My Honest Wish for You

I miss my tent. Specifically, I miss the glorious reveal of the day it offered each morning that I used it during my trip across Canada. No windows in my little nylon bubble of comfort. The only clues of the world outside were the sounds of the wind, water, and wildlife, and the light levels. Light levels were tricky. Most of the areas where I pitched my tent were treed. Initially, I fell for the shade they threw, and assumed the day I was unzipping myself out to, was duller than it was. There were, in fact, no dull days, not out in the woods. Once I learned this, I found myself excited to throw back the fly, and see what the night had made. It was like having the stage curtain pulled back in front of a set at the beginning of a play. Even in the rain, I stood, delighted, content, breathing in the soft, forest air, and wishing that time would stop so I could stay there, standing, watching, drinking a bottomless cup of coffee forever. 




It’s the awe factor, I think–this feeling of witnessing something remarkable, beautiful, that nudges a starving part of ourselves. I felt this each time I got out of my tent in the morning: several nights in Lake Superior’s Agawa Bay, Lake Louise, Tofino, the Kananaskis Mountain Range, and Dinosaur Provincial Park, near Brooks, Alberta.  To be honest, most of the houses and motels that I stayed in while crossing the country, had great views: PEI, Gaspé on the eastern side, and Quadra Island, off of Vancouver Island, on the west, but the process of looking out a window is different than throwing back the tent fly; you’re part of it when you’re crawling out of a tent–hot, cold, rain, or snow. There’s a tendency toward quiet that comes, and reminded me of seeing the Lincoln Memorial, years ago. Everyone in the room was whispering, if they were speaking at all. There were no signs requesting silence–silence is, more often than not, the natural response when the soul witnesses something tremendous.

Not everyone is ready for the awe factor. One morning, I walked up to the actual Lake Louise from my campsite just outside of the town. The trail was winding and quiet. I arrived, followed the signs and crossed the paved parking lot to the water’s edge. There it was, this glorious, turquois splash of colour set in amongst the mountains. It was pinned on one shore, by a big, fucker of a hotel–a cement blowhard, like the irritating relative who name-drops and eats all of the chips. Then, there were the tourists, taking selfies and talking. Don’t get me wrong, nature belongs to everyone, but I felt, there in that moment, that the lake was under siege and secretly wanted rescue.

Probably the most remarkable example of missing the point, was a mother and daughter I saw at Lower Lake Camp ground in the Kananaskis Mountain Range. I had followed the trail out of the camp area towards a great flood plain full of stone wash, and small rivers that lead to the lake. I was hearing a terrible, grating holler, and wondered if someone was in trouble, or if perhaps a beast was caught in a trap. It was neither. The noise was coming from the mother and daughter as they yelled back and forth at each other, seemingly oblivious to anyone else. The daughter was setting up a tripod and camera at different locations on the plain, while the mother walked nearby. Apparently, the process required constant communication at decibel levels just under the yell you might give at a world series baseball game during a home run, or Trump’s impeachment. There was no possibility that any of us out there that day, was going to see any wildlife. Even the fish were fucking off.

I wasn’t the only person irritated by the pair. Other campers were moving away from them in similar disbelief, but I had the hope that, somehow, this experience out in this rugged, fresh landscape, might be the beginning of a deeper appreciation of nature for the pair. I reminded myself that everyone is on their own journey, and that for this mother and daughter, the achievement of experiencing the awe factor in its fullest, might be closer than before. The process has to start somewhere, right? 

Right?  


Okay, most of this sentiment is an outright lie. Frankly, there in that park, I had secretly wished that the mother and daughter’s noise had attracted a rollicking family of bears that had eaten the pair, and their damn tripod, with gusto.  I would have watched in awe. 


I know, I’m a terrible person.