Sand Banks Provincial Park, gateway to Lake Ontario. Last week end you could have found me amongst the bacci ballers, frisbee throwers, and Queens University jock types amidst the occasional burka-clad wader on the fine sandy beach.
Rainclouds threatened, but were over-ruled by the sun. People crashed through small waves as they hit the break point. Dead fish and geese piled up upon the rocky far shore, and a fine, holiday air prevailed. Tripmates Miss P and A amused themselves with reading, as did I.
Miss P spend the weekend with pencil in hand, editing a 170 pp master's thesis on the white settlers of Peterborough, Canada. Whether in car, train or beach there she was, marking her way through all 600 paragraphs. Determination. If it would have gone underwater, Miss P would have been there too removing excess commas and conjunctions.
I contented myself with some of the shorter works of Edward Abbey, mostly about floating wild rivers in the American West. The more Abbey I read, the more I despise my life behind a desk working for the local government. I should just move to rural New Mexico and take up a life of desert adventure as he did. Instead I play it safe, and bore myself to death in the big city.
What's amazing about frontcountry camping is the density of people - vastly moreso than in the big city itself. Campsites are all cheek-by-jowl, the beach is a dense pack of vacationing families, etc. In a country where people are supposed to be so desirous of privacy what do they do but run to the densest campground the first chance they get? Yet they seem happy enough.
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