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,
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.
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.
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
Looking back, this was a mistake.
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,
*
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.
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.
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.
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'.
'PREPARE TO DIE'.
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