On some of our many past Algonquin Park canoe-camping expeditions, particularly those further into the interior of that great swath of wilderness area, at night we would hear the approach of nocturnal animals prowling around the campsite, mostly raccoons needless to say, curious about our presence and what they might possibly discover of an edible nature. Mice often came about to indulge themselves, dipping into our cooking utensils before they were cleaned up from the evening meal.

Gray jays seemed to prefer strands of pasta that had fallen out of the pot onto nearby rocks and they'd fly off with pasta dangling from their beaks. Once, when we were camped out at an interior site for a week, the tiny red squirrel whose residence was in a pine directly overhead our tent, kept tossing down pine cones at us.

On this occasion, all was still, although a white-footed mouse, unafraid and curious, had presented itself to us scurrying about on the cleared-away shelf elevated between two large evergreens where we had erected a rain-protective barrier and where our cooking took place, this time around. And there were ample red and black squirrels about, sighted constantly, dashing from tree to tree occasionally scolding us.

We slept the slumber of the exhausted that first night, on Thursday. The tent nicely accommodates three sleeping bags. Our son's single, and ours, zipped together to make up one wide sleeping bag, a 'double', into which Riley inserted himself beside me. My two men were up early the next morning, as is usual, whispering to my drowsy head to just stay there, and so I did, hearing them bustling about, hauling down the food bag, starting a fire, boiling water. And Riley was content to remain asleep beside me.

Loons called through the night, a sound that had become familiar to us over the years. And we also heard, confoundingly, the clearly identifiable sound of passenger jets flying overhead; obviously a major flight route, one we would have preferred not to hear since it is so contraindicated in nature to what it represents in contrast to where we were. The wind was relentless; we could hear it soughing through the trees, inciting the lake to lap in waves over the sandy beach below the slight rise our tent was raised upon.

When I finally emerged from the tent the campfire was on full blaze, and there was a hot cup of tea awaiting me. The wind persisted, emphasizing the chill of a day more like fall than late summer. And there was a light drizzle. While my husband made a breakfast of eggs and toast, our son and I were satisfied with toast, cheese, peanut butter, honey and tea to my husband's coffee. We had two clementines each, the peeling of which were my only contribution to breakfast preparations. And then we sat around the campfire, itself protected from the wind by yet another windbreak erected by my men.

After clean-up and a short hike through the woods to the group camp site beyond on the island next to us, we canoed back to the launch site to retrieve from our car beyond in the parking lot firewood that we had left behind when we loaded up the canoe for departure to our camp site the day before. And from there we paddled across the lake to an outtake where the map showed there was a trail we could take for a nice leisurely hike. It was, of course, a portage, but also serves as a trail leading to another lake.