Trinity Lake - Day 4 - Afternoon

 I paddle back.

I have a mental picture of 'Flint's Pointer', both fascinating and creepy. Something inside of me is saying, "Don't get creeped out by anything, just get on with your work."
Good advice.
I have a bit of lunch - the leftover fruit cocktail, ryvita, cheese and trailmix - and, as the rain is still holding off, I decide to have a go at building my stretcher frame.

                                                             *

I fetch from my stockpile three ten foot cedar poles, and propping them in turn across the fire pit rocks, cut two of them down to 8' lengths and one into two 3' 8" lengths.
The diameter of the cedar poles will add (roughly) 2" at each end of the short sides.
I find amongst my tin of nails, four 3" common nails and, (with great difficulty), manage to pound one into each of the long sides, and through to the short side.

(Let me just say here that this takes forever.)

I suppose, in a way, doing all of this seems a bit of a waste of time. I could work on the canvas as it is - on the ground with a rock in each corner to keep it from blowing around. But this is one of the funny things about being here, on my own, on Trinity Lake. There really is no 'time' to waste. I am doing what strikes my fancy. There is nothing more pressing, no one to tell me I could do things more efficiently, no one else, in fact, to consider.
It is a glorious, meditative part of my process.
And a time to think.

I finally manage it. 

It looks, well, rustic and is somewhat wobbly. I strengthen it all by tacking on a crosspiece, a 12" (flattish) cedar stick, to each corner.
I cut my canvas, leaving a 6" margin all around and lie it top-side-down on a flat open part of my site.
I lie the frame over it.
In the centre of one long side, I begin the long process of pulling the canvas taut up and over the stretcher, tacking it in place. First tack, then another directly across in the centre of the opposite side, then the centre of one short side, then the opposite.
Surprisingly, it is coming together.
The next round, a tack on either side of the first tack, leaving about two inches between, pulling the canvas nice and snug with each tacking, then the opposite side, short side, opposite.
It is quite satisfying work, and warm work, so after the sides are just about complete, I head down the trail to the water, strip and ease myself in.
I float on my back.
And think.


                                                           *


August 1966

It was during that week at the cottage, the week after my first summer of The Loop, and before the school year began, that my father read 'Treasure Island' aloud in the evenings. 
We had no television at the cottage, and reading aloud wasn't foreign to us, though I remember thinking that we were all a bit old to be read to. At first, my older brothers disappeared to other rooms, leaving my mother, Dennis and me as audience. My mother chose to stay. She nearly always had a knitting project on the go, and spent cottage evenings that way most often. But Dennis and I were given no choice. Our father was reading 'Treasure Island', and we were to be in the room. 
I, at first, slumped in a chair on the other side of the room, wanting to be outside. But by the end of the first chapter, I was next to my father, partly in order to see N.C. Wyeth's illustrations, but more, to take it all in, my father's glorious reading voice, his love of the story, and the way he'd put one arm around my shoulders to let me lean up against his side, taking in his end-of-day scent - of sweat and earth, scotch and 'Erinmore Mixture' pipe tobacco.

By the second night of 'Treasure Island', all of my brothers hung around. 
The cottage, built in the 1940's, had a large wood panelled living-room with a stone fireplace, three small bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom. The rooms were divided by eight foot walls and open above, so that, if someone were reading aloud, it could be heard throughout the cottage. Unless they were outside, my three eldest brothers couldn't help but hear the developing story. By the time Jim Hawkins, hidden in an apple barrel, overheard Long John Silver's plans of mutiny, my brother's were all in the living-room and leaning over the backs of chairs, or sprawled on the floor, I knew then that Dennis and I had the best seats in the house.
By the end of the week, I was begging my father to read, so as to finish 'Treasure Island' by the time we headed back to Toronto, and school.
My father, in his usual quiet, diplomatic way, had brought me round. Brought me, (and my brothers too, I suppose), back into the fold.

