Although the sky was densely overcast and a light rain prevailed, we were not the only hopefuls to pull up at the launch site at Mallard Lake on Thursday afternoon. A sturdily-built couple (actually, the male half of the pair was quite overweight, and despite the prevailing cold temperature at ten degrees Celsius, wretched wind and lightly falling rain, he was wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt and shorts) moved up alongside us to unload their camping gear.

With them was a young, sweet-tempered, inquisitive hound-beagle-mix. They proceeded to load up their rented canoe, and the interior of the small kayak they had with them, as well. The amount of gear they brought was far more than we had taken along, though we thought our baggage was excessive. But they were experienced canoe-campers and brought along as well two smart folding stools, as well as numerous bundles of firewood, intending to remain on the lake until Monday.

When they completed stacking their gear, both the canoe and the kayak were well stuffed, but they managed to get the dog secured in a limited open area, and got themselves both into the canoe as well, trailing the loaded-up kayak behind them. We watched as they rounded the mainland to the left, and realized they were headed for one of the closest camping sites, one we had ourselves taken many years before.

When we set off soon afterward, the lake was fairly ridged with small waves; choppy but no real swells or whitecaps. We soon re-discovered our paddling rhythm and moved swiftly across the water, our paddles digging deep and raising jewels of lakewater. The lake, we soon discovered, was far warmer than the air about us, so warm that waves of warm air kept washing over us as we rode the lake to our destination, somewhere where a camp site would appeal to us as haven for the next three days.

When we turned left at the head of an island to paddle around its length and width to scope out the camp sites on it, we rode into the wind and it pushed and shoved, but was no match for our three paddles vigorously moving us across the water, the effort warming us against the cold air. We had put on our two-piece rainsuits before departing the launch site, and Riley wore his waterproof winter coat so we were well enough geared against the cold, wind and rain.

At several sites we all got out of the canoe to inspect the amenities, then set off again to compare other sites most of which our energetic son went off on his own to evaluate while we awaited his verdict, sitting in the canoe. By this time we were good and tired after the long drive, the physical effort of packing up and moving on, so we were urging him to come to a decision; to balance the pros and cons and select the most appropriate-for-us under the circumstances camp site.

Considering the protective element; where the wind wouldn't be as intrusive, where previous generations of campers had erected useful amenities like 'tables' and 'log benches', the location and type of loo assigned to the site, the sight-lines to the lake, the picturesqueness or lack of, at the site itself, and the protective canopy of the surrounding forest as well as ease of accessibility. The site we all finally selected scored high on most of our requirements but low on wind-protection.

Which meant that once we had decided and finally made off straight for the site, and beached the canoe on its lovely little sand beach, then hauled out all of our gear, the first order of business was to put up a large windbreak. Our son and my husband never go anywhere like this without tarps and ropes, so we were prepared; the first tarp was 20' by 15', so it offered us some protection from the wind that provoked our ire for two of the three days we were camped there. The next nearest site on the island wasn't too distant from our own; easily accessible in a several-minute walk through a narrow forest trail and it was a group camp site, but unused for the length of our stay and equipped surprisingly only with an open 'box' for a loo, whereas at our single campsite we had a fully roofed and walled loo. Go figure.

It took hours to fully set up camp and begin dinner. Too wet and rainy for a campfire, and too late, as well, by the time we cleaned up the cooking utensils and plates, and hauled the food bag up to hang beyond the reach of raccoons or bears, between two large, sturdy pines. At midnight, we were glad enough to haul ourselves off to the dry warmth of the tent interior, lit by a candle-lantern, our sleeping bags cozily awaiting our wearied bodies, our minds triumphant with the satisfaction of being back once again at Algonquin Park. Where the spectacular environment, the views, our ecstatic awareness of being fully alive within nature's embrace thrilled our very marrow.

Our son was chief bottle-washer-and-cook on this little expedition, a seasoned and inveterate camper since the time when he was a young teen and he and his camping-green father set out for the first time on an Algonquin canoe-camping trip almost forty years earlier. He treated us to tortillas, crisply fried on the outside, the interiors brimming with tomato paste, ground sirloin, cheese, olives and red peppers. Tea washed it all down very nicely.