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Illustration by Alex Siklos
It has long been a family understanding that I am not a camper. I tried going to overnight camp for two weeks one summer when I was 10 and hated it. I sent multiple letters home each day, leaning over the paper as tears dripped from my face onto the page, ensuring that the salty drops blotched my words. I circled each inky spot and helpfully labelled them “my tears.”
I did not like that I had to take daily swim lessons in the murky, frigid lake or trip over roots and rocks in the dark to visit the acrid-smelling outhouse. I was not enchanted by nature. “I’m a city girl, remember?” I wrote my parents, pleading for them to retrieve me from the backwater to which I had been banished.
It’s not that I didn’t like nature in general – I could appreciate the beauty of a glowing sunset or crashing waves on a sandy beach – I just didn’t think my relationship with it could be improved by unnecessarily enduring hardship. Why camp when I could have permanent shelter and running water? Why choose to live as though centuries of progress hadn’t occurred? Why voluntarily make myself vulnerable to mosquito bites and bear attacks? Why be uncomfortable when I could be comfortable?
This strong preference for modern, urban life over rustic wilderness endured into adulthood. It was not until I had kids that my relationship to nature changed. Young children are natural outdoor enthusiasts, often happily covered in dirt or sand, enjoying nothing more than digging for worms and picking up bugs.
When my brothers suggested my family join theirs on one of the annual canoe trips, I decided to give the outdoors another shot.
Once on the lake, our canoes cut through the rippling blue-black water, propelled along by our steady strokes. The only sounds were the dip of our paddles and the occasional whoop and laugh of one of the children. I inhaled the deep scent of pine as a loon’s call vibrated in the air and started to understand why this sort of experience might not be so bad.
On the first portage, the kids helped each other lift heavy packs. Children who, in their regular city lives, balked at carrying their own school knapsacks down the block now eagerly cinched the waist-straps as tight as they could around their hips. They swayed and bent under the loads they had taken on. Bowing their heads toward their goal, each child set off alone, concentrating on balancing their wobbling packs while stepping over exposed roots, rocks and mud. No complaints. No requests to turn back. I marvelled.
At once shamed and inspired by their strength, I too grabbed as heavy a load as I could and set off, quickly realizing that I had to concentrate to get to the end of this winding, rocky dirt path. My head emptied of busy city thoughts as I focused on putting one foot in front of the other. It was meditative.
And I felt proud. Of me, of the kids. The canoeing and the portaging were hard work and we were doing it. We all beamed with pride when we reached the end of the path, high-fiving and collapsing onto the dirt.
Once we reached camp and set up our tents, the kids scurried around the forest gathering kindling. We sat around the campfire and talked. We prepared food. We ate it. Dishes were cleaned in the lake, passed from one set of hands to another as we dried and stacked. The kids sang songs and played hand-slapping games. There was no cell service, so we couldn’t even check the weather. We did not have the distractions of screens or deadlines or school work. Rather than make things more complicated or difficult, being in nature without modern or technological comforts reduced our needs. My thoughts were about food and shelter, enjoying this place and these people. Maybe time away from modern comforts was not deprivation, but simplification, I realized.
Tired from all the fresh air, paddling and portages, I found I didn’t mind lying on the ground. A blanket of stars hung low and bright in the heavens. The sky is so dark far from city lights. Sandwiched between the deep breathing of children and cuddled into a downy sleeping bag, I slept, unconcerned with the rocks and roots under me.
Family canoe trips to Algonquin Park have become a cherished annual tradition. And my kids are now excitedly packing for their time at overnight camp. Any letters I receive from camp may contain other complaints – the lake water is still cold, outhouses are still smelly – but I am confident they won’t be protests about being city kids stuck in the wilderness. Thankfully, these children have learned to love time in nature far earlier than I did.
Margot Finley lives in Toronto