It became easier after that. I missed camp, but decided to deal with it by preparing myself for next summer. As I couldn't canoe in the winter, and swam only now and then, I tried out for every sport offered through the school year. 
Only Dennis and I remained at our neighbourhood school, my older brothers travelling by bus and subway to downtown Toronto for school. While Dennis and I  still walked or rode to and from school together, I knew that he had become more interested in male companionship, or rather, male companionship which didn't involve me.
And I suppose camp had prepared me for that. 
I tried out for and made the school girl's basketball team, which played other schools as well as in a community league. This meant two practises and two games a week, and I threw myself into it.

Being fairly athletic, (and built like a boy), I did all right.

All of this helped quicken the passage of winter, until suddenly, or so it seemed, my mother was talking about buying new clothes for camp. 

I remember having a loud, defiant arguement with her in the Eaton's girl's bathing-suit department. It seemed, according to my mother, that I was 'ready' for a bathing suit with cups. Never had it ever crossed my mind that I would be forced to wear this, and I insisted that I have a two piece bathing suit, designed for a flat chested eleven year old.
It ended with me marching out of the store and walking home. My mother bought the bathing suit she thought appropriate. The following week, I took some of my limited funds out of the bank and bought the flat-chested red ,white, and blue two-piece. 
I suspect my mother knew that I had done this, but said nothing. 
Nor did I.

I was on the girl's softball team that spring, and by the end of May we were in the finals.  I took a spill in the sixth inning, skidding on my knee and tearing the skin off a large patch. It stung, but nothing worse, until the next morning. As soon as I stretched out that leg, I knew something was wrong. My knee was red, swollen and painful and I found I could put no weight on that leg.
In those days, our long-time family doctor paid house calls, and as in the next few days it became worse rather than better, he was asked to have a look. I was put on a course of penicillin, (as it appeared to be an infection of some sort), and after a few days he came again. Not liking the look of this flaming red mass, he sent me to a specialist at one of the big downtown hospitals, where I was immediately operated on.
This marked the beginning of my recovery, but it was long and slow. I was three weeks in hospital in isolation, as the knee slowly drained and I, hooked up to an IV and not being able to move the leg, was immobile. 
I began, as time marched on, (without me), to worry about one thing, and one thing only. 
Camp.

I was released from hospital one day before I would, under normal circumstances, have departed for my third summer of camp. I had one half day with my brothers, (who I had not seen for nearly a month due to my isolation in hospital), before the four of them set off for the summer.
And I was to keep totally off of the leg for two weeks before seeing the specialist again.

To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. My parents, once the boys were deposited at camp, suggested the cottage as a consolation prize. At least there I could lie on the daybed on the deck and look out over the lake, they said. 
Enveloped in sadness, I could barely reply. 

We went.
I spent most of my time at the cottage camped out on the daybed, 

looking through the binoculars, reading and drawing. 

I had, before going into hospital, clipped out an image of Rembrandt's 'Lion Resting' from one of my art books, and taped it on the wall by my hospital bed. 

It was now thumb-tacked beside the daybed.

Hour upon hour I stared at that beautiful drawing.

I wonder now if Rembrandt is, at least partly responsible for my being an artist.

 
As time ticked by, I worked out a strategy. I would ask the doctor, (when I had my approaching two week check-up), if I could spend the rest of my recuperation at camp. My reasons were threefold: 
I would agree to ANY instructions.
There was a camp nurse.
It would make me exceedingly happy.
I worked out this plan, saying nothing to my parents. I had one very big weapon on my side. 
The fact that this would allow my parents to spend a month in Jersey, I knew would definitely work in my favour.

Trinity Lake - Day 4 - Morning

 

"Cover my earth mother four times with many flowers.

Let the heavens be covered with the banked-up clouds.     
Let the earth be covered with fog; cover the earth with rains.
Great waters, rains, cover the earth. Lightning cover the earth.
Let thunder be heard over the earth; let thunder be heard..."
                                     
                                                                                        -Zuni Prayer
                                    
Somehow, the words I read in the wee hours of the still dark morning, (one of the prayers reflecting on the elements), have become prophecy.
As all begins to lighten, I crawl out of the tent and into a world of fog.  This dissipates slowly, but the day stays grey and cloud covered, as if the fog has moved upward just enough to reveal the flat grey lake and muted shores.

