Algonquin spring

Algonquin Spring, May 7-14, 2015.

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Evening, day 1.

It is springtime and i am in Algonquin!!

Don and I arrived here, at this first campsite of our first ‘solo’ trip together, after an easy paddle across Farm lake (where we stopped briefly to visit the site of the Oasis 2010 rain dance) and a 765 meter portage from Farm into Bridle lake, where we easily made our way to the only campsite on the lake.  The 2 ½ hour trip from access point to campsite brought us to our lakeside home-for-a-few-days @1:30pm.  The remainder of the afternoon was thus spent homemaking … making the beds (erecting the tent and unrolling sleeping bags), hoisting the kitchen tarp (adjusted and readjusted) for shelter from the projected thunderstorm (which has not yet happened), cutting the wood for warmth and for cooking, rehydrating the ham, potatoes and corn for dinner. We have since eaten said dinner, washed dishes in water drawn from the lake and carried uphill to our overturned canoe/kitchen counter, tidied up camp and are now seated side-by-side by the edge of the water for the evenings entertainment.  The peepers have begun to chirp, a barred owl has called and been responded to, and a male and female merganser have fooled us into temporarily thinking a pair of loons had arrived on our lake. Don is now playing his harmonica as I write.

The day was remarkably warm. (I might say this is the warmest I have been in Algonquin to date) And we were so concerned a few short weeks ago, when the ice was holding fast to the lakes, that it was going to be frigid. We’d purchased additional ground pads, cold-hardy fuel for our stove, and Don actually packed his snowpants! Still, I’m certain this weather could change in a heartbeat (or at least by the end of this trip)

We were pleased to find the portage trail in good condition and we had only to lift over one downed tree.  The trail itself was lined up with spring awakenings, like a crowd packed tightly along the edge of a parade route … a profusion of trillium, trout lily, and viburnum, with Canada mayflower pushing its way up through the soil.  The deciduous trees on the opposite ridge from where we now sit are just beginning to flush with golds and hints of red, mimicking autumn in their hues. It’s as if spring has been expectantly waiting here, eager to push forth, and is anxious to ‘get to work’ now that the ice has relented at last.

Can it possibly happen so suddenly? That something within, hidden, lingering (patiently or impatiently) and dormant beneath the cold, is merely anticipating (patiently or impatiently) this bursting forth into leaf and blossom?

OH, the night sounds are so very wonderful. Don has stopped playing and now the evening itself is opening into a full blossom of song to mirror this fabulous day. Wind rushes in the tree tops above me, a bee buzzes near shore. A woodpecker drills nearby as some delight-full creature (a bird?) across the lake laughs its way down the scale. The fire at my back roars and crackles and pops, and the soft breeze soothes my face.

The male merganser makes a pass down the lake and back again, as if on patrol. And the water too passes by, as if on its way somewhere…

(a sudden rain chases us into the tent)

Algonquin spring, day 2, A beautiful day with Don.

We awoke to the light rain that had accompanied our sleep with its soft percussion on the tent roof. The earth here now looks more like I think of Algonquin – perhaps because of the season in which I typically visit? – damp and fecund, teeming with potential.

By the time we’d cooked our pancakes (not an expeditious process, but perhaps a contemplative one, with cooking them one and a time in our small pan), the morning thundershowers had passed off to the north. Don’s back has been troublesome and pained him a lot this morning, so a leisurely morning allowed him some time to stretch and assess his back even as we assessed the ensuing weather pattern. After breakfast he fished for a bit, hooking a nice-sized bass, which he threw back, while I explored the shoreline,  noting the diligent work of the beaver who calls this lake home.

By late morning, the sky clearing, the lake still and glassy, our daypacks filled with raingear and lunch, we set off for a day of exploration. Both of us sighed deeply, in concert almost, with the feeling of release we experienced being on the water again. There is something simultaneously soothing and liberating , peaceful and invigorating, about paddling the canoe.

A very short paddle led us to the 1600 meter portage to our destination for the day, which was to be Ancoma Bay  in the northern waters of Shirley Lake. At about 1200 meters along the trail, the canoe bearing down on my shoulders, I wasn’t feeling quite as peaceful and relaxed, but upon arriving at the island studded bay, picturesque even in early spring with its long views and short ones, interesting inlets and jutting shorelines to explore, I was instantly grateful that we had made the trek.

