The tale of a camping excursion as observed by the Manitoban wilderness
When the boat engine shut off, perfect silence enveloped the lake, as if all the forest around held its breath, just waiting for the first yellow leaf to fall. Then it fell, gracefully twirling. Gleefully settling on the mossy bed waiting below.
“It’s autumn now,” the pines whispered knowingly, nodding their wise old heads.
The news swiftly passed through the cluster of birches below them, then to the chokecherry bushes beneath.
“It’s time.”
The breeze tossed the locks of the poplars. “It’s time.”
The poplars swayed in the musical air, now and then releasing a drop of their stored gold. As the air shimmered with dancing reds and golds, two figures stepped out of the boat and clambered onto a cool black rock protruding out of the steep banks. Reaching back, they collected supplies for a picnic dinner. Smoke and spices mingled with the aromas of decaying logs and pungent pine. The forest watched, intrigued by their guests.
“Will they stay here?” The birches asked the chokecherry bushes.
“No, let’s send them on further,” they said, winking amongst themselves.
The sun blinked sleepily as a cloud passed by. The breeze dropped its temperature by a degree and the opal blue waters stirred restlessly.
“It’s time,” the waves urged.
At last, the two figures left their picnic rock. The engine again roared to life, and the waves rolled along with it. As the boat passed through a dark, damp tunnel into the next lake on the other side, the wind chased ahead of them, on to who knows where.
“Is it time?” the waves asked each other. The suntanned grasses along the marshes solemnly agreed, bowing their tufted tops.
The waves swelled, and the wind returned, driving surges into the lake so the boat no longer rocked, but lurched. The two figures glanced at the sky, but seeing no threat besides gathering darkness, they hunched down and continued on their way.
They passed through another tunnel, carefully navigating around the tumbled rocks at the mouth. The boulders lay there like the fallen blocks of a child’s tower. By this lake, the pines grew even taller, even darker. The water too, no longer sparkled opal, but instead lurked black with silver glinting on the crest of every dashing wave. The sun yawned and then slid underneath the covers of wispy gray. Gone were the shimmering reds and golds. Gone were the friendly birches, the gleeful yellow leaves. Gone was the warmth, and gone was the brilliance of the sun.
The two figures leaned forward in their small craft, scanning the dim waters ahead for their destination. The sun pulled its cloud covers towards itself, further darkening the sky. The lake breathed like a dragon, sending the boat pitching with every breath.
Their destination, a solitary island in the centre of the lake, flashed with bobbing lights. Other figures scurried around like ants. The pines sighed. The boat swayed in hesitation. A loon laughed, but the waves hushed it. Uncaring black shores lay ahead, opposite the island.
“Is it time?” the clouds whispered.
The pines shook their heads.
The boat and its occupants rocked towards the inimical shores, now leaving the nearest road seven miles behind them. A black hulk watched them coming. He grunted and swung around, retreating into the forest to peep on them. The boat docked, bobbing through scratchy reeds and then scraping on a single slab of granite. Right above the slab, the banks rose sharply, covered with grass and poplars. Here the two figures popped up a tent and built a fire, perched precariously between the bank and the lake.
The black hulk huffed and then ambled into the vast forest to who knows where. The chokecherry bushes patted him as he left. “Come back soon,” they said. “When we say it’s time.”
The wise old pines shook their heads again. Even though these pines were darker and bigger, they were older, and that made them wiser. They tossed their arms up at clouds and announced, “It’s time!”
Lightning crackled in the distance as clouds piled up in rapid succession, each trying to outdo the other in height. They tumbled over each other and rolled over the muttering lake. The wind nearly puffed out the fire, then whipped around the figures. “It’s time,” it warned.
The clouds squeezed out their first raindrops. Then split by the rushing pressures, they burst into pummeling rain. Thunder growled as lightning raced exuberantly from cloud to cloud. The two figures dove into their tiny tent, huddling on their mat. The chokecherry bushes nearby bent to listen. Was it laughter? In all the excitement of the storm, the bushes entirely forgot about calling the furry hulk back.
Before the fury of the wilderness passed, the six mosquitos inside the tent conferred with each other. Finally, they confirmed that the two figures were indeed asleep and that feasting could begin.
As the sun rose, all of nature prepared to greet it. The old pines straightened their backs, the waves adorned themselves with glittery gems, and the remaining clouds dabbed blush on their cheeks. Even the cold black rocks smiled just enough to show their dimples. When the two figures popped their disheveled heads out of the tent, the wilderness welcomed them. They had survived the conniving bushes, the lazy hulk, the tempests, and the hardest of rock beds.
The reeds around the boat applauded them. “It’s time,” they beckoned.
After wafting some more smoke and spices into the crisp air, the two figures returned to their watercraft, only three feet from the tent. The six mosquitoes hummed after them, slyly settling into crannies where they could ride undetected.
And so the pines, reeds, skies, and waves frolicked with the two figures for the rest of the day, while the black hulk just sat on his haunches at the top of the embankment and watched them because there was nothing better to do.
Rumors from the young pines at another lake have it that the craft nearly capsized on its way back because it hit a hidden rock and then spun crazily. But because those pines are young, it is considered only a rumor until other valid witnesses confirm.
