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(OceanFishing/Getty Images/iStockphoto)
(OceanFishing/Getty Images/iStockphoto)

Solo camping: Sometimes the mind likes to be alone with itself Add to ...

“When’s the last time you went camping by yourself?” my wife asks as I back out the van from our driveway. For a moment, I see myself as she does: week’s worth of salt-and-pepper stubble, sunglasses, yellow canoe tied to roof rack of red family van.

“When I was 16,” I reply. “When I was 16.”

This October, I’ll turn 50. So that’s a lifetime ago. Then, I was at a wilderness canoe camp that included a three-day solo trip. A coming-of-age experience alone in the Northern Ontario wilds. Now, I’m the parent of teenaged campers, but I still remember how heading out alone on an adventure changes the nature of everything you experience.

Solitude is something we often avoid like a bad smell. In July, a team of American psychologists reported in the journal Science that they had asked adults to sit alone in a room for 15 minutes. No phones, screens or reading material – just their thoughts and feelings. In the room was a device with which participants could zap themselves with a mild electric shock that they had already experienced and described as unpleasant.

Two-thirds of the the men and a quarter of the women zapped themselves before the 15 minutes was up. “[The] mind does not like to be alone with itself,” the authors concluded.

Sometimes it does. Out there in the wild, your brain goes into detailed intensity mode. The world tastes richer, is more interesting. Even if the bears you’ll probably encounter aren’t outside, but within.

Heading out

At the put-in, I load my canoe, guitar acting as figurehead pointing over the bow, and push off. I take off my shirt and relax into the steady rhythm of the J-stroke.

In the distance I see Site 71 (the number changed to protect my favourite campsite), a sentinel line of mature white pine trees marching down a hill to the south and out along the site’s ridge to the point’s cliff-edged lip. I pull ashore and unload in mid-day heat, and decide to go for a swim before lunch.

One of the reasons I love Site 71 is for its four-metre-high jumping cliff, the top flat as a diving board, the perfect wilderness jump into deep, deep water. I stand on the cliff, surveying the lake.

To my left, I see a canoe breaching the point. I recognize them: the couple I’d seen at the put-in, the smile-less woman in the bow, facing sternward toward the guy who’d glared at me as if I was trespassing on a private beach. They’re in a 14-foot Coleman canoe, the kind with Styrofoam sideboards, like a child’s water wings, a bastardization of millennia of canoe craftsmanship.

In retrospect, I don’t know if I hear or see them first. What I do recall are her words, galvanized nail-hard.

“Don’t tell me that. You’ve been changin’ your lure every five minutes. That’s 35 minutes of you not paddling.”

It’s one of those crystalline moments when, because of some confluence of timing, location and acoustics you overhear a perfect sound-bite of strangers’ conversation and it stays with you forever.

I jump. I jump for the guy in the stern. I jump to say enough. I’m here. I revel in gravity’s awesome tug. My feet slap hard on the water, bubbles rush up in the dark greenish-blue water, I see my hands reflected down from the lake’s surface as I reach up for the light.

The neighbours

I learned about the lake, and the point, a decade ago from neighbours.

“Where you guys going this weekend?” I’d asked as the couple lashed a canoe to their car.

She looked at me with a sheepish grin, what I took as a mix of selfish embarrassment at not wanting to tell me and a genuine desire to protect something deeply valuable to her. Taking a step forward, she softly mentioned the lake’s name. It’s the only place I’ve ever known that people kept secret.

Our annual family visits to Site 71 had the aura of coming to a secret place, not a provincial park – and better for it, I thought. There’s still a flavour of the wild here.

But while eating a shore lunch, I hear the sputter, cough and then distinctive high whine of a chainsaw. I walk up the ridge to see that one of my long-weekend neighbours – five guys, two boats, bounteous coolers, 50 metres away on an island – is walking along the far shoreline of the little bay, chainsaw in hand, cutting driftwood and anything that stands in his way.

I’ve been blind to the fact that in the past decade the lake has gone from a relatively unknown to a very known destination; from buying camping passes at a remote Ottawa Valley general store, now a gravel lot, to online campsite bookings.

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