their intimate relations - they were just Ginny and Margie.

Bud was at a bit of a loose end that summer. He had been working in Windsor, strictly to make a bit of money for university, (University of Windsor), but had left at the end of July. He wanted Algonquin I suppose, and as a result, took off on his Honda motorbike, camping and hiking.

He phoned the cottage in mid-August, (having no idea who was around), wanting a place to crash for a few nights. 

We were friendly enough at that stage, (he was twenty, I was nineteen), and I was comfortable with him around, but I can't think of a time when we'd been alone together at all, (at least not since I stood in the middle of his room in Windsor at the age of eleven). He was still friends with Dennis and John, and I couldn't help wondering why he didn't take himself off to Toronto.

I explained to him that I was the only one there and told him that he could stay if he wanted.

Not the warmest of welcomes, I can see now, but I felt a reserve, and perhaps a loyalty to my parents, knowing that the 'grapevine' amongst our cottage neighbours would be buzzing. There was no way to keep his presence a secret, and I'm not sure that my initial doubts were enough to make me care what they thought,

at nineteen.

He came.

I made him put his motorbike out of sight, and we settled into an odd stilted 'dance'.

By the third day, we worked comfortably together, enjoyed each other's company in the cottage repair,  and also canoeing, swimming, preparing meals. He was handy enough with tools, and I needed help with some of the repair work, which he tackled with interest.

I began to see him in a different light. I was, no doubt,becoming somewhat attracted to him. At twenty, he was outdoorsy - broad-shouldered, tanned, with long wavy auburn hair and beard.

In the evening of that third day, happily exhausted, we opened a bottle of wine, sat around the bonfire, and drank.

Perhaps it was the skinny dip. As they say, one thing led to another.

Trinity Lake - Day 6 - Afternoon

 

I got away from Joan and Harvey's dock after nearly an hour of chat.

And only then had I managed it by promising to return for a meal sometime very soon.

I'd given nothing away about being in the middle of a solo canoe trip.
I had, in fact, told them that I'd better be getting back, as 'they' would start to wonder where I was.
A bald-faced lie.
(Unless the 'they' I was referring to was the red squirrel and his family back at my site.)

I back-track about 100 yards from their dock, northbound, and glance over my shoulder in time to see two small specks heading away from the dock.
I decide to cross South Bay at that point.

The sun is high. I pull my ball-cap down a bit lower to cut the glare.
And with a deep breath, I head the canoe out into the middle of the lake.

The trouble with this delay is that there is now a little more wind.
Even to an experienced paddler, it can be slightly daunting soloing out in wide open water.
And away from the shore, comfort level decreases.

At least to this paddler.

                                                              *


I realize that I should have loaded a bit more cargo, something with some weight.
It is quite rough.
When I am well out on the lake, I crawl forward to rearrange what little weight I do have - my pack, bailer, extra gear, spare pfd, paddles, and thankfully, my half-full ten litre water container.
This helps a fair bit in keeping the wind from pushing the canoe northward.
I really put some elbow grease into my paddling, and settling into a comfortable rhythm, begin to enjoy the experience of crossing the lake.

I think of Willie, drilling every camper who passed through Camp Trident in canoeing skills in general, and staying with the boat no matter what, in particular.

"How long do you hang on?"

It becomes my mantra. My song. My prayer.

"Three days and three nights."
"Three days and three nights."
"Three days and three nights."

And so, I make the crossing preoccupied by memories of Camp Trident...

A crazy windy day.
I can see Willie at the waterfront, well into his sixties, barking instructions to canoeists through a megaphone.
(A megaphone not really needed.)
Deeply tanned, his pristine white t-shirt drawn taut over his barrel chest.
He is in one of his moods - gone all 'camp director' on us - we used to say.

Skill levels not good enough.
Staff not working hard enough.
Safety not enough of a priority.
Not enough drills.
Not enough practice.
Everyone needs to work harder.

He singles me out. I am fourteen.
Tells me to fetch a canoe from the canoe racks. By myself.
Carry it to the waterfront.
Embark.
Solo out into the lake. In a straight line.
Turn about.
Head back to the dock.
Bring the canoe in without a bump.
Disembark.
Stow the canoe.

I wonder what he says while I am out on the water.
He says nothing on my return.
I wonder if I am an example of 'what to do' or 'what not to do'.
As he says nothing further to me, and the assembled campers and staff are silently staring down at the white painted boards of the dock, I am left to wonder.

Owe-eese. Owe-eese. Owe-eese...

Back to the present.
I plough through the wind-blown waters, keeping the prow pointed to one small red dot, now visible on the far shore.

                                                           *

Summer 1973

I arrived at Camp Trident for pre-camp the last week in June, and celebrated my eighteenth birthday that week.
It was the largest staff ever - 35 counsellors, instructors, programmers, kitchen and maintenance staff.

My ninth summer.

 I expected to know most of the staff already, even though each year there were several new staff members who had not been through the Camp Trident ranks - imports from other camps, French Canadians keen to improve their English,  high-school, college and university students from Toronto.

The camp, by 1973 had five cabins of girl campers, and three of boys. 

That was the summer of Wren.
Wren Millais - at twenty, engaging, attractive, complex.
An avid canoeist, kayaker, hiker, from Montreal, who had spent summers as a kid on a lake in the Laurentians.  Her mother had, in fact, been to Camp Trident for one summer in the camp's early years, in the first decade of Camp Trident's existence.

At eighteen, staff members were allowed a day off each week. This was a new concept for me. 
During my summers at camp, apart from canoe trips and hikes, I had rarely been out of camp. Now, the possibility of a day in the closest town, restaurants, bars, live music, was opened up before me.
I had pretty much been a model camper, (and counsellor for that matter). Every summer, one or two staff members were 'let go', often for sneaking out to meet up with boyfriends, or in one extreme case of flouting the rules, bringing a boyfriend right into the camp.

I had never gone for any of that.

Well, except for Hawk. 
Hawk, ('The Denton Boy' as he was called on Trinity Lake), and I 

had had a bit of a relationship the summer before, but it was really more as friends.