I get the morning fire going, a really good blaze. Even though it is relatively warm, there is so much moisture about.
That, and I need the comfort of the fire.

Although, once I have had two cups of tea, oatmeal, toasted pita with peanut butter and half a can of fruit cocktail, I do let the fire go out in order to rig up a tarp over the fireplace.
I find one of my extra tarps and lay it out. I want to angle it so that, if it pours, the rain will run down the tarp and away from my site, be high enough not to trap the smoke beneath, and low enough to keep the rain from putting out the fire.
I have a tarp with twenty feet of fine strong rope attached to each corner for this purpose. I throw the rope attached to one corner over a tree branch about twelve feet up and down the other side and secure this around the tree-trunk .
Now with a starting point, I try to figure out which corner to secure next.
There is a bit of trial and error involved, but after an hour or so, I have rigged something up.
The tarp, olive green, is quite well camouflaged. It is angled to drip well away from my tent, which, having its own waterproof fly, is pretty much safe from leakage, at least so far.
And so, ready for anything, I get my fire going again.

                                                           *

It doesn't rain.
It just threatens to, a sulky grey sky brooding overhead.
With no distant rumbles, I decide to have a morning paddle around the bay.
There is a stillness. 

I paddle out, enjoying the movement through the silky water.
Except for the drips from the paddle's blade, the canoe moves soundlessly.
Silent and slow, enough to feel a part of it all, I follow the rocky shoreline.
The water's surface flat, glasslike.
I can see a good six or eight feet into the depths - the slanted rocky shoreline below the water, rocks, pebbly floor, sticks that have been swept there, the weedy underwater growth.
I paddle over what looks like a dead tree underwater, or perhaps the framework of something. Thinking it may be interesting to photograph, I circle back to take another look.
I startle slightly when I see it again.
The structure, a boat of sorts, mirky and green, looks almost human with its ribs facing upward, one broken and rotted gunwale pointing like a long thin arm toward the surface.
I think of Flint's pointer in 'Treasure Island', a shiver going through me.


                                                            *


1966

It was the end of the summer, my inaugural summer of The Loop.
And while I wanted to see my family, I had trouble imagining life away from camp, 

life without Ginny. 

She promised to write, and said that she had already signed up as a staff member for the next summer, as a way of softening the ten month separation. 
Chip and Jessie too, assured me that they were returning, that we'd carry on where we'd left off, but I was nearly overwhelmed with sadness at leaving the lake, the people, the summer.
Why was it hitting me so hard - so much harder than last year, and so much more than it seemed to affect all of the others? I certainly loved my family, and was leaving camp for a week at the cottage, the whole family together. 
Perhaps it was a change in me, some sort of change deep within ME.

I cried through the entire journey from camp to cottage. I wasn't really much of a crier, and at first my mother was very sweet about my grief. 

But after twenty minutes, she lost patience with me. 
I can see it now - why it upset her. 
She saw me, I'm sure, as unreasonable, spoilt, a drama queen.

My father just drove on, pointing out birds, scenery, the first changes in colour, in his usual patient way. My brothers weren't to return until the next day, meaning for me a rare occasion of spending an entire day and night alone with my parents.
I pulled myself together for their sake.

I noticed, the next evening, that Dennis, too, had changed. He was taller and leaner, and as well, now stronger than me. 
My father was keen to see our camp skills during that week at the cottage, swimming and canoeing primarily. My three eldest brothers had improved greatly in swimming, Arthur now ready to take his Instructor's, and both Mark and John to do their Bronze Cross. Dennis had (after two tries) managed his Intermediate Red Cross, as had I, (in one). 
And although we were all more than competent in a canoe, I had worked hard that summer. 
During our week at the cottage, I began taking a canoe out to solo in the early morning while my brothers still slept. I remember one time paddling hard out into the lake, (imagining I was with Chip and Jessie), and sweeping to turn, caught a glimpse of light off my father's binoculars, as he watched me from the deck. 
My father, not being the type to shower his offspring with praise, later intimated that he'd been impressed. 

