I wrote this about a camping/conoeing trip I took last summer. It was really fun, and a new experience for me because I had never gone on an intense camping trip like this before! We moved campsites everyday, so we'd pack up our tents before breakfast, make breakfast and eat it while making lunch, and then set off in our canoes. We wouldn't land until 5 p.m. everyday. Brutal. But fun, overall. One thing I noticed was that the further you got away from the boat launch, the clearer and more beautiful the water...
Hmm. Says something about the city, doesn't it?
Anyway, this "moment" takes place on the first night of our trip, and at the campsite that was furthest away from the dock.
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A Moment in Time
I pause and straighten up from my stooped posture, carefully glancing sideways at the small inlet, but I cannot tear my eyes away quickly enough. My heart pounds and my breath falters in my throat. I stare, unblinking, across the wide expanse of pale white rocks, a slight breeze softly pushing me
towards the little cave where the lake waves lap onto the pebbles and then recede with a gentle hiss. I listen to their soft slaps echoing wetly off the walls of the cavern, and I can imagine the waves’ curled, childlike fingers clumsily painting a watercolour on that broad stone canvas. Alone for a moment, out here where the rocks go ‘clunk-clunk’ every time I move a Croc-clad foot, I can hear those waves murmuring ‘Come play with us’. It is dusk now; to the west, the midnight-blue sky is streaked with splashes of vibrant oranges, while the east carries the half-moon on a chariot of stars up into the heavens. The water is a queer turquoise-green in the fading light; the shimmering, sparkling liquid of the day a mere memory until morning. I take a deep breath of fresh lake air; it is tinted with the fragrances of lush foliage, camp food, and the secrets of the smooth dark tarn. A sudden puff of air wafts the unpleasant odour of the outhouse towards me; it is a revolting stench, and combined with the scent of berry hand-sanitizer, it is an unforgettable aroma. Right by my feet, the water is clear and darts in and out of the scoured rocks, but further out, it is like a mirror, reflecting the showers of bright pinpoints that are just starting to appear from between the folds of azure fabric. A bird’s low, solitary call echoes around the circle of trees; they are like silhouetted strangers shrouded in cloaks of shadows. I remain motionless, my hands growing white with their tight clutch on the plates, listening to those quiet, insistent waves. I take a step in the direction of the hypnotic rhythm of their breathing. The sounds of the others -their muted laughter, the clink of forks on metal camping dishes- floats through the air from under the trees. I crane my neck to see around the bend of the little inlet, but to no avail. What would happen if I followed the flowing voices of those waves? No one would know. I imagine wild scenarios of ghost stories I’ve heard over the years at camp: odd girls in white standing perfectly still, ankle-deep in the swirling water; strange occurrences in the woods; the many people who have lost their lives at a lake…But then the moment is gone, and I blink in the brightness cast by the moon. I shiver involuntarily, and ruefully shaking my head, turn back to the great open lake, smooth as glass and clear as anything. It is too exquisite tonight to taint it with those tales. I push my thoughts away and bend down to finish rinsing my dishes in that cool, deep lake.
