Susan Sontag would hate this post. For Northern Ontarians "camp" is not "a certain mode of aestheticism," and certainly not "the triumph of the epicene style." It is what Southern Ontarians might call "the cottage" and what Westerners might call "the cabin." "Camp" is anything from a one room shack to a full fledged summer home. It is, in every case, a sylvan retreat far from the bustle of city life.
Last night I stayed overnight at my camp--a modest and handsome grey-sided saltbox with a split gabled roof and sunny clerestory--on the western shore of the big lake they call Gitchigumi. It was particularly cold for July, but there was a clear sky which made for a splendid sunset.
It reminded me of my favourite Emily Dickinson poem. She writes of "Nature--the Gentlest Mother" who looks over even the tiniest of earth's creatures. The final two stanzas paint a beautiful picture of sundown and twilight:
When all the Children sleep--
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light Her lamps--
Then bending from the Sky--
With infinite Affection--
And infiniter Care--
Her Golden finger on Her lip--
Wills Silence--Everywhere--
Only Dickinson could possibly get away with making a comparative out of "infinite." But was there ever a more perfect description of this evening ritual?
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