I had always gone about in bathing suit bottoms or shorts during hot weather at the cottage. It was during that week that my mother told me to start wearing a top. I said nothing, as I was embarrassed, and had no desire to get into it with my mother about girl matters. I grudgingly began to wear a small ratty red and white striped t-shirt which had belonged, at one time or another, to each of my siblings. It prompted me to look at myself carefully in the bathroom mirror that night, and I was horrified to see the tiny bulges beginning to develop on my chest, unnoticed by me before.

Later in the week, in what came as a massive shock, my mother asked me if I had started my period over the summer. Only what she asked was, had I begun to menstruate. I knew what she meant, as it was talked about often enough in a cabin full of eleven and twelve year old girls, but it struck me as odd, as she'd never before brought the subject up with me, or used the word 'menstruate' in my presence, or given me any material to read on the matter, that she expected me to know what she was talking about. 
I suppose, until that time, I had behaved pretty much as one of the boys, and the subject of girl's physical changes was deeply foreign to me. All I knew (and all Jessie knew, for that matter), had come from Chip. 

Chip, with older sisters, a year older than me, and with a vivid imagination, had told Jessie and me extraordinary things about reproduction, (not, as I would learn later, totally accurate), but nevertheless the sum total of my education. 
With my mother waiting for a reply, I turned crimson and answered with a single word.
No.

Trinity Lake - Day 3 - Evening

 

 

 Firepit Rice Casserole (for 1)

1 tbls. olive oil
1 small onion
half a cup basmati rice
1 cup water
1 packet single serving soup
1 425 g. can mixed veggies
1 cup grated cheese

- dice onion and stir into olive oil
- add rice - stir
- add water and soup packet
-cover, bring to boil - place off heat for 20 mins.
-add veggies and cheese
-bake in covered pot in warm part of fire (away from direct flame) for 20 mins.


                                                           *


I get down to practicalities by getting a fire going, make tea, and start supper prep.
And, (not part of the practicalities), think of my afternoon of cedar pole foraging.
I'm not at all sure what the abundance of cedar poles is about, (apart from the four to be used as stretchers), or how I plan to use the rest.
I have three times what I need.
What I know is that the cedar poles are part of my conjured memories.
And this:
I need to construct something.

An hour later, having shifted from tea to wine, I stare out into the bay, my back against the largest pine tree on my site.
I have retrieved supper #3, chopped onion, added rice, water, soup packet, brought all to the boil, and am now letting it sit, on one of the surrounding rocks of the fireplace.
I am quite quite hungry, the frying onion making my mouth water, but the wine will keep me satisfied.
I have put on my Jersey, as it is cooling off now and beautifully clear. And earth and pine needles and bits of leaf from the dry forest floor, have gathered and stuck to my red wool socks as I step around the site in food preparation.

I am silently blissfully alone.
For this time, maybe the one time, I can really look at things in depth.
At my own pace. In my own way.
Art, that is.
And my past.

I am tucked in by dark, having stowed the cooking gear, and removing all food scraps. I reach for my spiritual readings, but, getting no farther than a page or two, I snuff the candle lantern, roll over and sleep.
Too tired to think any more.


                                                              *

The last supper of The Loop.
Having a generous camp kitchen, we had far more food than needed. We prepared all of the supper items left, leaving only 'Day 5 Breakfast' and Day 5 Lunch', as we would be home in camp by mid afternoon, with luck.
This consisted of Chicken Noodle soup, chilli, meatballs, bread and butter, carrots, hot chocolate, and chocolate chip cookies. 
We also had a squashed box of Cherrios, and as a popcorn substitute, fried them in butter, salted them, and snacked on them into the wee hours. 

