Trinity Lake - Day One - Morning

"But one by one we must all file on
  Through the narrow aisles of pain."
                                                                      

-from 'Solitude'

 by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ow.
I am paddling through the narrowest part of The Narrows.
The narrowest part, where it is all so beautifully quiet.
I decide to slip gently to the shore for a moment, to the large flat rock who's top, so invitingly, sits high and dry just a few inches above water level. I am doing this to document the moment.
To do a quick sketch...

After all, it's why I'm here.
But in landing, somehow I manage to catch my finger between canoe and rock.
As I drag it back and forth through the lake water, I recall the words
'the narrow aisles of pain'.

Not a very positive name for these beautiful narrows.

In spite of the pain, I do love this bit.

Narrow waterway, and the view through to gap ahead - blue lake, rocky shore.
Like the song says, I will return once more.
And I have.
Day One of my solo canoe trip.

I sit atop the flat rock and scribble in my journal. It doesn't take more than twenty minutes, and I am back in the bow seat facing the stern, solo paddling position, pushing off from the rock with the butt of my paddle.
It is all so glorious. Still and warm.
I am here.

I paddle slowly, knowing the way, having time.
I am fifty-nine year old artist, writer and teacher, Diana Becquet, 
on Trinity Lake in central Ontario, Canadian shield country, for nine days of solitude.


                                                       *


I have come on this canoe trip alone.
(My idea, not Bud's.)
I am flying solo, here to draw, paint and write.

This is a first for me.

At least the first time since being a teenager that I have paddled the waters of Trinity Lake without Bud somewhere in the vicinity.

We have tripped on, through and around Trinity Lake dozens of times over the past forty years. We've camped at every site, (and then some), on each of its large three bays. But, in the way of our relationship, we have not always stayed at the same site at the same time.

It does seem odd, when I say it out loud.

Bud does things differently.

He is a nonconformist.

If you are inclined to do something because it has always been done that way, Bud will find a way to do it differently. If it feels comfortable, Bud will throw in a few sharp edges.
He likes this type of challenge.
As for me, if I have my doubts about something, some risk, he encourages me to push too.

So here I am, on my own.

Pushing.

I'm definitely pushing my comfort zone.

But it is my idea.
                 

I want to find my rhythm, my voice, my  spiritual connection.

This time, I will spend the days, these nine days, my way.

Solo.

One campsite, my own routine, space.

Space allowing the past to be seen again,

for the memories that have been pushed away

for far too long, to come to the surface. 

                                     *


When I first met Bud, he asked about my surname.
Becquet, pronounced 'Beck-Kay'.  A 'Jersey' name,

Jersey being one of the Channel Islands, the tiny islands clustered between England and France.

Bud wasn't interested in the history. He was trying to get it right.

My name, that is.
He wanted to call me 'Beck', 

and it stuck.

I get that now. 
It's the way his family works with names, the family of Alexander Rudyard Ryder Junior.
From Windsor Ontario, mother, father, and a sister five years older. When he was born, he was to be called Rudyard, to distinguish this baby boy from his father Alex.
But his 5-year-old sister thought Rudyard was too hard to say. And started calling him Bud.
And so, he was Bud.

Bud.

Few words. To the point.

On one canoe trip:

Bud: "You solo back. I'll hike the shoreline for a few miles. I'll meet you in a couple of hours at the landing."

Me:  

"It looks like it's going to storm.

If it storms, I'm heading into the woods. 

I may not be back at the landing when you get there. Then what."

Bud: 

"It won't storm. 

I'll be there in two hours. 

I'll wait."

Another, maybe thirty, thirty-five years ago:

Each of us on different parts of the lake as darkness falls - me at our site, Bud, having spent the afternoon exploring the dense bush at the end of the bay.

And he doesn't show up.

I pace the shore all evening, too worried to eat. I finally go to bed, and make a plan. 

As the moon comes up in the wee hours and over my half-asleep self, I hear a paddle.

Dip, dip, and swing.
And there he was, far out on the lake, 'in the pale moonlight', (like the old camp song says),  approaching slowly. 

In a dark and tangled part of the wilderness, he had gotten a fire going, and waited.

As the moon rose, all became clear.

He made his way to the canoe, drank thirstily, stripped, swam, dressed, paddled back.
As if nothing had happened.

"Supper's ready." Me from the shore.
"I'm starving." Bud, smiling.
For Bud, it's as good as it gets.