L.C. Reid

The Run to North Camp

Al owned another camp on the lake.

Until now, it might have seemed as though everything in Lori's world revolved around Stork Lake. But several miles away, through a maze of winding channels and a series of boat lifts, there was another place entirely.

The people at Stork Lake called it North Camp, though its real name was Long-Legged Lake Resort.

It was their only neighbour.

That might sound ordinary, except that in this part of northern Ontario, almost everyone had to fly in. Floatplanes were the lifeline of the fishing camps scattered throughout the wilderness. When bad weather rolled in and the planes couldn't land, supplies simply didn't arrive.

North Camp was the one exception.

You could reach it by boat.

Because of that, the two camps depended on one another. If Stork found itself short of flour, fuel, or some forgotten part, someone could make the trip to North Camp. And if North Camp needed something, they came to Stork.

In that vast wilderness of lakes and forest, the two camps were like neighbors whose backyards happened to be separated by miles of water.

The trip itself wasn't especially long. On a map it measured only six or seven miles, but maps had a way of making northern travel look much easier than it really was. The route twisted through narrow channels, crossed three boat lifts, and finally opened onto North Lake before reaching the camp beyond.

Most trips to North Camp weren't made because anyone urgently needed supplies.

Sometimes the best reason was simply to escape the heat.

By late afternoon, the kitchen at Stork Lake had usually turned into something resembling a slow-roasting oven. The stoves had been blazing for hours, the windows were wide open but accomplishing very little, and the air inside felt thick enough to chew.

Air conditioning, of course, was something other people had in magazines.

When dinner was finally over and the last dishes were washed, dried, and put away, someone would glance around the kitchen and quietly wonder if perhaps Al might be persuaded to let them take one of the boats over to North Camp.

Gasoline wasn't cheap, and boats weren't used for pleasure very often.

But every once in a while, especially after one of those blistering summer days, Al would give a small nod.

Just like that, everyone suddenly had somewhere to be.

The girls, along with one or two of the guides, grabbed sweaters or light jackets and hurried down the hill toward the dock. Someone untied the aluminum boat while another gave the starter rope a sharp pull. The outboard sputtered, coughed out a puff of blue smoke, and settled into its familiar hum.

Within moments they were underway.

The relief came almost instantly.

After hours spent over hot stoves, the cool air rushing across the lake felt heavenly. No one minded the wind whipping through their hair or the occasional splash of water over the bow. They leaned into it as though trying to absorb every degree of cooler air.

The boat wound through the narrow channels first.

Then came the lifts.

Each one followed the same ritual.

The guide eased the boat alongside a long, narrow dock that looked as though it had been built from whatever logs happened to be available. It wasn't much more than a hand-hewn walkway stretching beside a narrow trench cut between the different water levels.

The motor was shut off.

Everyone climbed carefully out onto the dock. It could be a little wobbly underfoot, and nobody wanted to be the one who slipped into the water.

With the passengers out, the aluminum boat rode higher in the water.

The guide grabbed the bow and pulled the boat by hand through the narrow trench connecting the two lakes. With a scrape here and a splash there, the boat slid over the shallow section until it floated freely on the other side.

Once it was through, everyone climbed back aboard, the motor was restarted, and away they went.

Then they did it all over again.

Three lifts in total.

By the time they reached the last one, it felt as though they had crossed an invisible boundary into another part of the wilderness.

Then the channels gave way to North Lake.

North Lake was a completely different story.

Gone were the sheltered channels. Here the lake stretched wide and open, and it could get downright wild. Even on a decent day, the waves rolled high enough to toss the little aluminum boat from crest to crest. Spray exploded over the bow, soaking whoever had claimed the front seat while everyone else laughed and tried, usually unsuccessfully, to stay dry.

Nobody complained.

After spending the day in a sweltering kitchen, the cool wind and cold spray felt like nature's own air conditioner. Getting wet was simply part of the fun.

Eventually North Camp appeared along the shoreline, and the boat glided toward the dock as though it had made the journey a thousand times before.

Which, of course, it probably had.

They were visiting friends there, but those people deserve a chapter all their own. The folks at North Camp were among the kindest anyone could hope to meet, and they became part of some of Lori's happiest memories.

For now, it's enough to say that an evening at North Camp was always worth the trip.

But the ride home...

That was the magical part.

By the time they untied the boat and headed back, darkness had settled over the lake. Sometimes the moon lit the water with a silver path. Other nights there were only a handful of stars. And sometimes there was almost nothing at all, as though the sky and the lake had quietly merged into one endless sheet of black.

The guides never seemed the least bit concerned.

They navigated those twisting channels in what appeared to be complete darkness. No lights. No markers. No GPS. Just memory, instinct, and years of knowing exactly where every bend, rock, and narrow passage lay hidden.

To everyone else, it looked suspiciously like magic.

The ride home was cooler now. Much cooler.

Sweaters that had seemed unnecessary only a few hours earlier were zipped right to the chin. Some of the girls curled up low in the bottom of the boat where they could escape the worst of the wind.

Eventually the channels narrowed once again.

One final bend.

Then another.

And suddenly there they were.

The lights of Stork Lake.

There weren't many. Just a handful of glowing windows, a few dock lights, and their reflections shimmering softly across the dark water.

After miles of darkness, they looked like a lighthouse guiding everyone safely home.

The motor eased back to an idle as the boat drifted alongside the dock.

The lake grew quiet once more.s felt like the only porch light for miles.