I had shaken my gloom.
Not one of us could help but be in the best of humour. 
When we were finally ready for sleep, after hours of singing and stories and laughter, we lay on our backs in our sleeping bags, ringing the glowing embers of the campfire, and stared up into the night sky.
It was clear and dark, the stars at their best.
I remember Ginny pointing out the Milky Way, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Corona Borealis, Polaris, Andromeda - in my memory, all of them, but perhaps I'm blending memories from over the years.
But this is clear:  

The talk turned to how, in all of that vastness, one person could make a difference.
Could do something good.
Something that mattered.

We set off in the morning in good spirits. 
Funnily, I remember little of our return, (or even much about that last week of camp), except that we arrived back during the afternoon free swim, the waterfront crowded with campers and staff.
Perhaps, marking the end of 'The Loop', arriving back in camp was a disappointment of sorts, and therefore excluded from my memory.
No one in camp seemed to understand that we were different, that we had changed. 
For me, it was a bittersweet moment.

I blended, I'm sure, back into my cabin group, separated to some extent from those who were my entire life for five days. But like people who cling to each other through a crisis, the nine of us had that extra perception, that tie, that memory of  'The Loop of 1966', 

forever.

Trinity Lake - Day 3 - Afternoon

 

There is a little bit of sandy beach ten feet or so from my harbour, where I pull up the canoe. I am warm with all of the cutting and hefting and toting, so stripping off, dip into the cool water. It is clear and green.  I float on my back for some time, gazing up the rock-face, through the trees to the clear sky.

To a vapour trail, a sign of civilization, but no sound.
All is quiet.
I return to my site on the newly cleared trail.
I am ready for some art.

                                                            *

Every so often, I stop scribbling to hoover down some cheese, ryvita, trailmix and lime juice.
When my prominent left hand tires of drawing, I switch over to my more scribbly, less precise right hand. It is something which I enjoy, this giving my right hand a chance.
My right hand. My alter-ego.
I look over what I have done, and realize I have been sitting on the edge of the rock-face for over an hour.
I stretch and gaze across the water.
There is a spot on the bay visible from my site with, what looks like, an abundance of tall thin cedar trees, fairly close to the shore.
As it would be useful to build a sort of stretcher frame for my large canvas, I wonder if tall straight cedar lengths would work for this, at least temporarily.
I decide on a scouting mission, to canoe over and hike up into the woods.
For this, I put on a long sleeved t-shirt, jeans, socks and running shoes.
And, spotting the saw by the pulled up canoe, toss it in, just in case.

I canoe silently on the still lake to the cedar tree area. Pulling the canoe up on the rocks, I venture into the woods. It is dark and green and totally different from my site. I feel a sense of awe, moving farther and farther into the woods, following a rocky outcrop just showing a foot or two above the humus and tangled ground-covering. There are dozens of standing dead perfectly straight cedars.
I return to the canoe for the saw, and back I go to the standing dead cedars.
Why, I wonder, does this seem so important? I could make do without a stretcher frame, but am wanting to give it a try.
I need to construct something.

I spend the next hour cutting down a dozen slender cedar trees, ten to fifteen feet tall, two to two and a half inches in diameter.
They are dead, due to the denseness of this part of the woods. Not enough light for them all.
I trim them, making them more manageable, and carry them two by two back to the canoe. 

I load them, climb over them to the bow seat, and head back to camp.

                                                              *

The Loop - 1966

We slept like the dead. 
I remember that it was much warmer on Trout Lake, (which fit in with its magical quality), the night being clear and calm. I awoke to the sounds of the morning fire being brought to life, and feeling excited at the prospects of a free day, scrambled out to explore.

This was the time of my happiest memories of camp. 

We were eager, on that still and wonderful day, 

to have everything go perfectly. 

We ate, swam, lay about on the rocks, hiked back into the dense woods to explore. We found long downed cedar poles and dragged them back to the site with the idea of making a raft. Ginny and the other two counsellors, sunning and reading on the rocks, content to have us in plain view and occupied, allowed us to use the painters from the three canoes to bind our cedar poles together. 
It was glorious. The sun beating down. Just the nine of us in the world, we did away with shirts, and spent the day working on the raft, swimming, eating, sunning.
It was at this time that I, unearthing a magnifying glass from the pocket of my backpack, spent an hour or so in the heat of the day, burning my initials in the grip of my paddle.
A moment burnt in my psyche.

