'The Art Of Being A Great Canadian, Eh?' - Part 3

Rain is another master of great trepidation to the great Canadian camping spirit. You watch the weather channel endlessly every day for a week prior to the joyful day of departure noting there is a large high pressure ridge blanketing the entire country. When the day arrives for departure to your ‘special place’ you note a small ridge of clouds appearing low on the horizon. Being the master Canadian camper you are, in your mind you say ‘no way, that isn’t real clouds, someone is playing a joke eh, and further the weather channel has protected my special week of glory. Putting on the radio station to a distant channel enhances the experience of the drive as you proceed to that special land of Great Canadian Kings, the campsite. In this case, Sunridge Point Creek. Upon arrival the first order of business is the Great Canadian tradition and corresponding camp ritual. The champagne of choice- into the cooler to pop the lids off a six-pack of good old Canadian beer. Nothing happens around the site until ‘a few are kicked back’ to size up the kingdom and note what kind of residents you have in close proximity to the fee simple domain reserved especially with your name on it. A minimum of one hour must pass of pure gulping pleasure mixed with belching / gas releasing. This edges on the perpetual amusement of acting silly which every Canadian knows builds the energy form around the site before your entrance has formed your special valid spirited imprint. Then everyone in the group homes in on their area of ‘expertise’ in the duty of camp preparation; the design, positioning and placing of every piece of campsite material must be perfect. By the time the last flicker of the campfire signals and reinforces the coolness of the surrounding air the perfect plan is now in place.
It is sometime in the middle of the night when you awaken to that first strange apparent sound somewhere towards the top of the tent. It is just a slight tickle of a sound. You know it’s a dream, a teaser, a fool playing with a master. A little time goes by…then another...then another...then some more. That cannot be…that can’t, that isn’t…that dreadful four lettered word that has been a thorn to more camp relationships, marriages, illnesses, food poisoning, you name it. Oh my god, it really is that god awful stuff...r...a...i....nnn!
Until the next post...