by Sylvie O’Rourke
The great outdoors and the weather are often at odds. There is an unknown factor that can easily throw off an envisioned vacation. One can choose to either bail or embrace whatever may come. Our five-day tent camping reservation was made long ago without a crystal ball to guide us. The prediction is a mix of sunshine and rain.
Since the first two days are expected to be sunny, we leave early to paddle on the St Regis River. It is peaceful but for the rhythmic splashing of our paddles. To my left, a large turtle lies basking on a white birch log in full view. Nearby two adult loons carry silverfish in their beaks for their young ones. They are quite vocal, perhaps warning them of our presence. Saint Regis Mountain rises just before us, its fire tower barely visible on the summit. The area we paddle through, once known as the vacation hotspot for the wealthy, is steeped in history. It boasts the largest number of Great Camps in the region. We emerge onto Spitfire Lake to view large traditional Adirondack-style cottages. One of them stands out with its large four-door boathouse stocked with antique wooden boats. We return to the river and our waiting vehicles, feeling relaxed from our outing.
Our Day Two paddle takes us through marshy channels linking several ponds. It is fun to zigzag through the narrow waterway and wonder what lies beyond the next curve. Although we don’t see any loons, we are visited by several American Black Ducks. It is hot out today and we are eager to jump into the ice-cold pond to enjoy a swim.
The following morning, we awaken to a relentless downpour. Restless, we pull on our rainbow of fuchsia, canary yellow, and Irish green raincoats to walk to the end of the campground, an area we have yet to explore. Besides a lone fisherman standing in the pond, few campers are out. The lack of vehicles is proof of desertion for dryer options, perhaps a visit to a nearby museum, a quaint café, or a laundromat. When the rain finally does clear, I set out my water-logged shoes and socks to dry and we go paddling on another pond. As it is windy we stick mostly to the sheltered shore. After passing the campground and long stretches of bushland, we come across a few private paddle-in cottages without electrical services. There is no sign of life at any of them.
On Day Four under the threat of more rain, we go for a shorter paddle in the choppy water. By lunchtime, the wind has picked up and the temperature has dropped. Convinced that rain is imminent, we remain at our site to relax with a book. By mid-afternoon, the sun peeks out and we enjoy a swim at the beach. Even our evening campfire is pleasantly uninterrupted. The raindrops delay their fall until we are tucked into our sleeping bags for the night.
But on our final day what I have dreaded has come to fruition: There will be no opportunity to dry our gear before we leave. Once again, the sky is crying profusely, its sobs becoming more articulated with time. Miserably, we pack up our wet and sand-encrusted tent along with all our soaked possessions. We will have a mess to clean up tomorrow, but we will soon appreciate our brick-and-mortar home.
While no one ever dreams of a vacation with anything but perfect weather, camping is not camping without some degree of hardship. After all, the root of the word “camp” stems from the Old English word “battlefield”. It only seems fair that, as campers, we should come prepared to battle the elements. The rain will be forgotten with time, but the campfire stories, the cool swims, the paddling excursions, and especially the company we shared them with will live on.
SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, November 2024, page 26