We had snuck out to see a local band.

And in spite of that one occasion, 

we were really just platonic, like I felt about boys at school,

or Dennis' friends, or perhaps, I guess,

Bud.

Bud was working in Algonquin Park that summer, he and my brothers Dennis and John. Bud had been a Junior Ranger two summers earlier, with John and ten other seventeen year old boys at a camp in the south-east part of the Park. Dennis had done the same the following year, and this summer, the three of them had jobs in the Park. 

Ginny, now teaching in Toronto, having graduated from U of T with an Honours BA in Theology, and then a degree in Education, came up to Algonquin and Camp Trident twice that summer. 
I loved seeing Ginny. And it was a joy for the whole camp to have her back, even for a weekend. 
But for the first time, I felt a reserve. I couldn't bring myself to tell her, as I was prone to do, my innermost feelings. She couldn't have helped but notice this change. And it was probably written all over my face. 
That by the second week of camp, the only person in the world that mattered to me

was Wren.

Wren's position at camp was cabin counsellor to thirteen-year-olds. She had a wonderful way with them. I looked forward to her group coming for canoeing, watching to see her crossing the playing fields, exchanging looks with her at meal times. After the first week of 'pre-camp', we began to spend all of our free time together. 

It was, I can see now, the very beginnings of a deep mutual love. 

Wren had a confidence about her, a natural ability in the outdoors. We loved the same music, shared the same quirky sense of humour, often doubling over in laughter until the tears ran. She had, what I would now call, a social conscience, an interest in politics, (particularly Quebec politics, which I knew nothing about). Our long talks in the staff lounge soon moved to the unofficial outdoor staff camp fire pit on the fringe of the camp property's shoreline.
We would talk, arms around each other, into the wee hours, unless or until anyone else showed up.

By August, we had had several days off together. We had also snuck out of camp on occasion to walk the five miles to the local watering hole.
As a result of these expeditions, we regularly shared at camp, under cloak of darkness, what we had managed to come by - cigarettes, a bottle of wine, the occasional coveted joint.

On the evening before our last day-off of the summer, borrowing a camp canoe, Wren and I set out in the dying light on Trinity Lake for a secluded point about a half-hour paddle away. It was just after my return from 'the Loop', and Wren had, in my absence, managed to come by some of our favourite foods, cigarettes and a mickey of gin.  It was here we planned, (fuelled by the gin), a canoe trip for the week after camp was over.  We would go to my family's cottage on West Bay, and set off from there for a week on Trout Lake and the southern portion of 'the Loop'.

The planning, the buzz from the gin, the fire, the cool late summer evening, all contributed to the intense happiness I felt. 
We both felt. 
We spent the night under the still pines, skinny-dipping late into the night, and finally filled with love and exhaustion, we slept.

The next morning, lying next to Wren in the warm August sun, 

I burnt onto my paddle the words from a favourite camp song, 

words that summed up my joy,

the love that filled me that one glorious summer, 

words happy and playful, words which, as it turned out, I would see virtually every day 

for the rest of my life.

~ zip adee doo dah ~

Trinity Lake - Day 6 - Morning

 "And seemed to love the sound far more

Than ever I had done before.
For rain it hath a friendly sound
To one who's six feet under ground;"

-Edna St Vincent Millay - 'Renascence'


I am feeling the wine.

I took another cup to bed, and needed quite badly, in the middle of the night, my water bottle. 

The night, calm and quiet, no more than the rustling sounds of small creatures, the little red squirrels, around the campsite. But long stretches of awake, and when not awake, vivid unsettling dreams.
My dreams, all in a canoe, sometimes just an awareness of paddling, the glaring light blinding me, reflecting off the rippling lake. 

Or pools of colour. 

Blues turning to oranges, to reds, becoming a checkerboard, melting into a puddle of grey.

I fuzzily come to life, hearing something, 

the buzz of my companion the red squirrel, high in a tree.

6:35. 

I start a fire. Fill the kettle. Retrieve my breakfast bundle from the treetop kitchen.
Dragging out my day pack, sleeping bag, thin foamy. Eight by ten tarp.
Hoodie, jersey, hiking boots.

I peer into the sky.
The palest blue. A hint of mist. Warm. 

The promise of sun.

                                                             *

I load my gear into the canoe.
I have stowed away the flotsam and jetsam of my site, and as I paddle out into the bay, I sweep around for a shoreward view.
Nothing is visible. From fifty feet out, my site does not exist.

10:22 a.m., later than planned.
It is at least three hours, I reckon, for a solo paddler to voyage from my site to the cliff.

Mercifully, ideal conditions.

I am using my old camp paddle for this pilgrimage, 

which seems appropriate.
I am excited, and now that I'm underway, feeling stronger.

I cling to the shore, or rather, maintain about a twenty foot distance from the shore. It feels good to be on the water, to feel the rhythm. Each stroke moving toward the next, the canoe pushed forward, onward, the burn in my upper arm.

Owe-eese...owe-eese...owe-eese...as we used to chant.
Nine girls in three canoes over a long stretch of open water.

I've already stripped my sweater, and now just in a t-shirt, denim skirt, ball cap, am feeling the late summer heat.
11:30 a.m.
I am out of my uninhabited small offshoot bay, and into the main body of South Bay, Trinity Lake.
As the wee bit of wind is south-westerly, I feel it now. I keep close to the east shore.
There are cottages sprinkled along this part of the bay, cottages which didn't exist in my camp days, my earliest nearly fifty years ago. Being September, they mostly sit empty, staring their curtained and shuttered faces as I pass. I spot a dock about fifty yards on, someone moving about.
I have seen no one for six days, and wonder what I look like.

Hell-ooo! Out for a morning paddle?

I have moved farther off shore, trying to avoid just this. A wave, okay, answered by a dip of the paddle, but the idea of conversation spooks me.

Yes. (called landward) It's beautiful...(Please just let me get on.)

Where're you paddling from?

He is quite elderly, mid-eighties, but even so, he is fit, his face and arms deeply tanned.

