After a morning in the canoe, and feeling somewhat sunned out, I return to the cool of the site for lunch - ryvita, cheese, trail mix, dried apricots, and water spiked with Rose's Lime Cordial.
I look through my journal. I am writing as much as drawing.
It is, I have to admit, pouring out of me.
It's being in this place.
As I read, scribble, alter, I feel my eyes closing. The dappled sun on the tent, the buzz of an insect.
Silence.
*
Surprisingly, I fall asleep, (thinking about what I have written), into a real sleep lasting nearly two hours.
I wake.
Desperately in need of a cup of tea, I get a fire going. It is now late afternoon.
I will put off until tomorrow the trail-clearing and anchor.
When I retrieved my lunch supplies some hours ago, I also brought down (from the hanging food packs), the package labelled 'Supper # 2', this now hanging within reach in the 'kitchen'..
I will have tea, keep the fire going, and begin my supper prep in an hour or so.
In the meantime, I have a look at my case of art supplies.
I have brought with me a large pre-primed piece of canvas, with the idea of creating a mixed media work on a significant scale.
The idea (very important) is to create it while I am here, with the influences, the smells, the sounds, and the view, all part of me,
or rather, me all part of it.
The canvas piece, the size of a folded sheet, has been (until this minute), amongst my gear and is horribly creased. I take it down to the lake, unfold it, and lay it in the water. This done, I carry it back up to a sunny spot to dry, a rock in each corner to keep it in place.
This should shrink it up enough to be rid of the creases.
*
1966
Throughout the following winter, if I couldn't fall asleep, I would imagine myself at camp, and old enough to go on The Loop. I imagined being the one to stern the canoe, Chip and Jessie as my crew.
And unexpectedly, the opportunity arose.
At age eleven I would be the youngest on the trip. Chip and Jessie, both a year older than me, were good candidates - keen, strong, and fairly good canoeists.
For me, it was a challenge.
No one under age twelve had done The Loop in all the years of camp history.
And I was small.
But I was unyielding in my efforts to work hard and impress.
As the three of us were virtually inseparable, and as I could handle a canoe as well as some of the counsellors, I was included on The Loop, a year before it was rightly my time.
And as it turned out, for me, that was just as well.
I remember now the intimacy of that trip. The bonding.
It seemed that the rougher the conditions, the closer we became.
Nine girls. Three per canoe, including of course, Ginny.
Ginny. For five days.
Over my years at camp, I did The Loop half a dozen times, and in many ways, and although always wonderful, one year was as good as the next. And even though I consider myself lucky to have been through that experience, I have to stress that the vast majority of campers had no interest in being put through it. And no one was forced to do so. It was a bit of an endurance test. In fact, in many ways a test.
That is what I loved about it.
In any case, it wasn't by skill alone that I was included.
It was much more about desire.
And chance.
We set off on a gusty day, that first time. Chip, Jessie and I, being the youngest and lightest, were split up, having to be middlemen in each of the three canoes. Wedged in amongst the lashed down packs, life jackets, wanigans.
Apart from the three of us and Ginny were two other counsellors, two fourteen year old campers, and a reclusive but talented fifteen year old.
I knew I was lucky to be on The Loop at age eleven, so buckled down to some hard paddling.
For me, it was a challenge.
No one under age twelve had done The Loop in all the years of camp history.
And I was small.
But I was unyielding in my efforts to work hard and impress.
As the three of us were virtually inseparable, and as I could handle a canoe as well as some of the counsellors, I was included on The Loop, a year before it was rightly my time.
And as it turned out, for me, that was just as well.
I remember now the intimacy of that trip. The bonding.
It seemed that the rougher the conditions, the closer we became.
Nine girls. Three per canoe, including of course, Ginny.
Ginny. For five days.
Over my years at camp, I did The Loop half a dozen times, and in many ways, and although always wonderful, one year was as good as the next. And even though I consider myself lucky to have been through that experience, I have to stress that the vast majority of campers had no interest in being put through it. And no one was forced to do so. It was a bit of an endurance test. In fact, in many ways a test.
That is what I loved about it.
In any case, it wasn't by skill alone that I was included.
It was much more about desire.
And chance.
We set off on a gusty day, that first time. Chip, Jessie and I, being the youngest and lightest, were split up, having to be middlemen in each of the three canoes. Wedged in amongst the lashed down packs, life jackets, wanigans.