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A tree cemetery, with its curlicue headstones of upended and bleached rootballs reflected perfectly in the mirror-like shallow water surrounding one small island, enchanted us. We circled another large island, then explored a few campsites from our canoe, before settling on an unoccupied one, with some obliging root perches next to the water, for lunch- tuna wraps with cherries, apple and curry.

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After lunch, I paddled stern, at a leisurely pace, while Don fished from the bow.  He caught nothing, except for the bottom of the lake near the 3 small islands, and, once, the tip of the canoe behind his back.

The 1600 meter portage back to camp felt easier somehow, after the glorious afternoon, except for the time I slipped on a wet root and fell on my bottom with the canoe atop my head. After that fall, I was more careful on the downhill sections when my footing was less assured and had Don help with the bow in those places for balance-sake.

3200 total meters of canoe carrying in one day left me fairly sweaty and spent, but a few pretzel thins with goat cheese -along with a sponge bath outside the tent- revived me. How refreshing to not feel the need to duck into my tent either out of modesty or cold temperatures. A girl could get used to this.

Meanwhile, Don repaired his foot brace and then fished some from the bank of the lake, catching a pike, we think, that was over 2 feet in length. We also threw him back, uncertain if it was ‘legal’ to keep and to eat. Dinner itself was less than stellar, as I failed to add enough water to the couscous (not too mention neglecting to unwrap the boullion cube!) and so it was dry and lacked flavor. Oh well.

After dinner, as we waited for the dish water to heat, a storm that had been rumbling close by for some time, finally came full force upon us, chasing us beneath the tarp (which held!! though the water ran beneath it like a river). The lightening flashed and thunder roared, until at once they arrived simultaneously, the flash and crack directly upon us, every hair on my raingear covered skin standing on end.

As thunderstorms go, it raged and then quieted almost as suddenly, leaving the camp drenched in its wake. We assessed , erected a line for wet things, and were still able to build a small fire, over which I was able to boil some water for tea.  thanks to Don’s placement of the firewood beneath the tarp. I read aloud a bit from a book of nature essays by Canadian author, RD Lawrence, until Don grew weary, and we came to bed/the tent where I now lie recording the day’s experiences.

But now I am weary too, the pen not wanting to stay on the lines proscribed for it. But before it drops from my hand, I want to mention the HUGE moose track we saw in the muck at the end of the portage trail, and the fresh ‘moose berries’ along the trail not far from the wolf tracks we also noted.  A painted turtle pushed off from the bank, even as did we in our canoe, into the waters of Shirley Lake.  Also, the spring beauties and trailing arbutus were blooming right alongside the puddle of blue feathers (evidently someone’s breakfast this morning). Oh, and the loud crashing sound in the woods, which I might’ve guessed was a great tree falling, except I heard a series of perhaps a dozen or more as I lay in the tent last night!  Some animal ‘crashing’ through the woods? (is that what is meant by that turn of phrase, then?). Even now, someone splashes near the landing to our campsite, not far from the tent, the beaver perhaps out on his nightly rounds.

But I am too weary to look. Good night.

Day 3, Algonquin Spring,

Noon

We woke again to a gray, drizzly day, which invited us to linger for a few extra minutes/hours in the tent this morning.  Emerging from the tent later invited us to don our first layers of this trip…for me, an extra shirt, neoprene jacket, and raingear overtop of it all. The day’s weather (and the dampness of everything) plus our needing-a–rest bodies invited us to stay put in camp today, though we had been considering a move to Booth lake a day earlier than planned.

The morning has been a lovely day of exploration.  First, a slow easy breakfast of warm muesli, then cleanup and some searching for my missing compass and whistle (to no avail as of yet). Afterward, I did some bushwhacking northward along the perimeter of the lake. I found my way easily to yesterday’s portage trail, which, after last evening’s drenching rain, looked even more like a stream than it had before.

On around the end of the lake I traversed on foot to the larger feeder stream at the marshy northern tip of the lake, where I was eventually stalled by too much water to cross in my hiking boots. This lake is so full of life-waking-up and I greatly enjoyed exploring it up close and personal.  So fecund is it, with mosses and ferns unfurling, spider webs bejeweled  with the mists, and dangling heart-shaped blossoms at the water’s edge.  It makes me want to know more, to learn names and habits of these plants, but for today it is enough to simply adore and delight without need to name or proclaim.

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Don continues to fish, catching more of the large fish, this one with a white stripe down its back. (We shall have to learn the name of this fish, so we know whether or not it is ok to eat him!)