He's in a pair of well worn cords, sleeves rolled up on a blue check viyella shirt, sandals, a full head of white hair.
Not at all wanting to get embroiled, I'm vague.

Just up the bay. (I keep paddling.)


Fresh pot of coffee here. Wife's just coming...

Not wanting to appear rude, I paddle toward the dock. Mrs. is heading down, a firm grip on the wooden railing, carrying a plate of something. She is small, in jeans and a yellow sweater, short, curly white hair, tanned face, beautiful old lady skin.
I reach the dock.
I'm shocked to see that she has bare feet.

Mrs: Beautifully warm for September. I'm Joan. And Harvey.

Me: Diana. (I hold onto the dock, my black fingernail showing.)

Joan pours two cups of coffee, adds a drop of cream, hands me one.

Me: Oh no - you have it.

Harvey: Not at all. We'll share... Know the lake well?

Me: Yes.

I have a sip of the excellent excellent coffee - it's been so long, too long - I try not to gulp.
I wonder if I look like someone who hasn't seen real food or drink for a long long time.
Wild-eyed. 

Setting the mug on the dock, I re-adjust the elastic holding back my hair.

Me: My family used to have a cottage at the far end of West Bay. And I went to Camp Trident, at the north end of the lake, for years. I guess I know it pretty well. The lake, I mean.

Joan offers me a cookie.

Harvey: West Bay? Why we rented a cottage on West Bay. For several summers. Long time ago now. 

In the late '50's.
Long before we had this.
When we were newlyweds. (He looks at Joan.)
After the new road went in, we built this one.
Which was your cottage on West Bay?

Joan touches his shoulder. Perhaps she thinks he's being a bit nosey.

Me: Becquet - the Becquet cottage. At the end of the bay.
I'm Diana Becquet.

Joan: Becquet? Becquet!
I remember the Becquets! Your parents? With a pile of small boys - you must have come later...

Me: Ummm, I was probably one of the small boys... I have four brothers. I...

Harvey: Your parents were English - your father - a professor?

Me: Yes. (But it comes out as a croak. So many memories.)

Joan: They're gone, dear? They were a fair bit older than us...

Me: Yes.

I think of my mother and father, who'd be in their late nineties, were they still alive.
My father.
In the night, just before sleep, the lilt of his voice sometimes visits me.
Reading aloud those long ago words of 'Treasure Island'.

"...but in spite of the hot sun and staring daylight, the pirates no longer ran separate 
and shouting through the wood, but kept side by side and spoke with bated breath."

And then, he'd turn to look at me, his hooded deep blue eyes.
My father.
The sweet distant scent of pipe tobacco, scotch, earthy summer sweat,
and with a half wink, (so as not to scare me), would slowly end the chapter:

"The terror of the dead buccaneer had fallen on their spirits."

                                                              *

September 1970

And the end of my third summer at camp after Ginny.

In spite of missing her companionship, guidance, her presence on 'The Loop', I found that I got along alright without her. I turned fifteen that summer, my last year (officially), as a camper.

I still helped out, also, in the Arts and Crafts, with Aki.

Aki had become a camp fixture.

My first art teacher, really, my mentor.

And I was one of the 'skilled canoeists' in camp. Being a C-I-T, I taught canoeing to the younger campers, in preparation for the following summer.  Willie had asked me to become a full-time canoe instructor, starting in the summer of '71.

Nine weeks at Camp Trident and $400. at the end of it.

In Toronto, Ginny was still a huge part of my life. 

She was beginning her third year of Theology at U of T, and was in the habit of coming to my parent's house frequently on weekends, sometimes for Sunday dinner, sometimes to spend the weekend with me. 
My eldest brothers Arthur and Mark, also at U of T at that time, hung about whenever Ginny was around, to talk about classes, profs, rallies, coffee houses. I loved all of this. I loved that Ginny was like another sibling. A sister.

At the start of her second year at U of T, Ginny rented a house with Margie, her life-long Windsor friend, and two other girls.

The house was on Earl Street, a short cul-de-sac off Jarvis, a street with small grassy yards, treelined. It was a bit ramshackle, a climb up to the top floor, and a long narrow hallway leading to the living space at the back.
It never occurred to me to wonder about their arrangements. Ginny and Margie shared the largest bedroom, each of the other girls having their own.

My parents, like the rest of us, loved Ginny, and trusting her implicitly, allowed me to spend the odd weekend with them. At fifteen, I loved this independence. I would sleep in their bedroom in a sleeping-bag on a camp cot. It was the early '70's, and walking down Yonge Street, along Queen or Spadina - to Chinatown, small art supply shops, fabric shops, eateries - was like a different world.

Though always close, my brother Dennis and I, at that time, pursued different interests. We were no longer at the same school. and Dennis was part of a group of, what one might now call, elite athletes. He and our brother John, both at the same school, were very keen on basketball, soccer, track and field, spending as a result, much of their time with their school friends.

I sometimes went days without seeing Dennis. 

But he was always around on the odd weekend that Bud came to Toronto.

This was, on Bud's part, ostensibly a visit to see Ginny. But as Bud had hit it off with Dennis from the very first visit, Ginny and Bud, out of habit, stayed at my parent's house when Bud came. Bud would arrive with a stack of albums, music that at that time interested Dennis and Bud, and as a result the two of them would spend most of the weekend in the rec-room, listening to music and only surfaced when heading for the kitchen for nourishment. We had a large rambling house in North Toronto on Brooke Avenue, and my mother loved having a full house. There were often, on a Saturday, eight or ten young people around for meals, to watch a Leaf game, or just to meet up before heading off somewhere.

Ginny always had an open invitation, and by extension, Bud. Over the years, this grew to include Margie too. It occurs to me, as I think back on this stage of my life, that Ginny and Margie were really my best friends, in spite of our age difference. I did have good friends at school, but not the sort to spend weekends with. 

And my camp friends, even after all those years, remained camp friends, 

the summer being our only time together.

My summer world was separate, like an island, removed from the grit and confusion of Toronto.

A refuge.