The third day, the middle day, of The Loop.
This day, a marker, a moment in time, a time, for me, of perfection. 
An instant, only, in a lifetime of memories. But somehow, so complete.

The day passed in happy activity. Having got the raft seaworthy, we paddled Ginny far out into the lake. We laughed and hooted and sang.  I remember singing one of our favourites of that summer, 'Twenty-six Miles Across the Sea'. 
And now, if ever that song pops into my head, I can once again feel the nailing sun, smell the wet cedar, hear our childish voices. 
And see our wet and brown half-naked bodies.
All that made life perfect. 

I remember that it was spaghetti and meatballs (canned) for supper that night, rounding out for me that perfect day. Our morale was high. We were rested. 
And we were ready for days four and five.

After our third night, an early start. We headed up Trout Lake for the 'East Long', the long meandering river that led us out to Trinity Lake. And although parts of this were navigable, there were sections which required disembarking and hauling the canoes over the shallows. This, and as well, heaving the canoes up and over several beaver dams, causing one and all to be drenched from the waist down, our legs criss-crossed with scratches from beaver sticks. 
A short portage from the creek, bypassing a small waterfall, up a wooded trail, opening to the first glimpse of the southern-most bay of Trinity Like.

A high and glorious vantage point, a resting place, a fire for drying out, and lunch.

After an hour or so, we carried on into the southern bay. 
Those who had done The Loop before began to angle for a stop at 'the cliff', a traditional stop, (if time and weather permitted), a high cliff dropping down to a deep round pool. This pool of water, almost circular, a small and sheltered bit of the bay was, as it turned out, a gorgeous swimming spot, a welcome break. 
The platform-like ledge of the cliff, twenty or thirty feet straight up, the main attraction. 

We all trooped up a narrow steep path, stopping to pick blueberries off the low scrubby bushes lining our route. At the top, we took turns stepping out onto the jutting rock platform, peering down to the 

still black shadowed water. 

Two or three took the leap ahead of me, screaming in delight on the way down, followed by a massive splash, silence, then choking laughter on resurfacing.

But as much as I wanted to feel the rush, be part of the fun, I couldn't do it.
I turned away, climbing back to safety, and let the next person go ahead. 
It put me in a gloom, but it was no good. I could no more jump from that rock than fly to the moon.
I sat a little way off, hearing Ginny saying that no one need feel they had to jump. It was only for those who were comfortable with it. 
I knew she said this for my benefit, as in the end, I was the only one too chicken to take the leap. 
It was hard to live with this, as I had a reputation (in most things) of being a bit of a dare-devil. 
But something was holding me back.

Ginny was the last to jump. 
She had had a swim before climbing the cliff, and stood, her freckled tanned body still wet, her long auburn braid dripping down her back.
The sun glinted off her silver chain, the one she wore always, a chain with a small plain cross.

She stood.
And one by one, each of us stopped chatting or walking or thinking, to watch. 
In the stillness, she looked upward into the sky, holding her arms wide. She seemed to stand like this for a very long time, or maybe it was only a few seconds. 
I remember thinking of Ginny's book of saints, which she kept on a shelf of books in the canoe shed, and which I had a deep fascination with.

And an illustration of St. Sebastian, his look of ecstasy, his body pierced with arrows.
Was she in prayer? Transcendence? Did she see something?
She jumped. 
Straight as one of St. Sebastian's arrows, she entered the water, nearly soundlessly.

Perhaps it was the force of the water, from a body jumping  from that height, but ten minutes after her jump, Ginny realized her cross was missing. Desperate to be the one to find it, I spent our remaining time diving, searching the murky lake-bottom for a tiny flash of silver, each time surfacing, gasping for air, but sadly,

empty-handed.

She took it in stride, not wanting to cause a fuss or ruin our last night.

