Apart from the startlingly brilliant view of stars and planets, blinking back their reflection in the now-stilled lake, we saw an incredible burst and flash of light as a meteorite shot through the sky, a shooting star of some impressive dimensions; if not a meteor certainly some substance of material note.
And that night, snug in our little tent, with the three of us and little Riley tucked into our sleeping bags, we heard the wolf chorus again and yet again. We also heard, at some time in the wee hours of the night, thunder, and the pelting of rain which didn't disturb our sleep one iota. When we awoke at a decently late morning hour, the rain had abated to some degree, and it was possible to walk about heedless of its presence, since the wind now, at long last, was absent from the scene, and our rain gear kept us dry and comfortable.
And the rain did stop for an hour, miraculously, enabling my men to haul down the food cache, and begin the breakfast preparations, so when the lazy, late-riser of their group finally arose, it was to the comfort of a roaring fire and awaiting breakfast. We appreciated the lull; took a short ramble around our part of the elongated island, visiting little coves; enchanted places where lush moss thrived and aquatic plants lapped the shore. And the views of the lake from the different perspectives were securely stored in our memory. Aided by a number of valued photographs. Saying good bye to our brief haven in this wilderness area.
And then began the pack-up procedure. I did the interior of the tent, tightly bundling the sleeping bags, the inflated mats, packing our clothing and other items, and emptying the interior of the tent so it could be taken down, a quick enough job that my husband and I tackled while our son packed up just about everything else. Taking down the rain- and wind-breaks was time-consuming and quite the job, since everything was sopping wet.
At this point the rain had begun with a ferocity that we hadn't yet experienced on the lake. At this point also, there were people in canoes laden with camping supplies paddling by, scoping out possibilities for their own camping experience for the week-end. We shouted out to one that lingered nearby, to affirm what they themselves could readily determine; we were vacating this excellent spot where the wind no longer raged, but the rain and the cold did.
It took us hours altogether to get ourselves prepared to load up the canoe and ship out of Mallard Lake. But we eventually did, paddling against the wind that was there until we rounded the island, with the rain blessing our departure. Riley was wearing rain gear but, sitting before me, a plastic lid of one of our empty containers was balanced over him to ensure he kept dry. Reluctant to leave, despite the weather, we lingered on the lake, and watched as a loon surfaced with a large silvery trout struggling to be free until the loon somehow swallowed it.
As we were making for the canoe launch one loaded canoe after another met us in the opposite direction, all paddling ferociously in the rain, some in tandem with one another, with an incredible cargo of young children, to find camping spots for the weekend. We wished them good luck, told them where we knew vacant spots to be, and waved them adieu. When we reached shore, we began unpacking the canoe and packing up our retrieved car. Our son fixed the canoe in his inimitable way to the rooftop carrier, and then we were off, but not before stopping to chat with others preparing to do what we had, but in reverse.
On our way driving the long winding gravel road out of the park we came across one after another canoe-topped vehicles making for the area we had so recently left, all hopeful for a turn in the weather while driving in the pouring rain, determined to make good their reservation for one of the coveted camping spots within Algonquin Park.
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