In 1970, Chip, Jessie and I were all still at camp. But, as is typical at that age, our interests had diverted somewhat. Jessie decided to work in the kitchen.She had never been particularly athletic, had always loved the behind-the-scenes operations of the camp kitchen, and had for two summers volunteered in the dishroom, and as back-up kitchen help, filling in when needed. 

Chip, (now once again 'Christine' except to Jessie and me), was interested in waterfront programming. 

She had done some lifeguarding, and helped organize regattas and special activity days. She was to be the assistant waterfront director in 1971, having her Bronze Medallion and Red Cross Instructors.

We were friends, but gradually, gradually went our separate ways. However, we'd still meet up at the canoe shed for the occasional evening paddle, something we had been doing

 for six summers.

And as for the cottage...

Fifteen year old me loved the cottage more than ever. As our school terms, in those days, ended for summer holidays at the end of May, we had three weeks of the whole family together in June.

It was a time of tradition.

A time of reverting to one's younger self.

Of camp fires, canoeing, sunsets, chilly nights, stars.

Of reading aloud.

Of bulky sweaters, sun-warmed towels, favourite meals.

And that first heart-pounding dip in the icy waters 

of Trinity Lake.

Trinity Lake - Day 5 - Evening

 

Spaghettini with Stir-fry

one cup spaghettini
3 tbls olive oil

3 tbls soy sauce
half an onion, cut in strips
1 clove garlic, minced
1 cup shredded coleslaw and carrot mix
half a red pepper, cut in strips
s+p
sriracha sauce
grated cheese

While pasta is cooking, heat oil in frying pan. Add onion and garlic, stirring well.
Add slaw mix - cook five mins
Add pepper strips
stir - add s+p, soy sauce, and a long squirt of sriracha sauce - stir all
Drain pasta - add to frying pan - stir well
Serve on an enamel plate with hefty gratings of whatever cheese on hand.

                                                               *

It's quite early, but I get the supper fire going.
My day's artwork has drained me, used all of me. I am feeling like a washed out dishrag.
But a happy one.
I am planning on an early (even earlier than usual) night, as I have complex plans for tomorrow, pilgrimage plans, plans which will need all of my strength.
Re-bundling the large canvas in its tarp, and bungeying it up tightly, I put it back in its storage place amongst the young straight birch trees.

When the fire is well and truly going, I prep a double batch of my pasta recipe, one of my favourite tripping meals. Throughout the various cutting, chopping and slivering, I have a cup of vino.

Once eaten, I stuff the leftovers in two halves of a pita, enclosing them in a ziplock bag.
Tomorrow's supper.

I keep a good fire going, having another cup of wine.
It is tasting spectacularly good, a satisfyingly numb sensation coming over me.
A numbness I am craving.

I will pack what I need in the morning, and plan to be on the water by nine.

                                                               *

October 1967

I spend the Thanksgiving weekend with Ginny's family. 

Most of the time, Ginny and I were on our own, free to talk, reminisce, think of summer and camp and canoeing on Trinity Lake. At the foot of their long back garden lay Lake St Clair, and on the grassy edge, a 16' Langford cedar strip canoe. 
We paddled several times out into the lake on the glass-like water, I in the bow, turning to face Ginny for long conversations.

At meal times, though, I got a chance to see the reclusive brother. He seemed to live in the basement, spending most of his time on his own, playing records. 
Ginny had given me a tour of the house, including his lair. She seemed to get on well with him, to understand him, poking innocent fun, getting him to smile. I think he was shy, and probably at, what my mother liked to call, "that awkward age".
He had a large bedroom/den all to himself, there being another family room upstairs. When we were touring his space, Evelyn called down to Ginny that she had a phone call, and left me, 
terrifyingly, alone with the brother.

What's your name again, Beck-something?

Becquet. Diana Becquet.

He mumbled something. 

I beg your pardon?

You're so formal. 
I said, can I call you Beck. 
Ginny's name isn't really Ginny.  It's Elizabeth. My dad called her Ginny when she was a baby, because of her red hair. You know - like ginger?
Do you like 'The Doors'? 

I guess. I like Donovan. And The Beatles.

It's 'The Doors' you're listening to.

He turned.

He went back to working on a model, on a long smooth built-in desk,

leaving me standing in the middle of the room.

Ginny and I, in the following days, went out a fair bit. 

She showed me around Windsor, her high school, the neighbourhood.

We canoed, snacked, listened to music. 

On Saturday afternoon, we met up with Ginny's best friend and went to a movie. 

Margie, (Margaret), tall, athletic, close-cropped dark curly hair.

So fun to be with.

We saw 'To Sir With Love', I recall.

I thought that they might both feel a bit awkward that I was so much younger, but they were sweet, and did everything they could to make sure that I was having fun.

The movie, the whole afternoon, 

was wonderful.

Saturday night.
We were all to go to Mass at the Catholic church the following morning, which was when my attire became an issue.

What will Diana wear tomorrow? (Evelyn)

Ginny and I had a good look through her clothing. I borrowed a red shirt dress, wool, but quite comfortable, white knee-socks and a pair of penny-loafers, a bit big, but manageable.

I had never been inside a Catholic church. I wasn't particularly keen to go, but Ginny's mother was insistent. She quizzed me about the United church we attended, in a condescending sort of way, as if she was sorry we weren't quite up to scratch. I sat quietly between Ginny and her brother throughout the service. We had had nothing to eat, as they had to fast before communion, and my stomach growled horribly. I was so closely squashed between Ginny and Bud, that I could smell the goat-like smell of his sweater, in fact, the goat-like smell of a thirteen-year-old boy. I thought of my own family, and again, the odd sensation in the pit of my being. 

There was incense, sung prayer, bells.
Ginny motioned for me to stay put as they filed up to communion. On returning, she knelt, deep in prayer, and I was reminded of Ginny at the cliff. 

We went to the Golf Club for dinner.
I loved the old stone building and wood interior, and the terrific buffet laid out for Thanksgiving. It was all quite elegant, but I had been to enough University of Toronto functions with my parents and brothers to know my way, at least in a twelve-year-old sort of way. 

