A long, train-ride from Montreal, across the water in an old, cranky ferry and down a dusty, winding driveway , I finally know that I'm home. The first view of the river is beautiful. The shining, blue waters framed by green forests and dotted white houses. A window of rustling leafy bows, strong brown branches and sweet-smelling rose bushes gives me my first glimpse of the camp. When the car slows to a halt, the orchard comes into view, decked with heaping raspberry bushes and crab apple trees with small green fruit hanging on their branches. Before I see the barn, I cross through an archway of evergreens, complete with a brown-needle carpet leading to my discovery of the badminton nets and lush green lawn.
The barn, though abandoned by its animals for ages is still a lively addition to the camp's grounds. The exterior is chipping white wood walls where we still watch movies in the dark, bundled up in our cars, as if at a 1950s drive-in. The interior is adorned by comfy couches, blackboards, tools and a rustic chalky smell. Obtrusive Elvis Presley posters present themselves proudly next to the antique jukebox which still makes the barn shake with its rock and roll choices. Hand-made swings hang from the ceiling and a ladder leans jauntily against the back wall to lead up to the next story. Above the cosy "basement" is an intricate reproduction of a train's village voyage. Every house is painted to perfection and the manually programmed whistle echoes throughout the barn. A cluster of newspaper clippings are covered by a plastic sheet. Each headline is similar "CAMP BURNT TO THE GROUND" "ANCIENT LANDMARK GOES UP IN FLAMES". Ashes and char are spread across a very familiar looking lawn in the file photos. Two blackened trees stare majestically across at me. They guard a new home.
As I wander absently out of the barn, a golden cat purrs at me from his sunny spot. A bunch of vividly hued lilies seem to smile from their post beside the well-house. A flag ripples in the summer breeze. As I make my way up freshly-painted blue stairs, Uncle Tim stops mid-whistle to greet me. The deck is deserted except for softly swaying hammocks. The shiny white panels of the camp were perfectly set by my labouring uncles and all those who chose to help. I reach for the back door only to have it opened for me. Uncle Larry, clad in old jeans and multicoloured suspenders steps out and gives me a grin. Then he heads to the barn to fiddle with a broken lamp. The kitchen smells of fresh bread and home-made fudge. Aunt Anne offers me the last of the peanut butter cookie dough. Refreshed, I head through the living room and marvel that the hand-mounted hard wood floor still gleams as if new after 5 years.
The upstairs is a colourful blend of personalities. Uncle Larry's medieval lair and my buttered popcorn room are two that stand out. In the latter, I see a black iron bed reminiscent of one from Green Gables. The view from Uncle Tim's room is too familiar for comfort. I remember seeing that same scene from a different room, one which vanished into smoke when I was small. The river still shines the same way.
I quickly run downstairs and outside, the river calls. A dusty path leads to the beach's rocky shore. Wild primroses and sunflowers grow among polished driftwood, sharp stones and dry reeds. A burst of sunset colours illuminate the calm waters before leaving it in a misty, blue twilight haze. The river silently caresses me as it rocks the sailboats softly to slumber. I stare across at the leafy island that watches emotionlessly over the beach where the old camp stood and the new camp now stands. I stand, silently wishing for no departure. The camp's mystical sleep overpowers me and I dream under the stars, at peace forever.