Lunch , roast beef wraps and carrot slaw, is now ready, and so am I.

4:30pm

Another wonder-full afternoon of quiet exploration. I walked south after lunch, along the eastern shoreline toward the small waterfall don and I had spotted yesterday while paddling for drinking water, then followed the water upstream and uphill. Soon I passed a granite wall that likely was the cause of the water’s narrowing into its gurgling and cascading run. At one point, I thought I heard drumming, like the bass of a radio thumping on some urban street corner, but soon realized it was the water itself, thrumming, a musical thunking against the granite wall.

I soon was stumbling through virtual nursery beds of life in the moist forest – lichen and moss, fern, hundreds of infant maples, alders, viburnum, foamflower, trillium and violets.  One fallen ‘dead ‘ tree was simply rife with life, a terrarium of lush greenery.

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I walked on, crossing streamlets, climbing up banks, over fallen logs, and through young hemlock and pine groves. At last, I reached a boggy area where there was too much water to know which one to follow. By this time, I’d also begun to ponder the Shirley Lake wolf pack (I’d noticed some browning and curling plant debris that I’d at first imagined to be wolf scat) and I worried myself with silly thoughts of stumbling upon a spring den. All of my respect for and understanding of the value and importance of predators (of which we are the most scary, after all!), my knowledge that I am not a prey animal for a wolf, etc…flew out of my body at the slightest nudge of my mind’s anxiety and so I turned back.

I was soon happy to spot the lake once again and so slowed my pace to appreciate the virgin landscape in which I hiked.  The sense that few humans travel deep into the woods by the side of this small lake washed over me.  I was truly the visitor here in this pristine bit of land. There was something wilder here for me in this place of no trails, no lake, no thing marked and mapped by man, a new feeling of not-my-home presence that I treasured.

Arriving back at the water’s edge, I continued along the perimeter of the lake to a grassy embankment that was relatively dry, where I sat to watch the two loons that had arrived with a flourish earlier this morning.  Upon their arrival, they had swam the length of the lake, singing in tandem, as if in celebration of their return home at long last. Now, as I watched, I was suspicious that I was observing some sort of courtship ritual. I delighted as the one loon (male, I presume) proceeded to perform stunts to impress his demure mate… log rolling and pirouetting, rising high on his tail to flap both wings, then whacking one wing as if to see how large a splash he could make, like some teenaged boy at the swimming pool.

A moment ago, while preparing dinner, I noted two relatively large birds fly overhead. While I believe they were Canada geese, I have not spotted ‘our’  loons since. Were they perhaps just visiting for the day? Have they departed after an afternoon of frolic?  I am disappointed (if this is the case) as I was looking forward to an evening of loon song. I have missed their sweet lullaby on this trip thus far.

Don has gone now to start the fire for dinner. I think I shall join him.

Algonquin spring, day 4

Last evening, we went out for a paddle after dinner, in the light rain that had been with us throughout that entire day. Again, we felt the collective sigh in our bodies and minds upon entering the water, though Don had at first balked at the idea of donning his neoprene boots to embark.  Soon we noticed ‘our’ loon lovebirds swimming side by side and were uplifted by their companioning presence with us here.

Paddling along the far shoreline, south of the beaver lodge we had noted earlier, we soon found its resident out and about, as we had hoped. He tolerated our quiet paddling alongside him for much longer than I’d have thought he might, before, with a thwack of his tail to register his dismay, he dove beneath the surface.  . A  lovely paddle, we circled the lake, around the singular island and back through the drizzle, returning to camp just as the rains increased in intensity again. Soon after our return, we made another early-to-bed evening of it.

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The rains continued, more heavily, throughout the night.  Again, we remained in the tent longer than we had planned, not relishing the idea of immediately donning raingear, hoping for a break in the weather come daybreak.  Finally, we emerged and began to pack up our wet tent and tarp and set out for the move to Booth Lake in driving rain.

We paddled and portaged throughout the day, leaving Bridle Lake @ 10:30 this morning and arriving at our campsite @ 3:30 this afternoon, going slowly on the trails because of the muck and slick roots and rocks.  At first site of Booth lake, coming out of the inlet, we joked that it was misnamed, and should’ve been called ‘Fog’ Lake, or at least ‘Misty 2”, laden in a shroud as it was.