That night, Ginny and I had a bonfire at the foot of their garden. 
We burned leaves, talked about Chip and Jessie, about camp, about 'The Loop'. 
I told her I couldn't wait until next summer. 
She was oddly silent.

My parents, leaving my four brothers at home, were having a bit of a driving trip over the long weekend to tour the fall colours.
And, by arrangement, they came to Windsor to pick me up. 
They had had a night in Goderich, on lake Huron, and a night in Chatham, and arrived at Ginny's house shortly after ten on Thanksgiving Monday morning.
I had pushed this event to the back of my mind, not at all sure how a meeting between my parents and Ginny's would go.

But all seemed pleasant enough as we gathered in the living room for coffee, and then an offer of lunch. My parent's declined, seeing as it would be a long haul back to Toronto. Ginny's parents nodded knowingly, having done the trip often enough themselves. An invitation was put forward for Ginny, (an invitation which was adjusted to include Bud), to visit Toronto and stay with us after Christmas.
All seemed pleased with this idea, (except perhaps Bud), and Evelyn wondered aloud if a visit to the U of T campus would be in order.
It was at this point that Evelyn dropped the bombshell.
Ginny would be attending U of T the following September to study Theology, after their long-planned family trip to Rome in the summer. 

And with this came to an end my summers with Ginny.

Trinity Lake - Day 5 - Afternoon

 I stop for lunch.

Gradually straightening up, I'm thrilled with the progress made, having spent several hours on my large work.
All of the image transfer is now visible, and above this, (the 'sky'), the canvas has been coated with washes of paint. It lies drying in the sun.
For the next stage, I will move into drawing . I ponder the best way to tackle this as I prepare lunch - leftover bulgar casserole, trail mix, apple - and flare up the fire to get the kettle boiling.

23C
Warm and sunny.
My sweaty, grimy self heads down to water's edge while the kettle is coming to the boil. I smell like a sweaty sleeping bag. I slip out of my shirt, leggings, and holding my mop of hair out of my face, bend to stare at my reflection in the still water.
I look fit and brown for an oldish lady, the mop I am holding a tangle of long grey curls.
Fit and brown.
My breasts, falling away from my body, look younger. The mottled reflection is flattering.

And above, the sky. A pale blue, nearly white.

I think of one of my old games as a small child. A game of removing the mirror from Dennis' and my bedroom wall, and holding it parallel to the floor in front of me, peering down into it, as I walked throughout the cottage. An upside-down world. Walking amongst the light fixtures and stepping over doorway lintels. As if I were one of the cottage's ubiquitous black spiders making its way throughout.
Upside down.

Even in the reflection of the green still water, I can see a smudge of black across my cheek.

Breaking the stillness, I dive in.


                                                            *


All is still, save a gentle breeze high in the treetops. I haul my sleeping bag out of the tent, and turning it inside out, hang it from a tree branch.
I lay out my oil pastels, pencils, ruler, eraser.
All laid out, within reach, ready.

Waiting.
I decide that, before moving on, I need to view the canvas from a distance, to see what the layout looks like, if it is working.  I prop the large slightly awkward structure against a tree, and (carefully) take several giant steps backward.
All is not as it seemed. The composition is crowded, some of it crooked.
Before stepping into the drawing stage, I will need to obliterate some of the imagery, the part that is not working. 

Besides, I want the image to have a certain spareness.

A simplicity.
I sit in the sun near the rocky edge of my site. The canvas is laid out beside me, so that I can move myself around it, titanium white acrylic paint and a 1" brush in hand.

Once dry, the drawing stage begins.
I scribble, smudge, blend, layer the oil pastels, one bit of the image at a time.
The most enjoyable and satisfying part of my creative process.

I draw.

                                                            *

Thanksgiving Weekend, 1967

I had met Ginny's mother and father before, a number of times, when visiting Ginny at camp. 

They were about ten years younger than my parents, though at twelve, they just looked old in a 'someone's parents' kind of way. 
Her mother, Evelyn Woodfield Ryder, a redhead, friendly and smiling. (called 'Woody' by Ginny's father). Ginny's mother and father, both very casually dressed, I assume, in spite of being October, having just returned from golfing. Evelyn was a 'busy' person, active in the community - amateur theatre, bridge, tennis, women's clubs. She was on the board of a senior's residence, what used to be referred to as an 'old age home', and seemed to be off to a meeting or a lunch or playing bridge at 'The Club' throughout my visit. She was, (and I do recall this from that visit), an excellent cook, and as I was a child with a voracious appetite, and had a budding interest in cooking, this stuck. But in 
spite of her busy life, it was clear that family in general, (Ginny and her younger brother in particular), was all-important to her. 

That, and, she was clearly the decision-maker in the family.

Ginny's father Alex, (called 'Ryder' by Evelyn), was an executive with the big liquor distillery in Windsor. He was a large man with gentle sad eyes, but funny and warm, and obviously so proud of Ginny. 
This was somewhat new to me. 

My parents were much more matter-of-fact about any of my or my brothers' achievements. Much more low key. In their eyes, if we did well at something, we were only doing what was expected of us.
But being proud of his daughter seemed to be all that mattered to the him. In fact, both of Ginny's parents were like this. They would stop what they were doing to gaze at her when she spoke, smiling encouragement and roaring with laughter at the smallest thing. 
I think I was a bit bemused. It gave me a funny feeling deep in my being, and suddenly made me miss my own family terribly - my father probably at that very moment in a deep armchair with a crossword puzzle, his pipe, Harris tweed.  My mother, upright at her desk, in a fitted sweater, wool skirted and stockinged, scribbling in her notebook, glass of wine, the OED at her elbow.

I wasn't sure who Ginny was actually like - where she came from in this family. She had her mother's look, in a way, and her father's eyes, though in Ginny's head, they didn't look sad, but serious.  
We sat in the living-room. I remember where I was sitting - can picture it all. The living room, I suppose quite formal, furnished in such a different way from our home. For starters, no books. Everything seemed coordinated, in matching tones of beige and brown. Quite attractive, but new looking. Stiff and formal.

