Everything revolved around my grandmother’s tantrums over how dirty the campground was. Everyone was either coping or not coping in their own way. I loved Algonquin Park and was determined not to waste it on the usual family torments. I packed a cheap nylon backpack with food, water and a map, and set off up the gravel shoulder of highway 60 on my own. The gravel shoulder faded to roadside grasses and wildflowers filled with the song of insects which in its turn merged with the Northern Ontario bush. I was heading for a lookout trail that I knew was within a manageable walk for a small 14 year old.
The day was warm, the sun shining, the sky intensely blue. The air was filled with the scents of hot pavement and warm roadside meadow interrupted occasionally by the breeze carrying the indefinable scent of forest. Cars whipped by apparently unconcerned by a girl walking along a remote highway by herself as if it was an everyday thing to see, or as if there was nothing to see at all. In the quiet between the cars passing, I heard a loud cawing. I looked up at a scrap of black velvet swooping and sounding through the blue sky.
There were no cars in the trail parking lot. I started out along the well marked path alone. Partway up to the lookout, I saw a stump beside the trail that was bigger around than any tree I had ever seen and taller than me. I stopped for awhile to acknowledge what had been lost.
The trail eventually opened out onto the lookout and a sea of trees laid out before me. Every shade of green tossed in a maelstrom of vibrant life. Miles and miles of beautiful life feeding a soul nourishing breeze that comforted and held me as no human ever had. I stayed as long as I could sitting on the warm granite outcropping. Finally I knew I had to reverse my journey back to the campground. I had been gone for 4 or 5 hours. I don’t think anyone noticed me returning or that I had ever left.