We had been intent upon finding the campsite recommended to us by our dear friends, but upon entering the wind driven bay of the McCarthy Creek inlet, we discovered only an exposed point of low land for a campsite. Had we disembarked to explore, perhaps we would have found the upland granite ledge of which they had spoken, but the unfavourable conditions led us to return to a seemingly more protected site in the bay we had just crossed.

However, the site we have found is quite lovely, open in the understory beneath tall red pines with a sweeping view of the water, though we have spent most of our time since arriving setting up camp and attempting to dry our things in the now-damp-again winds. Mostly, I long for a dry spot upon which to perch… sitting pads and rain pants both drenched as they are.  My back is weary from today’s 1500 meters of portaging.

Despite the early hour, I think I shall sleep well tonight. It sounds like the rain may be letting up a bit. It is hard to say now if we are hearing drops from water laden trees or fresh ones from the sky. The sound of the peepers beneath them is just beginning to rise to their level.

Earlier, upon arriving in camp, during that short reprieve in the rain during dinner (thank you), there was some lovely bird song, a wood thrush I believe. I look forward to waking to more. I do hope for sun tomorrow as we have not seen the blue of the sky in days, nor any stars at all in the dark of the night.

Ah, the loon calls. Goodnight.

Algonquin spring, day 5

6:30 am

I have been awake for some hours (having been inside the tent for more than 10 hours now), listening. Listening to the wind come in waves, like the ocean to the shore, rising up, dying down, hopeful at first that they might be drying winds, the drying winds of a system blowing over, but alas they have brought more rain, more of the drizzly, misty rain of our days at Bridle Lake.  However, it is yet early, and perhaps something is moving after all.

As I listened and longed for a change, I realized I was being affected negatively by my expectations and desires for something other-than-this, making an ‘enemy’ perhaps of ‘what is’. And so I have decided now to simply listen, with appreciation – only once rising from the tent to move things I had placed out in the ‘drying’ winds to a drier location, under the tarp or the tent flap– seeking, as best as I could, to simply accept what is (or as the Buddhists suggest, move from ‘hate’ to ‘non-hate’ on my way to ‘love’?)

As I lay listening, having returned again to my bag, I intentionally set about changing the expression on my face, noting when it slid into a scowl, and then softening my brow , turning my lips upward into a smile.

What is there to love about this drizzly, soaking, wind-driven rain?

It moistens everything.  It moistens the land, a land that was so parched dry before we arrived that it seemed foreign to this place to us.

It penetrates deeply and brings with it new life. Life that has been thirsty for water now can drink.

The sounds are so lovely on this trip, if not the views long and bright. Even the rain itself, pattering or spritzing, pounding or hissing, creates its own kind of rhythm. This morning, the wakening thrush joined in chorus with long lingering peepers, before they retired for the day. The woodpecker laughed and the crow- a solitary fellow – announced that, despite the gray, the day had arrived.  Other birds, that I cannot name but can appreciate, sing in the trees away from the water, where it is no doubt warmer and drier than here

For a few moments, the sol-do, sol-do of the water drumming against the sheer granite wall next door to our campsite added to the melody. And now Don’s snoring contributes a verse.

Listen and love.

Appreciate what is, right here, right now.

Smile. Do not wait for change to be happy.

The least likely thing in my power at all, the weather, I cannot begin to control.  Ha, what a lesson in loving is this.

2:30 pm

I am inside the tent again, doing some reading. The wind has not let up and it is cold. This morning, for a brief 30 minutes or so, the skies began to clear to a near blue with only a dotting of cumulous clouds from the west floating by, seemingly the tail end of the weather system. And so we began to ready ourselves for a day of paddling at last. However, in the time it took to gather our gear, pack a lunch and don raingear, the clouds had once again mounted, as if stuck on some eastern ridge beyond us, the winds gusting so powerfully, we thought it unwise to head out. (later, I read that there were gusts of 25 miles per hour recorded in whitney, nearby, on this day)

I admit, the sound of the wind is beginning to distress me. In the lulls between waves, I anticipate the silence, holding my breath almost, hoping that particular gust may be the last hurrah, a final dying gasp of the storm. But now it is drizzling again. I hear its pattering on the tent roof, and so I need not peek out to know that it is still gray out there.

And yet, still, the thrush sings. I just heard her again, for the first time since early this morning. Perhaps, just perhaps, she knows something that I do not.

We were able to pack up some things that managed to dry in the winds between the rains, so it was good for that, at least! And Don has split some wood with my knife, exposing the dry interior, hoping for a dry enough evening that we might enjoy the company of one another next to the fire before being driven into the tent early.  Nightfall often brings a quieting of the winds, though that has not been the case on this particular trip.