So unlike our home. Warm and worn. Our living-room lined with bookshelves. Deep rich colours. The walls, a dark earthy red, threadbare persian carpets, old comfy tweed covered armchairs and sofa, dark green cushions, brass lamps, soft lighting. Newspapers - The Globe and Mail, Toronto Star, Times Literary Supplement, Jersey Weekly Post. Ashtrays. Inuit sculptures. China vases of flowers.
And art. 
Oil paintings. Canadian landscapes. Pen and ink drawings.

Home.

Ginny's mother had made hors-d'oeuvres. Cheddar cheese spread, crackers, pickles. 
I was famished but, not wanting to appear so, waited.
We chatted.
They, asking about the train journey.
Me, answering somewhat awkwardly.
Ginny, smiling at my awkwardness.
And Ginny's thirteen-year-old brother appearing in the doorway.

This boy.
So unlike my brothers. He looked extraordinarily like Ginny, with a head of thick, glossy reddish-brown hair, short back and sides but longer on top, hair which hung down one side of his forehead over his brow. He had a tic, a habit of flicking his head a certain way to shake his hair out of his eyes. That first weekend, I called him 'Tic', (to myself), it happening with such well-regulated frequency. 
He still had a young boy's body, though he was about a year older than Dennis and me. Dennis being much taller, in fact, me being taller. Over the first hint of broad shoulders, he wore a green and brown flannel shirt, below, a pair of well-worn jeans. 
He mumbled something, Ginny introduced us, he mumbled something else, making no eye contact, and took himself off to the kitchen.

Bud.

Trinity Lake - Day 5 - Morning

 "Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange..."

        -William Shakespeare - 'The Tempest'

6:10 a.m.
The rain has stopped. I wriggle out of my sleep.

It has been a tumultuous night - rain, wind, thunder, lightning. My head-burying worked for a while, at keeping out the world, but as the noise and flash of the wildness subsided, as the wind blew itself out, as the tent and fly stopped flapping, the persistent steady rain remained.
For hours I lay awake, full of the old restless energy that often signals spurts in creativity. The downside being sleeplessness, visions of colour, pattern, movement - a creative outpouring that will not allow itself to be ignored. 

And so, lighting my lantern, I read.

I dip into my Earth meditations, flip through them, taking in whatever passage is visible in the small dim wedge of lamp-light.

"The winds carry strange smells; this is a day of change." (Chinook Psalter)

"Pushing the crumpled water up ahead..." (Robert Frost)

"Down in the dark and silent loam,
Which is ourselves, asleep, at home." (John Hall Wheelock)

"My words are tied in one." (Yokuts Indian Prayer)

"To lift out the pain, the anger,
Where it can be seen for what it is -" (May Sarton)

I crawl out into the dripping world, a throbbing migraine hangover. 

The cloud is high, showing a few breaks, all just starting to lighten. I find my bag of dry kindling and birch bark, and manage to get a tiny fire going on the damp sludge of ash in the bottom of the fireplace. Bit by bit I add more cedar, small twigs, the pungent sweet scent of burning cedar rising up.
Get a fire going.
This seems to be the only thing that matters to me.
I sit for fifteen or twenty minutes, willing my baby fire to grow strong.  

Feeding it. Sheltering it.
As I am leaning forward, hovering over my fire, my eyes well up. 

Partly the circling smoke, but more. 

I am thinking of the words spoken to me in the night. 

"To lift out the pain and anger, where it can be seen for what it is."

                                                            *

I pull myself together by getting down to practicalities, getting the fire hot enough to boil a kettle, being number one. I feed it and watch it, add more small sticks, until the kettle (finally) comes to the boil. I put on a saucepan of oatmeal - enough for two good-sized bowls.
I am ravenous after the wet and weary night.

As the sun comes out after breakfast, and with the fire's help, things gradually gradually begin to dry out.
I decide to spend the entire day on my large work, focusing solely on this, thus freeing myself up for a change in plan. By devoting  today to my work, I will be able to act on my decisions tomorrow.

The large work, wrapped in its tarp, has shifted slightly in the wild weather.
I unwrap it, have a good look, lay it out in the driest part of the site.
The photographic imagery in spite of the weather, all beautifully set.

Ready for the next stage.
I will need it flat while I work on the photo imagery. This involves pouring water on a roughly 6" square area at a time, leaving it for a few minutes to soak in, then rubbing gently with my fingers to remove the pulp.

I begin work, bent, on my hands and knees, a pot of water by my side, stopping every now and then to dampen an area of the canvas, feed the fire, eat a spoonful of oatmeal, sip tea. The soft faint photographic image begins to take form - the rockface upon which I work, tangled branches, trees reaching skyward - slowly appearing on the canvas, bathed in a misty fog of the papery remnants I am carefully removing bit by bit.
I am here.
And, as if I were looking from somewhere above, I can see the place where I am, a world of its own beneath my fingers, being slowly mapped out, showing me my place in time, here and now.
It is an odd feeling.
I am mapping my own journey. Something rich and strange.

                                                             *

September 1967. 
And home.
The end of camp, though always a wrench, was softened by several factors. I was to see Dennis and my older brothers for the first time in months, (except for the brief farewell we had had at the end of June). 
We had a week together at the cottage before heading back to Toronto and school, a week which was in so many ways a relief for me. My leg was virtually back to normal, though much skinnier and weaker than my right leg. Dennis was my constant companion that week, having, I think, missed me, and we spent a great deal of time canoeing, (though I had to sit with my leg outstretched), building fires, cooking our favourite snacks, and constructing a teepee on a flat spot of the rocky shoreline in front of the cottage.


My parents, just back from a month in Jersey, were in top form. My mother, having completed her latest novel while they were away, a thriller set in Jersey, was relaxed and happy. My father, gearing up for the university term, read aloud Christie Harris, 'Raven's Cry' , primarily to the cottage, none of us forced to be present, though loving the stories and beautiful illustrations,  I was again by his side throughout.

