We found the perfect campsite in the provincial park, a waterfront spot that had a small path leading in twenty steps to a broad, flat rock that overlooked the lake. It was almost big enough for the tent, and we easily could have slept on it under the open sky, but we opted instead to save the rock for morning tea and pitched our tent on the actual site higher up.
Cory went for a walk further along the shore, I was wearing sandals and couldn’t follow him through the muck so I went back up to write in my journal at the picnic table. It was cold too, and I was so chilled that I sat on the book of poetry I’m reading. It made me smile that a book of poetry by a noble prize winning poet is best used as a seat cushion when camping in April. The world was beautiful enough that evening, I didn’t need to read of it when it was all around me.
We snuggled into the tent early, around 9 ish, and played crib under the led lights of Cory’s head-lamp. He won, which indicates my horrible luck for games of chance, but I still enjoyed it, the confined space and warmth of my sleeping bag beginning to lull me to sleep. There is something magical about tents, something that overrides the sore joints in the morning, the lack of space to toss and turn in a sleeping bag, and the awkward pillows made of yesterday’s clothing. I think it’s the fresh air which flows under the fly all night and makes each breath slightly chilled and sweet, and the sense of belonging with the outdoors, the noises of the waterfall in the background, and the lapping of the water on the rocks. Stiff shoulders and all, I woke up happy in the morning, and lay in my bag relaxed for the first time in weeks as Cory made tea in our stove which sounds like a jet engine and yet somehow doesn’t run the wilderness for us.
With our tea and a thermarest to sit on, we went to the rock outlook and sat overlooking the lake. Neither of us talked too much, a quiet moment enjoying the solitude of the spot. It was almost raining, and the sky spilled dense fog down the sides of the hills enclosing the lake and we watched as the fog got closer and closer to us. Through the fog, the hills behind took on different colours, an almost purple-green, the trees became a hidden secret as we sat there until we had to leave before the fog and rain reached us too.
serenity finally accomplished didn’t stay with me for too long this weekend. On the way back from Harrison we stopped at a parking lot in Chilliwack so I could practice my driving skills (I’m learning to drive standard, this is the first time I’ve ever had a chance to drive anything that wasn’t an automatic). Serenity and the clutch on the car do not go together… and I’m still unable to start the damn car on a hill without rolling back twenty feet and freaking. Then two heartbreaking hockey games later (Montreal vs Boston, Vancouver vs Detroit) and I need a weekend all over again…