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.
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.
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,
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 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.
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,
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.
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.
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