The other factor was Ginny. She had said nothing about next year, about returning to camp, (or not). What she did do was invite me to her home for the Thanksgiving weekend. On the last day of camp, she had spoken to my mother for a long time, out of my earshot, the invitation the result. 
Her home being in Windsor, Ontario, I was to travel by train from Toronto Union Station, solo, departing on the Thursday and returning on the following Monday. Four nights.
Would I like to go, from my mother, when beckoned to join them.
My reply, an emphatic yes.

It was a cool damp October day when I set off for Windsor. I was allowed to miss school on the Thursday, (Friday, a holiday, being what was called in those days, Teacher's Convention), my train leaving at 11:00. My mother drove me to Union Station, and saw me, my ticket, and my backpack onto the train and into the care of the Conductor.
I was on my way.
On my own.

Other than its length, I remember little about the journey itself. I did have with me, I recall, for entertainment, a number of Archie comics, my ubiquitous sketchbook and pencils, and a pocket full of 'Dubble Bubble'.  I ordered, and had brought to me, an orange pop in the old style sweaty bottle with a paper straw, and a bag of chips on a serving tray.
I remember, (as I still have the sketchbook), being astonished by the flat, barren land I had only associated with the prairies. I cynically depicted the landscape outside the train window as 

a single straight line.

I arrived. 

I saw Ginny on the platform before the train stopped. She looked decidedly un-camp-like, in a beige wool suit and lady's shoes. She would have been eighteen then, in her last year of high school, not surprising to be done up like a young woman, but at twelve, it was a shock to see her out of context.
But her long auburn braid was there, and the Ginny smile.
I jumped off, having stuffed my gear into the backpack, 

and into her arms.

As Ginny drove us to her home, I fished around for the note my mother had asked me to give her. When we pulled into the driveway, I gave it to her. Her serious face read it through carefully, then she giggled.
Your mother wonders if your clothing is suitable, she summarized.
This is it, I said looking down at myself.  

My brother Arthur's striped cotton shirt, shirt-tails showing below a navy cotton v-neck sweater, a grey and blue pleated wool kilt, grey knee socks, desert boots.
I guessed you did the packing yourself, she smiled at me with huge fondness.

My mother, in her typical regal way, had enclosed some cash and asked Ginny to buy me some decent clothes if what I had brought was inappropriate. 
I rolled my eyes. Ginny put the money back in the envelope. 
You can borrow something. Give her back the envelope, Ginny handing it to me.

Ginny's home was on 'The Drive', Riverside Drive, the long backyard of which ran down to the shore of Lake St. Clair. It was wood and stone, a ranch-style home, and I felt somehow an odd sensation as I entered the front door, that I already knew the look of it, the scent, the earth tones, the wood and stone and fabric textures, the music faintly audible. 
As if I'd been here before, or rather, as if I knew I would be here again.

Trinity Lake - Day 4 - Evening

 

Bulgar and Feta Casserole

half a cup raw bulgar
half a cup boiling water
1 tbls. olive oil
1 sm. onion diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp. cumin, pinch of herb de province, s&p
half green pepper diced
1 cup chick peas
2 tomatoes diced
1 cup crumbled feta

Pour boiling water over bulgar in a small bowl and cover with a plate. Leave for 15 mins.
Heat olive oil in frying pan. Add onion, garlic, seasonings. cook slowly for 5 mins. Add green pepper. Cook 5 mins. Add bulgar, chick peas, tomatoes, feta.
Stir well.
Cover and let sit in firepit (away from direct flame) for 30 mins.
Uncover and heat gently 5 mins.

                                                            *

Supper.
I get to work on the fire, food prep, and, feeling the heat go out of the day, bundle myself into my hoodie, leggings and wool socks. All is still dry, an orange sun showing for a moment through the cloud.
As the casserole bakes, I sketch out some plans for my large canvas. Before coming, I had a rough idea of what I wanted to do, but this has changed somewhat by being here.

I have brought a good assortment of materials with me. On an impulse, and before the tacking is completed, I dig out a jar of acrylic gel medium and some of my large photographic tree imagery on paper. I have photographed the trees of Trinity Lake many times, as a way of studying light and shadow, colour and texture. I have, (before this trip), played around with some of these images, cropping, enlarging.
I have a desire to make use of these images now, thus creating the work in this place.
About this place.
I apply a series of these to the large canvas, feeling daring, and knowing that I can always paint over the photo imagery if it doesn't work as an idea. Always, my way of working is experimental.
(And, as always, I have an 'escape route', if necessary.)
But I need to try.
I begin to feel the itch of excitement.

The excitement of creating a new work.

With this and the cooking done, I sit and relax, stuffing a heaping spoonful of casserole into a pita half, and squeezing on some sriracha sauce.
All is still.
I have one more bulgar stuffed pita, stow leftovers, wash dishes, and finish tacking the four corners of the canvas to the stretcher frame. I wrap my stretched canvas in a tarp and bungy it to a couple of small trees in a grove about fifty feet from my site,where it won't get blown about, should it rain in the night. It is now nearly too dark to see.

I climb into bed, and although all is calm and I am content, I feel a discomfiting prickle of sadness. I picture in my mind Flint's Pointer. My Flint's Pointer, that is. The sad underwater beckoning to follow the outstretched arm, the pointing torn-away piece of gunwale.
Beckoning to follow what?

Halfway through my night's sleep, the wind kicks up. I hear a distant rumble, followed by a flash.
For a long time, this is all that happens, seemingly far far away.
And then the rain starts.
First, a series of big single drops. Then, an insistent drumming on the tarp.
I bury my head in my sleeping bag.

                                                            *


Saturday July 27 1967.
I arrived at camp.
I had spent nearly ten weeks treating my left leg as if it were made of eggshells. 
But miracle of miracles, I was now allowed to start putting a little weight on it. 
So, I was to return to camp for the last four weeks, and allowed some mobility by being given a pair of crutches. I was greeted by Willie and Mrs. D., to whom I owed a massive debt of thanks, they being the ones who agreed to take me on. I was to sleep in 'the hospital', a large cabin, half of which housed a four bed infirmary, and the other half, accommodation for the camp nurse, kitchen staff, and arts and crafts instructor. 
Not being able to participate in sports, I was to spend my days in the newly added arts and crafts facility, adjacent to the canoe shed.
And adjacent to Ginny.

