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It's that time of year again. As the days get warmer and the snow tires are put away for at least a season, Canadians everywhere are trading their ski gear for canoes and tents. Soon, water coolers across the country will abound with chatter about "going up north" or "to the lake."
Everyone, it seems, has plans to sit around a campfire at some point this summer.
Everyone except me.
I confess: I don't like camping. In fact, given the option of camping versus working 365 days a year, I'd happily choose the relative safety of my desk every day.
Admitting you don't enjoy camping in Canada is akin to announcing you hate maple syrup or are in favour of beaver culling. It's downright unpatriotic. People stare at me in disbelief. "But what don't you like about it?" they ask, confused. "Don't you like nature?"
It's a tough question to answer without coming across as a person who, say, supports oil spills or hates kittens. I do like nature. I just like it from a distance. For example, from the inside of an air-conditioned car. Or in small doses, like on a short hike that ends with a hot shower in a proper bathroom.
I have been camping numerous times. Each time, within 20 minutes of being in the woods, I am covered head to toe in a combination of mosquito and black-fly bites. Later, most of these will swell up so that I look like a medieval smallpox victim.
Bugs generally scare me. Aside from the biting or stinging kinds, I also fear spiders (too many legs), bumblebees (too furry), dragonflies (too large) and earwigs (just gross). I don't even like ants, though I respect their work ethic. Insect repellant, unfortunately, never seems to do much for me, though perhaps I am not sufficiently liberal in applying the stuff. The skull and crossbones on the front of the bottle makes me nervous.
I don't like dirt; I am wary of water purification tablets; I fear parasites in meat undercooked over a campfire. Just hearing the word "portage" strikes fear in my heart. I don't like peeing in the bushes, though I concede the forest is preferable to reeking outhouses frequented by rodents and various other vermin.
On my first camping trip at the age of 11, I tossed and turned all night as the rain beat against my flimsy tent, a steady stream of water dripping onto my neck. Too tired to cry as rocks dug into my head and lower back, I longed for my bed at home and wondered when, exactly, the fun would start.
A friend of mine tells me her mother completely agrees with my views on the not-so-great outdoors. "She says she moved here from India to have a better life," she says with a laugh. "To her, that doesn't involve tents or peeing in holes in the ground. She doesn't really understand what the fun part is."
I have often asked myself this same question, usually in the middle of a difficult hike while hauling a load of heavy equipment. Although I can walk for hours on city pavement, I am a slow and clumsy hiker. Tree roots seek me out. Rocks evade my peripheral vision and send me flying. I get tired carrying life jackets.
If I am hiking with a group, I inevitably end up miles behind everyone else, muttering to myself and fantasizing about a warm bath and comfortable bed while everyone else waits for me, glowering.
I've come to the realization that I am simply better suited to admiring this country from the inside of a museum or art gallery in Toronto or Montreal than on a lake in Algonquin Park.
Roughly 80 per cent of Canadians live in or around cities. Faced daily with the noise, congestion and grind of everyday life in an urban environment, it isn't difficult to understand why we seek out experiences with nature, why we long to trade our cars for canoes and breathe some fresh air.
But it's not for everyone. "Personally," confided a like-minded friend, "All trees look the same to me. You've seen one tree, you've seen them all."
I tend to agree. While being in a natural setting has been linked to psychological restoration, surely one can experience this Zen-like state from one's own property. Indeed, sitting on my backyard deck, gazing out at a garden full of maples and evergreens and sipping Ontario ice wine underneath a protective mosquito net, I feel both restored and distinctly patriotic.
There are no bears, but I will often catch sight of raccoons that are roughly the size of grizzlies. And what could be more Canadian than having your recycling bin scavenged by a pack of masked bandits in the middle of a family barbecue?
So, this summer, when you're out on your 50-kilometre portage catching sight of moose, sunsets and all the beauty this great country has to offer, I'll be sitting on a patio somewhere with a box of Timbits, a Mordecai Richler novel and a bottle of Niagara chardonnay. Choice is a central tenet of Canadian democracy, after all.
And don't forget, if you see a bear, don't run. Slowly back away, and consider hiking the CN Tower on next year's holiday instead.
Jennifer L. Gold lives in Toronto.