I haven’t camped in decades, will I still enjoy it?

I haven’t camped in decades, will I still enjoy it?

By Linda Jones

When I retired(rəˈtī(ə)rd), I resolved to recapture my happy memories of camping(ˈkampiNG), like lying(ˈlīiNG) warm in a sleeping bag, muscles tired after a day of paddling(ˈpad(ə)liNG) or hiking(ˈhīkiNG), listening to the night sounds of lake and loon(lo͞on), wind and rain. So Canadian(kəˈnādēən), so romantic(rōˈman(t)ik), I loved camping when I was younger. All I had to do was go again and it would all be exactly the same. Right?

So later that year, I jumped at the chance to join a three-day trip into Lake Opeongo in Algonquin(alˈɡäNGkwən) Provincial(prəˈvin(t)SH(ə)l) Park. Sure, it was June(jo͞on) and there might be some blackflies, but what was a camping trip without bugs? They found us as we waited for the water taxi(ˈtaksē) on the dock(däk), ravenous(ˈrav(ə)nəs), maddening(ˈmad(ə)niNG) clouds settling(ˈsedl) over our heads. I slapped on some repellent(rəˈpelənt), dug a few out of my ears and still counted 16 bites along my hairline before we finally escaped in the boat.

As we churned(CHərn) our way toward the north end of the lake, canoes(kəˈno͞o) securely(səˈkyo͝orlē) lashed(laSHt) overhead, one friend leaned in and said quietly(ˈkwīətlē): “Don’t tell the others, but see that island? That’s where those people were killed by a black bear in 1991.”

I remembered the grisly(ˈɡrizlē) story, a young couple had canoed to the island, set up camp, and were then attacked and killed by a black bear. My chest tightened(ˈtītn) a little and there it was, something else I had forgotten, the low-level bear anxiety that had always accompanied(əˈkəmp(ə)nē) me on camping trips. Those wonderful sounds of lake and loon, wind and rain? I’d forgotten how alarming(əˈlärmiNG) they could be when you’re lying in the dark with only a flimsy(ˈflimzē) nylon(ˈnīˌlän) tent(tent) between you and a furry(ˈfərē) hulk(həlk) with big teeth, long claws(klô) and an appetite(ˈapəˌtīt).

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