Apart from the three of us and Ginny were two other counsellors, two fourteen year old campers, and a reclusive but talented fifteen year old.
I knew I was lucky to be on The Loop at age eleven, so buckled down to some hard paddling.
The two fourteen year olds found my (comparatively) diminutive size hilarious, and started a running joke.
But Ginny, (being Captain of the expedition), put an end to it with her request to be aware of everyone's feelings.
Ginny.
The perfect leader - cheerful, giving, fair.
Firm. In control.
Ginny not only led our expedition. She shaped it.
Pointing out wildflowers, tree varieties, fungi, insects, creatures, birds. Taught us to respect it all.
And each other.
But the best was being near Ginny on a clear night, lying on your back in a snug sleeping bag, having Ginny point out stars, constellations, the milky way. And leading us gently into those great questions. Who am I. Why am I here. What does it all mean.
Who do I want to become.
She was keen on music, art, poetry, and often her knowledge of these trickled into the conversation.
She had an unbelievable gift for story telling. Stories with endings finding me wanting to be just like the protagonist. Someone who Ginny clearly admired.
Ginny's positive outlook on life was infectious. Her motto of 'All for one' was adopted.
This was what drew Ginny's praise.
Praise that everyone on The Loop wanted.
Our first portage was a bit of a slog, a long up and down trail leading from Trinity to Bear Lake.
But Ginny, (being Captain of the expedition), put an end to it with her request to be aware of everyone's feelings.
Ginny.
The perfect leader - cheerful, giving, fair.
Firm. In control.
Ginny not only led our expedition. She shaped it.
Pointing out wildflowers, tree varieties, fungi, insects, creatures, birds. Taught us to respect it all.
And each other.
But the best was being near Ginny on a clear night, lying on your back in a snug sleeping bag, having Ginny point out stars, constellations, the milky way. And leading us gently into those great questions. Who am I. Why am I here. What does it all mean.
Who do I want to become.
She was keen on music, art, poetry, and often her knowledge of these trickled into the conversation.
She had an unbelievable gift for story telling. Stories with endings finding me wanting to be just like the protagonist. Someone who Ginny clearly admired.
Ginny's positive outlook on life was infectious. Her motto of 'All for one' was adopted.
This was what drew Ginny's praise.
Praise that everyone on The Loop wanted.
Our first portage was a bit of a slog, a long up and down trail leading from Trinity to Bear Lake.
About halfway, it began to rain, mercifully just a continuous cold spit, and not a real downpour. But Ginny kept everyone's morale high. We sang every 'call and response' camp song that we knew, and on arrival at our site, got a good hot fire going to dry everyone out.
We didn't use tents in those days. If the weather was bad, we were to curl up under the overturned canoes. But it cleared that night, and turned quite cool, as it can in August in Haliburton. So we spread out groundsheets in the shelter of the trees, laid out our sleeping bags side by side, so we could press in close for warmth if necessary. We had a big hot meal (I don't remember what) but undoubtedly something out of cans (as we did in those days) dumped over pasta or rice or bread.
Then, as the light faded, we climbed into our sleeping bags. As my father always insisted on good quality gear, mine was a sleeping bag worthy of a Mount Everest ascent. Due to that, and my Jersey fisherman-knit sweater, (of which I had a continuous supply, having parents who visited Jersey annually, and four older and growing brothers whose hand-me-downs ended with me), I was kept snug and warm. I nestled between Ginny and one of the other counsellors, being separated from my buddies so that we didn't talk into the night. We all needed our strength, we knew, for the next day.
We didn't use tents in those days. If the weather was bad, we were to curl up under the overturned canoes. But it cleared that night, and turned quite cool, as it can in August in Haliburton. So we spread out groundsheets in the shelter of the trees, laid out our sleeping bags side by side, so we could press in close for warmth if necessary. We had a big hot meal (I don't remember what) but undoubtedly something out of cans (as we did in those days) dumped over pasta or rice or bread.
Then, as the light faded, we climbed into our sleeping bags. As my father always insisted on good quality gear, mine was a sleeping bag worthy of a Mount Everest ascent. Due to that, and my Jersey fisherman-knit sweater, (of which I had a continuous supply, having parents who visited Jersey annually, and four older and growing brothers whose hand-me-downs ended with me), I was kept snug and warm. I nestled between Ginny and one of the other counsellors, being separated from my buddies so that we didn't talk into the night. We all needed our strength, we knew, for the next day.
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