Rolley Lake

Camping is origami. Fold up the work week. Fold up the rat-race. Fold up the stress and pain and worry until life simply becomes what is visible by lantern on a placid night. A crane. A prayer.

In the morning there is a clarity of sound. Tent zipping open and closed. Ax clapping down on cedar. Fire snapping in a hushed whisper.

Banjo’s are meant for the forest, and that’s all I listen to here. Grizzly Bear and Great Lake Swimmers, bands with nature in their names and hearts.

We feast like kings and act like eight-year-olds, exerting power over our domain. I guess that makes us kings.

I take comfort in knowing, with absolute certainty, that I could never be anything but Canadian.


One Response

  1. favorite moment: “I guess that makes us kings.”

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