The Prowler

My latest stay at Agawa Bay, other than offering great rhyming potential, was a turning point, I think. The campground, on the eastern shore of Lake Superior, is my favourite in Ontario, and though I will remain loyal, this visit was more of a challenge. I booked my campsite late, and as punishment for my tardiness, was relegated to a site with no clear view of the water.  Part of the reason for me believing that this might a turning point is that I pitched my tent on the edge of what I believe used to be a set of outhouse pits. The clearing was odd, and, though there was grass growing on it, the topography of my site betrayed its’ earlier use. Things can’t get worse can they?  Yes, there was another area where I could have pitched, but it was low and bowl-ish. Since I knew that rain was coming, I opted, in a somewhat conflicted reasoning process, for the higher level, even with its’ shitty history.

On my way driving into the campground, I had noticed a man sunbathing on the beach, in a speedo, socks, and sandals. I rolled my eyes a little. Later on, I met the same man walking, staring at an empty site. I greeted him and he explained, in full speedo, that he was examining this particular site because it was bigger. “I have a 27-foot camper at home,” he said. I felt he was compensating for something. Imagine how delighted I was to find that this fella, let’s call him, Gunther, was set up directly across from my site, in a camper with Prowler, written across the front of it. 

“Fine,” I thought. “He’s probably really nice.” 

Sometimes I try to lie to myself to experience a different story. I kept coming back from hikes or swims, to find, Gunther, sitting in his lawn chair, avec speedo, drinking beer. Even at 10 in the morning, he was hoisting his ale, and raising his numbers on the creep scale I had set up in the judgemental part of my brain. 

“Lighten up Suzanne!” I tried to tell myself. “We’re all on vacation here, right?”  


What made me hate Gunther with my all-of-me, was when he fired up his generator every single evening, and kept it running deep into the night. Even with my earplugs, I could hear the damn thing. I considered getting up and pulling the sides of his speedo up onto his shoulders, you know, to snug things up a bit. Gunther was a creep. There. 





Imagine my delight when I returned from a hike to find the Prowler, and creepy Gunther, gone!  Later in the day, the site was taken by an older man in a wheelchair. He was on his own, driving a van clearly updated to his ability. He spent the entire time facing away from me, the lake, everyone. I was coming and going, and batting around a great ball of guilt for whatever trauma had put him in that chair. I kept finding myself doing things that involved my healthy legs and I felt terrible. I kept trying to catch his eye, and at least wave, you know, to acknowledge him, but he stayed turned. He spent the evening listening to Johnny Cash, and drinking beer. I thought about walking over and greeting him, but then was afraid that, a) he may have had some facial disfigurement that I would not be prepared for and he was doing me the service of keeping it hidden. Or, b) he just wanted some privacy. Staying turned away could have been the Occam’s Razor of signs. 

             “Leave me alone, madam.” 

So, I did. I left him alone, and he was gone before I woke up the next morning. I kept wrestling with that scenario. Frankly, just because someone’s in a wheelchair does not make them an angel. He could have been a complete asshole, but I feel compelled to make an effort in those cases. 


                                 Life.

Lake Superior is beautiful, but cold. This time, I had come prepared with my wetsuit. I had bought new booties, fins, mask and snorkel, but while standing in the dive shop, on my healthy legs, paying for my new gear, I kept scratching my head about the snorkel I was buying. It had a mechanism on the non-mouth end, that kept water from entering the tube when the user was diving down below the surface. I used it several times, during my stay at Agawa. The snorkel worked wonderfully, but finally I realized what was so odd, about it while down snatching a pair of sunglasses off of the bottom along the shore. I came up spluttering. This fancy mechanism looks like an uncircumcised penis! And I thought Gunther was weird!

The hiking was glorious. It might have been nuts to do the routes I did on my own, but I was careful.  I had tried to buy some bear spray before arriving but couldn’t find any. Bears usually aren’t a problem this time of year, but they are around, and I felt I should have some just in case. At one store, I was offered, bear bells.  I declined and afterward wondered if they were anything like wind chimes! 


I sang during my hikes. I’m a terrible singer, so I was confident that my notes were a deterrent unless the beasts wanted to come closer to see what poor animal was wounded and making the most tragic noises! I realized, during those hikes, that I know very few songs all the way through. I did make up a few new songs though, and ran through others, improvising new lyrics– none of which I can tell you about here. Maybe later. 

Unlike my last stay at Agawa, I didn’t get to know any fellow campers this time. The vibe was strange, plus there was lots of rain that kept us all to our own sites, me and my pits. There was a fire ban, so people weren’t hanging around campfires at night which left anyone keen to sit out, fodder for the blackflies and mosquitoes with no smoke to keep them away. There were some hard-core campers here though. They had signs set out at the entry to their sites. Signs like, “Hi, we’re the Coles!” Or, “Happy Campers!” Some were carved out of wood, others displayed on flags. This delightful effort was offset by a front license plate on a truck just south of my site. Instead of numbers, or letters, there was an almost holographic, colour photograph of two red shotgun shells, and a shotgun. Every time I passed, I stared at it, trying to figure out if I had imagined it. I hadn’t. To me, instead of anything inviting, like, Namaste, or even goofy like, Life’s a Beach, the message I got from this was,

           “What are you going to do about it?” 

To be clear, I don’t have a problem with hunting. I think hunting something for food, actually gives you an opportunity to have some kind of ceremony, and be thankful about your catch. But, to just love guns, for the gun part, I find troubling. I immediately judged the adults in the campsite to be assholes. Not the kids. I liked the kids. But really, who am I to judge anyone. I’m splashing around the lake with an uncircumcised penis in my mouth!

I’m heading east now, through Thunder Bay, then  into Quebec. I noticed a road sign warning, “Blasting near here. Do not use radio transmitters.” Two minutes later, I noticed another sign advertising a monument company. Looks like they’re at least planning things out up here!


Safe travels, unless you’re wearing a speedo. Then, I hope you get a rash.