I was 10 the first time my parents took us to the wilderness.
It was an 8 hour drive north to the cabins at the lake. My Mom would pack for a month beforehand and our living room would be filled to the brim with neatly arranged tubs. Our two weeks in the wild required quite literally everything you could think of and she had a 5,000 item list to reference, alphabetized and organized by my Dad.
The further north we went, the deeper I could breathe. The friendlier the faces became. A slower paced of life emerged. One that felt more authentic and so close to nature.
From the backseat of our old grey and black suburban, I remember watching out the window as the forest rolled by. I knew I belonged out there. A sense of home presented itself to me and I longed to disappear into the sea of trees where I would befriend the plants and animals. The human world would go on without me and my spirit would flourish in the wild. And I would build the most splendid treehouse like Sam Gribley in My Side of the Mountain.
As we embarked on the last leg of the trek, the pavement turned to a long stretch of gravel. The car hummed along and the curves of the road felt familiar and welcoming. At last we caught a glimpse of the sparkles through the woods. Ranger Lake was something dreams are made of. Crystal clear and when you got close, it played a trick on your eyes misleading the depth of its waters. It felt like cool satin on your skin and left ones hair feeling marvelous. Deep and pure and unspoiled. The cabins collected the running water directly from the shoreline.
I fell in love with the wild and the mystery of wondering if another human had ever been to these beautiful places. We visited an ancient tree and all wrapped our arms around its trunk. Who else had walked here? Gazed at this incredibly old tree? Stood where I was standing? What were their lives like back then? If only the tree could speak in a way I knew how to listen, what a story it could tell.
There was an old woman, Mrs. Kanuut, who lived off the grid far away from the busy world. A legend of sorts. My dad knew her from one of his local connections and took us out to meet her. She had a humble cabin deep in the forest and spent her days hunting, trapping and making beaver skin mittens to sell as her main source of income. I remember wondering if she was lonely living what seemed to be an isolated life. Now I realize it is possible to be much more isolated in fancy modern homes in manicured subdivisions.
Isolation depends on ones own definition.
I’ll never forget hiking into a secret lake far in the woods. My dad carried the canoe on his shoulders and we fell in line behind him. The black flies bit and the sun burnt and we slogged through “beaver shit” finally arriving at the shore of the remote lake. It was still early for we had embarked on the journey at what felt like the middle of the night. "The fish bite the best early in the day" and early in the day was when we were going to arrive, come hell or high water. My dad’s Marine Corps background loved this type of thing.
All day we floated on the lake, pulling out Rainbow Trout as colorful as their name implies. Around noon we paddled to the edge, started a small campfire and gutted our lunch. I watched, queasily, from the sidelines. Turns out that trout roasted like marshmallows on sticks made the most delicious lunch I think I’ve ever tasted to date. Once you have experienced fish like that, there is no going back to the store bought frozen varieties.
One time, my young brother was reeling in a nice big Pike and we were cheering him on. The closer it got to the boat, the more terrified his face grew. Have you seen the teeth on one of those things? As he pulled it out of the water he shrieked with fear. It’s face reminiscent of a small shark and it’s teeth something from a young child’s nightmare. He threw the pole into the water. The entire thing. Fish, hook and pole. Pretty sure that marked the end of his short-lived fishing career.
Back at the cabins, there was a wood-fired sauna we frequented most evenings. We would nearly broil our bodies only to dash down to the dock and plunge ourselves into the freezing cold water, punctuating the silence with our squeals of delight. One time, we heard a moose quickly retreating in the shallow water, startled by our human noises and the boisterous belly flops we made in the night.
I will never forget the first time I heard the call of a loon. Have you heard one before? It is haunting and enchanting and mysterious. You hear it not only with your ears but also with your insides. It registers in your bones first.
My family's yearly expeditions to the Canadian wilderness instilled a long lasting impression on my life. The smell of a campfire, falling in love for the first time, the tranquility of a calm lake after the daytime winds go to sleep. The taste of wild blueberries that covered the islands like blankets and fell into your hands when you picked them. Rocky shores and days spent in the canoe making memories with my family.
My first love ended a couple of years later and my family's expeditions into the woods eventually ceased as we grew up and began different adventures. But the love of the wilderness life I had been introduced to as a child continues to grow to this day.
(Top left and bottom two photos from RangerLakeLodge.com)
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