Enid Petherick
Artist and Observer of the Wilds
Camping! After a lapse of many years a spontaneous decision had us pulling gear and food from drawers and cupboards. Not a backpacking trip this. No need to worry about size and weight of packs. We piled iron frying pan, canned goods, sleeping pads, and pillows into boxes and packed everything--along with the essential sleeping bags and tent-- into “Charlie”, our new-to-us 1990 Honda station wagon. Our former car had been nicknamed “Fergie” by its first owners (they thought its red colour matched Sarah Ferguson’s hair) and to keep in the Royal tradition we thought “Charlie” an appropriate moniker for this one--brown and square-ish.
By afternoon
we were soaking up the awesome scenery of
Evening saw us
at our daughter’s in
As usual, the
last to reach the car and click my seat belt, I turned to Ralph when we didn’t
immediately surge ahead. His hand was turning the key - Nothing happened.
Groan… We knew Charlie had some idiosyncrasies, forewarned by the honest previous
owner. Being hopelessly un-mechanical I don’t understand these things, but
apparently the new starter doesn’t always line up. The solution is to get
under the hood, touch a wire (supplied with the car) to the right spot, and
Charlie purrs like a stroked kitten. (As demonstrated by
the former owner.) Ralph pulled the wire from under the seat, got out
to follow instructions. From inside the car we heard exclamations !/&*? behind the
raised hood before Ralph re-appeared, a mixture of irritation and chagrin
on his face, rubbing his hand and holding the wire with a burnt end. Now,
I remember, he doesn’t enjoy mechanics any better than
A teenager on
an ATV stopped, very interested in motors but unable to help. He left to bring
friends who might. Several campers whizzed past, intent
on getting that perfect site. Some stopped, but regretfully knew no
more than we.. (at this point our daughter suggested
Finally, we wound our way along the road into the tenting area and found a site with room for two tents on a rise overlooking the lake. (Happenstance, hearing the excited calls of small children, we looked across the road and saw our good Samaritan playing with his already settled in family. Good neighbours as well! ) The wonderful smell of evergreen trees, earthy forest and wood smoke from campfires wafted around us. We were ravenous. Pitching tents, setting up the camp stove (no wood fire to-night). It was no time before the spaghetti water boiled. Dessert was easy--I had forgotten the can opener and only the pears came equipped with pull tab. A handful of home grown chocolate mint leaves thrown into boiling water made an aromatic beverage.
Evening saw us sitting beside the lake nursing our mugs of tea, (the floating leaves fitted with the basic surroundings). Aaahh, camping again...v-e-r-y good.
Early dawn we woke to loud donkey braying. “WHAT’S THAT!?” Ralph was alert and already getting dressed. “M..m..m..early” I cuddled into my sleeping bag. When I woke again Ralph was laughing outside the tent. “Those aren’t loons on the lake--but whatever it is brays like a donkey”. At dusk the evening before, we thought we had discovered a pair of nesting loons by our camp. Their minimal nest attached to a small projection from a semi-submerged tree still rooted to the shore but with its top bobbing out in the lake. This nest seemed to float and we marveled that it must be lined with some kind of impervious down to keep its interior dry. Morning light confirmed these were not loons. Long slim necks showed rusty red in front. No apparent tail. Their sharp straight bills constantly adjusted the nest and turned the eggs. Our bird book indicated “grebes” (later confirmed by a local camper). These new-to-us grebes proved a fascinating focal point for our entire visit.
Assiduous housekeepers and guards, both sexes appeared constantly occupied. One sat on the nest while the other fetched and gathered and played a defensive role when necessary. Seemingly on schedule an exchange would take place and their positions reversed. Equal opportunity, equal responsibility. Totally dedicated and endlessly energetic. We humans could be no more caring or protective of potential offspring. Occasionally noisy exchanges took place. Were they arguing? Dispersed at intervals around the lake, other grebes seemed just as territorial. When a bird overstepped its territory, the resulting squabble left no doubt about the message. A great confrontation with snapping and pecking and beating of wings soon had the intruder diving below or running along the surface to take flight. In fact we saw no other species o n the lake. The grebes seemed to have driven everything else away.
On our first morning, we watched another mother grebe parading her six youngsters, far enough out for safety but close enough to show off. We waited impatiently for our nest to hatch. Close to shore, it was much watched and photographed. The birds tolerated and mainly ignored us. Most people respected the birds’ territory, but on one occasion a commotion from the birds made us turn to see a rubber raft encroaching in the narrow channel between the nest and shore. The nesting bird took a defensive post off the nest and was joined by the mate. Clearly distraught, they showed their unhappiness with loud vocal complaints, but returned to the nest when the raft had passed.
Although a small beach was nearby, we preferred to walk around the lake to the larger beach opposite. The sun beat into that area till late afternoon warming the water and making the sand toasty. A popular place for families and children, and a good setting for people-watching between cooling-off forays into the water. The beach was sandy, but unexpected patches of moss on the bottom caused me to prefer floating. I suspect this same vegetation was responsible for the abundance of beautiful snail shells in the water and on shore, the searching and collecting of which provided much pleasure.
Following Ralph
on the narrow trail on one of our hikes, I was shocked to see a dark cloud,
immediately behind and following him. Mosquitoes!? They had been a mild irritation
at breakfast, but mosquitoes are a part of camping...right?? This cloud looked
ominous. Would it be better to be first? Did the mosquitoes collect and pounce
on those following? Or were we each trailed by our own cloud? Our daughter
had powered on ahead and I could see her, already across the lake on a lookout
knoll above the water. Perhaps she had the answer--outrun them? On our return
to
Our last night we followed other’s example and set wood smoldering in the fire place. It did slow down the flying pests and we enjoyed the peace, occasionally punctuated by the wailing grebes. Wind had been building since late afternoon and by evening the lake was very choppy. The grebe’s nest rode with the waves on its tiny semi-submerged platform but looked very close to being swamped. Bobbing in the waves it sank lower and lower. Beak-full after beak-full of mud and vegetation was brought by one bird to the other on the nest. The nesting bird poked, punched, and built. They laboured calmly and ceaselessly. We watched night closing down on them.
Next morning--our last morning--breakfast over, camp struck, everything packed and site cleaned. We went to say good-by to the grebes. The nest rode high on its tiny portion of submerged tree; the setting bird was serene and the mate was guarding nearby on the lake. All seemed well in the grebe world. We had hoped, just maybe, that the young would hatch before we left. Not to be. We can only imagine some other camper having that thrill. Meanwhile we take home the pleasure and education these birds added to our camping experience.
"This Land is Your Land"
(detail)
