Torrents of rain broke from the heavy grey sky, ricochetting off the pavement and back up towards my calves, soaking my pants as I stood waiting for Will at the front entrance. The lights inside flicker, followed by a crash of thunder, and a nervous laugh bubbles in my throat.
I’ll be sleeping in this.
Apart of me is relieved that Will and I decided to pack the car before he set off for work this morning. The other is occupied with making a plan to get the rest of our things like the cooler and my books into the car without them getting wet. Two trips: one a hurried waddle to the car carrying the cooler, and the second a sprint sheltered by an umbrella. That would have to do, since cancelling’s not an option, nor was waiting it out. If there was a sliver of a chance that leaving here in the torrential downpour meant that we’d use the 40-minute-drive to race the rain to Oka’s camping grounds, so we could set up in the light drizzle, we wanted it.
As Will’s car rushes through the corner of our street, excitement turns in my stomach and I brace myself to be enlivened by the cold downpour. Already, this camping trip is starting out differently than our first trip of the year.
In May, to celebrate the end of winter finals and the start of my summer semester, Will and I had stolen off on a Saturday evening for a 3-hour drive to Parc régional Kiamika. Without service and a buggy Google Maps, we’d found our way to the sector’s administration kiosk, a small trailer locked up for the night, and pulled into our campsite to set up in the fading light.
The following day, our morning began when the golden 5 a.m. light filtered through the canopy of pines and birch, and peeked into the backseat of our car. The chittering and chattering of songbirds, and the raucous rattles of kingfishers hunting by the shore, lured us out of our makeshift bed and into the cool morning. When the heat of the day hit, we’d paddled out onto the reservoir with a rented canoe, following a breeding pair of loons as they dove into the cold water and reappeared further out. With tired arms, and the lake breeze in our hair, we’d pulled ashore a small sandy island where a flock of common terns took to the sky, screaming their irritation.
In the late evening, lit by the orange glow of the fire and in our solitude, loon calls erupted into the night. Their haunting wails rising and falling in chorus, crescendoing as the night got darker, and the constellations lit up the sky. Away, deep in the woods, we’d felt at home, and yet like we’d stepped into an alien world.
And maybe it was. Complete disconnection from the busy world was a foreign feeling we lacked in our lives, and one we craved more of. No, not craved, needed.
The days and weeks that followed our trip to Kiamika compounded into a tightly-wound ball of stress. Stress from writing and finishing summer midterms, only to be propelled straight into finals. Will stressing over managing frustrated clients as peak-season demand met pandemic-caused inventory shortages and delayed shipping windows. Will coming home exhausted every day only to answer emails and customers from bed. All this, combined with the sweltering heat, wound Will at the emergency hospital, having an MRI and blood work done to figure out the source of the constant pain flaring in his head, and his nausea.
When the results came in for dehydration and mental fatigue, we were grateful it was nothing serious, but considered what that meant. We had pushed ourselves through the thick of a pandemic with our anxieties high, and without disconnecting from the constant stimulation we had found in our lives. We needed this weekend away, and nothing would stop us. Not aunt flow, who showed up two days prior, and most certainly not the biblical rains flooding the roads.
The morning after the rain, we woke up to the sounds of chipmunks scavenging for treats around our site. They scurried around as we went about brewing our coffee and cooking breakfast, listening to the soft reggae music swell in the humid air. Come late morning, with our shirts sticking to our sweaty skin, we headed to Oka’s beach to cool off in the river. Only, when we arrived there, we found CBC News filming the crowd gathered there, and opted to spend the rest of the day lounging around the campsite.
Under the shade of the surrounding trees, Will dozed off in our hammock while I read a book, plucking the dozens of fuzzy caterpillars that crawled onto me. They were persistent, falling from the trees and climbing any surface they could find, even if it was to their own detriment. I found myself scolding them as they creeped into the fire pit and squirmed in the hot ash. One even rattled its backend at me in displeasure as I interrupted its climb.
When night settled over the woods, Will and I sat huddled together by the fire, no longer tense. And to the bellows of neighbouring campers singing John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads”, we discussed what was to come.
Note from the author:
Special thanks to William Botka at William B Photography for the beautiful feature image. If you’re interested in seeing more of his work, please visit his portfolio here or follow his instagram @williambphotographymtl.
