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A Slightly Glowing Lake, An Interlude

It’s been a long time since I have been in the wilderness, real wilderness, expanses of rock and moss and wind-bent trees without real roads and accompanying traffic noises.  You could argue that an old mine site isn’t exactly pristine forest, but the closest I’ve been for years has been the local conservation area in Dundas.  Though lovely, I can still hear the 403 on every trail.

There are times that I need to be in a place where the rocks push up through the ground like waves frozen in time.  I need to hear nothing but the wind blowing through the trees.  I need to smell water from the lake being pushed up into whitecaps, feel pebbles crunch under my feet, let the cold air set my eyes to watering.

I cut myself a walking stick out there.  It was a birch tree that had been growing from the side of a hill.  I needed – desperately – something to take back with me, something that smelled and felt and looked like it had come from the ground and the rain and the air.

I am not an outdoorsman.  I do not camp or portage or hunt.  I would die quickly and quietly if left in the wild.

But I can’t live all my life inside walls.

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