But you could see that it hurt. 

Perhaps it had been a gift, or was of huge significance. In any case, later on in the evening, as we sat around the campfire, she calmly talked about the dangers of being too attached to objects, and announced that forever more, she would think of it as an offering.

An offering to Trinity Lake.

The cliff.

I go months, years, without thinking of it, only to have it enter my dreams.

Unbidden.

Our last night of The Loop.

The site was Niswi Island, one of three tiny islands, with just a stone-surrounded fireplace, a flat grassy area for sleeping, some scrubby bushes.  The water deepened gradually with a pebbly bottom.
The island being basically a rock, there were no 'outhouse' facilities per se, so one of the tiny  neighbouring islands was used for these purposes. One canoed over for this, although it was close enough to swim. 
In spite of our long day, Chip, Jessie and I swam around the island while supper was being prepared. The two of them raced, but I meandered slowly, breaststroking, finding within me a certain despondency, caused either by my lack of courage at the cliff, or lack of understanding of what I saw in Ginny.
Or both.

Trinity Lake - Day 3 - Morning

 'As if a Sea should part

And show a further Sea -
And that - a further - and the Three
But a presumption be -

Of Periods of Seas -
Unvisited of Shores -
Themselves the Verge of Seas to be -
Eternity - is Those - '
                                            -Emily Dickinson


I wake refreshed, but even so, doze for about half an hour.
I make the mistake (in the night) of drinking half the contents of my water bottle and as a result, need to get up at 3:36 a.m. Once up, I gaze over the moonlit Trinity Lake, feeling overwhelmed by my minuscule place on this earth.
It is all so beautiful.

Today. 

And day three on my own.
I get a good breakfast fire going, and put a full kettle on to boil. Once my mug of tea is made, I drop two eggs into the still boiling kettle, find my clock, time five minutes, toast pita.
It is cooler today. I am feeling energetic, and decide to tackle the trail clearing then make an anchor, after breakfast but before any art happens.

                                                        *

I head down to the trail with my small saw and secateurs. And as I reach the tangled path, I begin my clearing. It is good to bend and stretch. My fifty-nine-year-old body is stiff from sleeping on the ground, but mercifully not as bad as it might be. My 'bed', really quite comfortable, but even so, this morning my shoulders and hips are feeling it.
I work from the campsite end, slowly, down to the canoe. It is satisfying work, as the passage from site to canoe to site will be much easier. I no longer need a sweater on, and peel this off. Once I reach the canoe, I scour about for a good sized rock to use as an anchor. I have a fifteen foot fine strong rope, but will need a rock with some uneven jagged bits to hold the criss-crossed knotted rope.
This I find.
I loop the other end of the rope through the brass ring of the bow deck, and tying it, lift the rock into the bow.
I want to canoe out to where I was yesterday and give the anchor a test run.

I'm not sure how deep the bay is at it's deepest, but the fifteen foot rope is more than long enough thirty feet from shore. I loop and retie the knot in the brass ring. At least now I know that if I'm out drawing and writing on a windy day, I will, more or less, stay put.

                                                         *

August, 1966

I woke to a dim world. Not yet really beginning to lighten. Just enough to see that we were laid out like a row of sausage rolls, the nine of us, and although I mostly felt warm, my nose was like ice.
I was half asleep but had a sense of Ginny's gentle regular breathing, her arms holding me close to her (as much for her warmth as mine), her mouth inches from my ear. I wonder if I complained of being cold in my sleep. 
I flutter back to sleep, feeling as safe as a human can feel.

Two hours later we were eating oatmeal around a blazing fire, the first light of day looking promising. Warm, and with full bellies, Ginny let us in on a plan.

What if we moved fast, (broke camp, loaded the canoes, got underway), and crammed two days of canoeing into one. What if...
She explained that we were into the (comparatively) 'easy' two days of The Loop - slightly less distance to paddle, shorter portages - but it would be a marathon. We (in spite of an early start) would be lucky to arrive much before dark. But, oh, the reward! The prime campsite of The Loop, Trout Lake. 

