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