I explored a bit again this morning, following the shoreline paths to granite ledge overlooks with lovely vistas, and interesting plantlife,

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but was chased from lingering long by the chilly blasts of the north wind. Don and I took our lunch to one such granite perch, but, discouraged (I had also packed a book with my lunch) I returned quickly to seek the warmth of the tent.

OH great wind, your relentless power overwhelms me. Yes, you are stronger than my seeming indomitable spirit. Wind, Breath, Spirit or Ruah, I relinquish to you. You persuade me, coerce me, to be still at last.

I am surprised to acknowledge how ill-at-ease I am with a day of waiting, of being stranded and forced into stillness, with nothing to ‘do’ to distract me. Perhaps this is the gift after all, this invitation to simply be here now, with what is, unable to be anywhere else but with this experience of helpless compliance to something far greater than me.

To just be, not even to be ‘in waiting’ for ‘after this’, but to be ‘with this’, with these raging elements, both internal and external.

Algonquin, day 7 (yes, I skipped a day, due to a full day of paddling!)

Hay lake lodge, 7 am.

Two days ago, after having retreated to the tent for warmth and  reprieve, I emerged to make the long trek to the ‘box’ (the trail was actually marked with red flags in order to help you find your way) and to check on Don. He was ‘fishing’ in the wind, really just casting his line to keep busy. As we stood together, in the relative lee of the point, the wind seemed to lessen just a bit. And so encouraged, in an attempt to buoy our spirits, we decided to attempt a late afternoon paddle.

Quickly, we were on the water (having kept our paddling and raingear at the ready for just that eventuality) testing the waters by paddling at first the bay along the great granite ledge near which we were camped. Farther along in that bay, we spooked a loon that was perched on a boulder, wondering if even s/he, a bird who is hardly at home at all on the land , wasn’t particularly enamored with the water this afternoon either.

Feeling encouraged by our trial paddle, we rounded the tip of the land and made our way into the next inlet to McCarthy Creek, a beautiful marshy bog with a wide shallow waterway, a likely habitat for a wide variety of birds and mammals, insects and amphibians. Indeed, the peepers were already beginning their raucous chirping.  Soon we passed a very large beaver lodge.

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Maneuvering our way upstream, against the wind and the current, and encountering whitecaps in the wider stretches of water, we literally ‘worked our way upstream’, taking in the beauty of the alpine bog through rain splattered glasses. (It was raining and blowing again) With each stroke, I felt as if I was reaching out to grab hold of the water with my paddle, then pulling the boat forward as if through mud. We had hoped to make our way to Mole lake, and we think we may have been quite close (just around the next bend.. ha,ha) but one last ‘open’ stretch of white capped current, through which we felt as if we were using all that we had left to pull ourselves, convinced us to turn around in the relative protection of the small cove behind the next granite ledge.  In my mind, I realized that I needed to preserve my energy and strength for tomorrow’s paddle and portage out to the access point, especially if this weather did not relent.

Back at camp, we pulled the canoe up next to the campfire circle and propped it up on its gunwale to act as a windbreak, behind which I prepared dinner while Don built a fire. We huddled behind the canoe to eat the salmon, broccoli and pasta dish.

It was while cleaning up that I realized the batteries for our UV light, which I had neglected to check and to bring backups, had died, and so we dug into the hardware pack for our backup water treatment drops. Though we could’ve boiled the water, we also wanted to conserve fuel and up to that point the fire was problematic. Concerned with the labeling on the package, which indicated  that the drops ‘killed odor causing bacteria in potable water’, we, with trepidation filled our water bottles for the next day’s paddle out of the park. (later, we learned that the drops would indeed kill bacteria such a giardia and cryptosporidium. whew, I had not screwed up so badly after all)

Though Don had been hoping to stay up this last evening around the fire, my low physical and emotional energy forced me to lie down in the tent by 8:30pm. We both slept fitfully through the night, each of us in our own worrisome thoughts… me plotting out scenarios and solutions, while listening to the wind howl and gust in its huge gasps, again awaiting with baited breath that final long gasp that would lead to the silence for which I so yearned.  It was quite cold as well, 34 degrees when we awoke, whixh was augmented significantly by the penetrating winds.

