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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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 ~
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