A song remembered...
As we canoed around a lake reachable only by portaging, seagulls and loons swooped and dove around us. The water was so smooth and the air so still that the underwater vibrations of paddle brushing water swept off the end of my paddle, flowing in smooth waves to my ear. We glided across glass to arrive at our camping spot. An island. On this island a flat place devoid of undergrowth thanks to the pine needles above and those already fallen.
A fire was painstakingly made by striking steel against magnesium, the sparks directed into the mouth of a birchbark tube filled with dry leaves, moss and lichen. Adam spread his blanket on the ground and I somewhat discordingly slithered into my sleeping bag, laying my head back on the rock I named Pillow. We fell asleep to the haunting call of a lone loon crying in the distance.
The morning sun came rushing after the mist, parting it molecule by molecule. We boiled water. Adding needles of pine and leaves of cedar we created tea, not imported from India, or grown in China, but grown ten feet from where we now sat. The lake bathed us and transported us. The sun dried us and scorched us. An adventure into the unknown left nothing to show but a peace of mind and calmness of spirit that made me remember why the great north I call home.
[Landing Pad].
[Mirrored Sink].
[Lily pads].
[Loons in the morning mist].
...Later, much later, we burned some bamboo in my mother's kitchen. Accidentally, of course. The smoke slid, as it does, up the stairs. Nigel walked out of the bathroom as the sun set through the window behind him. A picture capturing the magical moment when smoke met light and a boy walked slowly beside both...
...My mind begins regaining its form as its shape grows and distorts accommodating the new knowledge, experience. Vietnam comes soon, but before it lies much. My fingers remember how they write their song, so I am back once more to share my stories.
Mark.
A fire was painstakingly made by striking steel against magnesium, the sparks directed into the mouth of a birchbark tube filled with dry leaves, moss and lichen. Adam spread his blanket on the ground and I somewhat discordingly slithered into my sleeping bag, laying my head back on the rock I named Pillow. We fell asleep to the haunting call of a lone loon crying in the distance.
The morning sun came rushing after the mist, parting it molecule by molecule. We boiled water. Adding needles of pine and leaves of cedar we created tea, not imported from India, or grown in China, but grown ten feet from where we now sat. The lake bathed us and transported us. The sun dried us and scorched us. An adventure into the unknown left nothing to show but a peace of mind and calmness of spirit that made me remember why the great north I call home.
[Landing Pad].
[Mirrored Sink].
[Lily pads].
[Loons in the morning mist].
...Later, much later, we burned some bamboo in my mother's kitchen. Accidentally, of course. The smoke slid, as it does, up the stairs. Nigel walked out of the bathroom as the sun set through the window behind him. A picture capturing the magical moment when smoke met light and a boy walked slowly beside both...
...My mind begins regaining its form as its shape grows and distorts accommodating the new knowledge, experience. Vietnam comes soon, but before it lies much. My fingers remember how they write their song, so I am back once more to share my stories.
Mark.
posted by Mark Dalgarno at 01:45
1 Comments:
Indeed. There sure ain't no party like an s-club party. Unless it's a Vengabus party. Or a Dalschunskey party. Glad to see the blog back up and running! That last photo is truly beautiful - as always, much respect to your photography skills. Climbed a tree at the elementary school, and much to my surprise, a little Thai kid in grade 5 followed me right up, very quickly & skilfully. Apparently he climbs a lot of palm trees. He's a good climber; I thought the tree was a safe one because I thought it was too difficult for the elementary school kids to get up. But not for Dhawan... Props, little Thai boy. Props. Okay. Sorry for eating up the whole comment space.
Post a Comment
<< Home