We had decided we would rise early no matter what the daybreak brought, and so at 6:30 am, we rose to the day, cold and windy or not, donning our layers to emerge from the sheltering warmth of the tent, which had been at least heated a bit by our bodies.

A breakfast of hot meusli and coffee steeped as we rolled sleeping bags and pads, folded tents and tarps, and packed dry bags and  backpacks. By 8 am we were on the water. In the hour and half that we packed up camp, ate breakfast, washed dishes and used the ‘facilities’, the sky, at last!, had cleared to a blue, dotted with friendly looking clouds. It seemed, at last, the system had ‘blown over’.

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And so, the paddle out of the park was a pleasant one, the water sparkling and blue to mirror the sky. The gusty winds continued, occasionally challenging us, but all in all it was the day of paddling for which we had been waiting all week. We appreciated each stroke of the paddle, and I saw the familiar waters and shorelines of Kitty Lake and Farm Lake with fresh, grateful eyes.

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Near the take out, we stopped at the last campsite for a lunch of cheese and crackers, dried apricots, gorp, and leftover carrot slaw. After lunch, wanting to prolong the day’s paddle (we had been on the lakes and trails now for a mere 3 ½ hours) we paddled on past the take-out and into Crotch lake, intending to paddle up the north leg and around the island before leaving the water at last. However, when we turned north through the narrow crotch of the lake, we found ourselves again battling a head wind, surprisingly powerful, and so we turned back. We’d had enough of the wind.

We had the car packed and were on major lake road by 1:30 for the drive to Hay Lake Lodge. At the last minute, Don decided he’d like to stop at the visitor’s center after all, so we detoured the 20 minutes past the turn to Hay Lake to the center where I spent most of my time in the book store. A brief ‘run through’ of the museum’s displays left us weary again and we departed at last for the lodge.

We were greeted warmly by Erin (and by the hot shower too!) and then comforted by some .. well.. comfort food, a delicious shepherd’s pie, which was Don’s choice. Personally, I found the fresh salad to be surprisingly more satisfying, (and comforting too!.) Buttertarts and French vanilla ice cream rounded out the meal’s comfort.

A brief sit in the Adirondack chairs on the dock, both before and after dinner, before the cold chased me into the cabin, reminded me of the solace that Algonquin’s waters and skies can also offer. The water was placid and silky, the air still and quiet. A solitary loon called. Peepers began to chirp before I turned in.

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Some time spent in the cabin, reading about the nature of Algonquin…her mammals and birds, reptiles and fishes, flowers and trees, bogs and forests…grounded me again in this place, deepening my appreciation of the environment and ecosystems, until the second glass of wine at last had me nodding to sleep in my seat.

Into the soft bed and heavy pillows I burrowed, awakening about midnight to notice the stars beckoning outside the window next to the bed, which overlooke a small bay. Reluctant and expectant at once, I donned some warm  clothing and ventured out into the cold clear night to breathe deeply of the stillness of this starlit night, at last. Again, the loon called, at regular intervals now. A barred owl called from the distant shore, an occasional lingering peeper joined in, just enough sound to accompany the night sky in its comforting message of peace.

It was almost as if Algonquin herself was apologizing, asking forgiveness to assure my return to her shores, reminding me of my love for her and hers for me — for better or worse, in good times and bad. Reminding me again that it is all beauty, after all. It is me that needs to change, not her, change the way I see, change what I decide is perfect.

Everything belongs after all, even me.

Postscript: We have been home now for 11 days and this is the first I have had to look inward, be still, and know that I am. This too is a whirlwind, a system, an environment in which I abide and must learn to be Love.

2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Dennis Shaak
    May 27, 2015 @ 22:07:19

    Vicki,

    A wonderful writeup. I was able to enjoy Algonquin without having to endure the long ride there and back. I could visualize and resonate with your daily routine, getting “tent fever” after your body has caught up on a year’s worth of missed sleep. It would have been nice to see and moose or hear a wolf, but that will come.

    Blessings and thanks for sharing…. Dennis

    a note..i tried to “Like” your entry but was asked to log into WordPress??

    Like

    Reply

  2. emmaatlast
    May 28, 2015 @ 22:27:15

    Dennis, Tent fever is a perfect description for the feeling I/we had. The wolf howl on Tim River is probably my favorite memory to date, so yes, i’ll keep going back for the chance to hear the wolf and see the moose… as long as I possibly can.

    PS . I don’t really know about the login to WordPress. Perhaps the ‘like’ option is only available to other wordpress users?

    Like

    Reply

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