Last week four fellow Walters Falls artists and I drove to Cypress Lake National Park
near the end of the Bruce Peninsula for a 3-night camping and painting trip.
The guard at the gate stopped short of inspecting our vehicles for contraband, such as firewood, and sold us two bags, at the rate of a buck a stick, not a bargain when they turned out to be still green, and smoldered and steamed when we tried to burn them. We were also warned NEVER to leave any food out as there was a big black bear in residence.
She did not warn us of the other mouths we would feed, like the huge glossy raven who would swoop down without warning and steal from an unguarded table. There was also the persistent gull who watched us warily with her yellow eye, while she pecked at the food in the bowl of Rufus, our rueful guard dog, who looked on despondently, his chin on his paws.
The third raider was a particularly bold red squirrel, half the size of the banana which was his
favourite treat. One morning he followed me down to the lake where I was soon engrossed
in painting the scene, until I noticed that the knapsack at my feet was rustling and wiggling as he rooted around inside. He fled when I shook the bag but only a yard, intent on the leftover
scrambled egg sandwich I had packed. We shared that for a snack.
More troublesome were the voracious clouds of blackflies which appeared once the sun was up and the morning chill gone. We had all brought repellant, one the poisonous Muskol, one anall natural spray in a brushed aluminum can, called Bugger-Off, one that claimed to be an organicand biologique cream, and my old standby, Vick's Vaporub, which I used to grease back my sideburns and ducktail, like Elvis. We passed them around, used them in all possible
combinations and found that they all worked, but not completely.
The only thing that really kept the bugs off was the cold wind that blew in from Georgian Bay
when we hiked out to paint the limestone cliffs at the grotto. The deep water there was the
pure colour of cobalt, and near shore where the waves crashed it was like the turquoise of
Navajo jewellery.
Even the centuries old cedars that clung thick in the cracks of the rock were a brilliant green
unlike their drab forest cousins. Everywhere, in the woods, by the trails, in the rocks bloomed tiny perfect orchids, in myriad shades of purple, lilac, orange and fiery red.
Long days in the fresh air gave us hearty appetites which we fed with feasts: scallops in
white wine sauce, with rice (merci, Michel), spaghetti in red sauce with chunks of Italian sausage, fresh basil & shaved parmesan(grazie, Jo Ann), burgers (danke Jorgen), and a bottomless sack of snacks from Lynn.
My main contribution was the toddy (steaming hot water, amber rum, a spoon of honey,
a splash of coffee liqueur and one drop of oil of oregano) which warmed the 2C nights.
Sleeping accommodations ranged from exotic(Jorgen's tent had fur wraps, pillows and sheep-skins, and was dubbed "the velvet lounge") to Michael's hand-crafted mini-trailer which drew admiring comments everywhere. My tent had sand on the floor and duct tape patches.
Our last day we all went to Tobermory to visit the galleries, sketch boats in the harbour, and
have a dinner of chips, fresh fish, and beer, on the deck of the Crow's Nest pub with sunburnt tourists as the Chichimaun let go a great blast on her horn and sailed for the night.
Nick.
