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
This was the time of my happiest memories of 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.
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
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.
Our last night of The Loop.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