One full day ahead of schedule, we would have it for two nights, and 

one long entire day 

to swim and relax on the smooth slanting rocks of the Trout.

Of course, (being Ginny), this could only happen if the decision was unanimous. The 15-year-old recluse dithered, expressing some doubts. But, in the end, it was her own recollection of Trout Lake, (from her one and only previous experience of The Loop) that brought her round.
And so, we set off.

And it was a slog. 

Mercifully, the weather cooperated, though cloudy (better than the full blazing sun) but still and warm. In the early afternoon, we passed Site #2, (on Firefly Lake), but kept well out in the lake, not wanting to be tempted into a reversal of plan. We took turns eating crackers and cheese, raisins and apples, and drank lake water (as one could safely do in those days).
I remember that it was at this time that I perfected the method of drinking from a paddle.
(A memory so crystal clear, it could have happened yesterday.)

Dip the whole paddle in the lake, lift the tip high, press your open mouth against the grip of the paddle, letting the trickle of water run down the edge of the paddle into your mouth. 

Quickly.

We were on Trout Lake, our destination in sight, an hour before dark. Although exhausted, we were ecstatic and had a celebratory meal in the flickering campfire light - our quickest meal to prepare - hotdogs cooked on sticks, (slightly squashed) buns, and marshmallows. I found my eyes closing before the celebration ended, and Ginny was up in an instant, laying out groundsheets on the flat soft pine-needle carpet set back from the shore.
We slept long and hard.

Trinity Lake - Day 2 - Evening

 

Curried Lentils - (big meal for 1)

1 tbls. olive oil
1 small onion, sliced
1 garlic clove, minced
2 tbls. tomato sauce
1 tbls. hot curry powder
1/2 tsp. turmeric
1 cup dry green lentils
s&p
water
1 whole pita

Heat oil, saute onion, add garlic, add tomato sauce
Mix spices into this with 3 tbls. water, wait 1 min. then add lentils, s+p, 2 cups water
Bring to boil, simmer 30 mins.
Stuff in pita halves.

                                                            *

I consume this simple meal, with which I treat myself to a cup of wine. Later, the clean-up done and all food back in the tree-top kitchen, I have a look at my canvas. It is still a bit damp but quite flat. I will leave it where it is for the night, there being little wind.

I scout along the shoreline at the foot of the rock-face in the last of the sun. All is peaceful and still very warm. As the sloping shoreline flattens out, I lay back to take it all in, then removing my clothes, slip into the silky water.
An evening bath.
It is warm enough to lie naked on the rocks, drying off, for ten minutes or so, until the sun begins to slide behind the far western shore.

Not yet dark, but a darkening wooded walk back to my site.

I'm not really much of a one for flashlights although I do have two with me, 

(as they are a necessity if something is needed in a hurry in the pitch dark). 

But you are just so visible when using a flashlight. 

Like a sitting duck.

This dislike, I know, stems from my camp days, remembering the times when Willie would venture out late at night to make sure that no one was still up and about.

Up to no good - as in smoking or drinking or in the throes of a romantic tryst, (all of which I had participated in at one time or another).

His flashlight, like an oncoming train, could be spotted from 100 yards away, giving anyone ample time to flee. 

Fleeing, without aid of a light.

I can still remember every rocky outcrop or sudden dip on the Camp Trident trails,

after so many summers of night-time navigation.

Now, once again, the darkness is a comfort. 

I know that I would see a light if there were other humans in the vicinity.

Yes, strangely comforting.

I feel a turn in my attitude; in the darkness, I am protected.

                                                       *

I return to my site, 

letting the low fire slowly go out.

I take out my journal and in the dim light scrawl out a few thoughts, the surrounding area barely visible.

When nearly dark, I douse the fire.

In the last of the light, I read from the book of Earth Meditations:

'I arise today
Through the strength of heaven,
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendour of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise today,
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.'
                                      -Saint Patrick

Trinity Lake - Day 2 - Afternoon

 

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. 

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. 

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.