Dennis and I had had our twelfth birthday, for me, during my incarceration at the cottage. My parents had given me an art box filled with drawing materials, pads of paper, markers, watercolour paints and brushes. 
I had, not being able to do much else, spent many hours looking out on the lake, drawing.
And now with the arts and crafts instructor as my daily companion, I began what would turn out to be the earliest inklings of my future life in the arts.

I settled into my digs in the hospital cabin, assisted by Mary Jo. The elder Denton daughter, in her final year of nursing, was camp nurse that summer. We unpacked my things, made up the bed, and arranged my bedside books, flashlight, Rembrandt drawing, sketchpad and pencils. I liked Mary Jo, though she'd never had a whole lot to do with the campers. She could be a bit 'no-nonsense', (like her father, I suppose), but I was so unbelievably happy to be there, I was willing to abide by any rules.
I had stretched out on the bed to give it a try when Chip and Jessie walked in. A minute later, Ginny arrived at the door. A terrible shyness came over me, as I had imagined this reunion so often. But it was over in a moment. Ginny, grinning, bent over to give me a massive hug, and after that, all became normal.
It was, (except for my leg), as if I had never left.

My parents, all of this time, had been in conversation with Willie and Mrs. D. 
As they were off the next day to Jersey, contact numbers had to be made known, and arrangements made to phone camp regularly and keep on top of the situation.
I was relieved when they left, though it sounds awful to say out loud. I couldn't help feeling that something was going to go wrong at the last second. 
But all, mercifully, went according to plan.

I embraced my new routine.
My days began with Mary Jo. I was with my cabin mates at mealtimes,

in the craft room during morning and afternoon activities. 
The evenings I spent in solo activity, but surprisingly I began to look forward to this time. It was my quiet time, (having virtually gone to bed), my time to read, write, draw, and think.  I was missing the evening activities, but somehow didn't mind. In the warm artificial light of my cozy corner of the hospital cabin, I stretched out atop my bed, enveloped in the woody scent of a sun-warmed cabin, 

a scent so lovely, it nearly breaks my heart to remember it now.

I became a fixture in the new arts and crafts room, due to my limited mobility.

The A+C instructor was a lovely Ojibwa woman, Aki, who lived on the Curve Lake First Nation. She was probably ten years older than me, but we became good friends that summer. 

She generously provided me with a craft table of my own, for my many ongoing art projects and paintings. 

She had a huge selection of First Nation symbolic imagery and, being a gifted story teller, brought these images of

trees, plants, animals, 

roots, rocks, stars,

water, sun and moon,

to life in a way that was previously unknown to me.

That imagery made the natural world, specifically the beauty of Trinity Lake, 

make sense.

As the weeks rapidly progressed, I began to feel the prickle again, the prickle of sadness, of wanting to stay here forever. It began the week before leaving, and though my days were filled with happiness, my sad thoughts haunted me in the wee hours of the night. I would lie on my back, silent tears rolling onto the pillow. I was terrified that if I sniffled, someone would hear me and, assuming I was in pain, ask questions. 
It was my private grief. 

I wanted to share it with no one. 

That last week, after Ginny had returned from The Loop, (a trip I had resigned myself to having to miss), I managed to share my daily routine between Aki and Ginny. 

My walking with crutches had progressed a great deal, and I had been given permission to help in the canoe shed with the end-of-camp sorting, tidying, tallying of equipment and damage reports.

I had always had a sense of a strong spiritual quality within Ginny.

But I saw her, with new eyes that week. 

She had not, since the previous summer, replaced the tiny cross and chain which she had always worn, and fiddled with whenever she was thinking. I wondered why, but it seemed so deeply personal, I didn't ask. 

That week, she exuded a calming sense of peace. 

As if she were anticipating something blissful, every small task, change in weather, visit from a camper, seemed like something to be eternally grateful for. Her beautific attitude seemed to influence one and all. She looked hard into each person she conversed with, as if she needed to remember every detail.

As if she'd never see us again.

As Ginny and I worked one afternoon, I watched her reach into the depths of a dark corner to retrieve some long forgotten life jackets, ropes and tarps.  When she sat down to sort through these, the north light from a small window fell across her face. She had stopped what she was doing to gaze out and was so still for so long, I thought she had gone to sleep. 

I walked toward her, but stopped, so moved by her look of total rapture that at that moment I felt my heart breaking.

She came out of it, turned, tilted her head to one side,

and said, 

"I think you're sad, and I'm wondering if it's something you want to talk about."

Out poured all of my 12-year-old angst. 

The last week of camp. My longing to stay here. I didn't want it to end.

I loved being with her, and Aki. I wanted to live here.

Everything was awkward, the unpleasant changes in my body, the animosity I felt toward my mother, my boy-like tendencies.

It had gotten so that I couldn't bear to hear that heartbreaking camp song, 'Hmm, I Want To Linger'.

My voice wobbled as it all came out. I tried to hide it, to brush away the flow of tears. My nose ran continually, and I wiped it with the sleeves of my ragged red hoodie until they became sodden. 
Ginny said nothing. Gently handing me her bandana, she listened to my outpouring heart.

When I had exhausted my grief, she took my hands in hers, 

her long, elegant, freckled fingers entwining with my grubby nail-bitten ones.
She told me that she saw in me something wonderful, that I was a beautiful soul. 
She told me that I needed to hang on to my feelings, not to make myself sad, but to use them to create something wonderful. 

And so, in the days that followed, after the outpouring of my heart, an outpouring of another kind.
Ginny (and not my mother), was the one who I turned to when I had to face facts that the changes in my body were real, changes leaving no doubt that I was female, changes so clearly evident.

It was Ginny who talked to me, answered my questions, who witnessed my passage.