Another Lake Superior moment

Almost thirty years ago, Jack and I bought “camp”—the tiny house on the shore of Lake Superior, just south of Lake Superior Provincial Park.

Until then, from the mid 1970s to the mid 1990s, we spent a couple of weeks every summer—sometimes more, never less—camping in the park’s Agawa Bay campground. I wrote a bit about that early experience a few years ago. https://echoriver.ca/pauladunning/index.php/2019/06/11/some-thoughts-on-mortality-and-magic/

It was during those years that Lake Superior became an important part of our lives—even, if it’s not overstating, of who we became. This lake with its changing faces and rugged shore has an astounding ability to take up residence in your very soul—even if you’re not at all sure such a thing exists. It was its proximity to the park’s spectacular vistas and kilometers of hiking trails, that tempted us to buy this place, which turned out to be one of the best investments we ever made. It has enlarged bit by bit to accommodate our children’s growing families and has allowed the lake to become an integral part of all their lives as well. Souls too, perhaps.

My time here has obviously changed over the past few of years. When I’m here now, I’m alone. When good friends are at their nearby camp, I often join them for outings, but I’m not comfortable setting off on back-country or rocky shoreline trails by myself, except for a few of the less-challenging and more-travelled paths. Not that I couldn’t, I tell myself. But it doesn’t seem wise. 

Which brings me to today. 

I am here, alone, on a beautiful day. I felt like a walk, but have become a bit tired of the one that is my usual solo choice. So I drove to Agawa Bay, parked the car at the gatehouse, and walked the length of the campground (about 4 km round trip.). It’s hardly a wilderness experience, but it is along the lake, and it’s always fun to see how people set up their campsites and to watch families enjoying themselves—although I didn’t see a lot of people. Off in their canoes or hiking the trails, I assume.

The campground hasn’t changed much in all these years. Closest to the entrance are the motorhomes that require plug-ins, some of them astoundingly large. Once past the electrical sites, set-ups range from single tents to elaborate combinations of sleeping and dining tents, to tent-trailers, to odd structures that combine vehicles and tents.

At the very end of the road, I came to our favourite camp sites, nearest to the rock outcropping that marks the edge of the campground. They were both occupied by modest tents, and I stood for a moment picturing our old camper-trailer with additional tents on the site for the children, a clothesline with wet towels, bikes leaning against a tree, a picnic table covered with a red-checked vinyl cloth (just like the one in the photo), and a smoldering campfire. (No campfires today. We are under a strict fire ban.) 

In the days before reservations, we held our breath as we drove the last few minutes approached, hoping against hope that one of the several water sites near the big rock would be open. If not, the kids got out of the car and checked the registration tags to see if one would be vacated soon. If so, we’d set up camp for a day or two on a less desirable site nearby, away from the water, and lie in wait to lay claim the minute its current residents put their car in reverse. Of course, others were doing the same thing, since water sites were in high demand, so it became a rush to plant our flag (usually in the form of a child standing firm) before another family planted theirs. The reservation system has taken away that bit of fun!

And then, the rock. Campers come and go. The trees, though old, count their years in mere centuries. But that rock was probably formed more than two billion years ago—give or take a billion—and assumed its present form at the end of the last ice age, 11,000 years ago. It’s a typical Lake Superior outcropping marking the end of an expanse of beach, not particularly steep or spectacular as these outcroppings go. But it was my introduction to Lake Superior, and today it called to me. And how many more years do I have for this?

And so I climbed, using my hands for balance more than I recall doing thirty years ago when this was a daily excursion from the campsite. When I reached my favourite spot, I was alone and it was just as I remembered it. And the gift of the lake was just as it always is when I take the time to sit beside it and just be. Just me, the rock, the trees, and the many blues of sky and lake. I’m not sure it gets any better than this.