Vengeance upon Vernal Opprobrium

The weather down the highway was the most tremendous I had seen in Algonquin for some time. The weather every other instance I’d driven through the park would barely have touched the picturesque and poetic nature of this day - a day where halcyon could barely be considered suitable as the perfect descriptor. The sun was shining magnificently and the crystal blue bower above my head was bereft of any cloud coverage. My SUV coughed out another puff of blacked smoke and soot. It was usual for Ontario summers to have tremulous weather, I got lucky today.

I smirked at myself in the rearview mirror as the cigarette smoke sucked out my driver side window. I really had chosen the best day of the month to go canoeing down the various lakes and streams of award-winning Algonquin I thought to myself as I flicked the butt out the window and expelled the last of the smoke out of my nose.

The highway signs I passed showed my ultimate destination, the small but popular canoe launching location of Port Pile, being only 10 kilometers away from the signpost that flashed beside my right-hand side.

After another few minutes of driving and an additional black puff or two, I soon arrived at my destination.

The entrance to Port Pile was surprisingly elegant compared to the other little towns and villages of Northern Ontario - a wooden arch made from birch trees carved with waves on top displaying a small canoe breaching through the little imaginary ebbs and flows, with a sign across that read “Welcome to Port Pile!” - with a smaller sign hanging under it from wooden hooks stating “Please take your garbage home with you.”

Evidently the sign was a precursor to what I imagine the opposite of the intended purpose was; trash overflowed from the three small metal rubbish bins around the small bend from the entrance arch, a raccoon looked up and dashed away into the forest behind it as my SUV slowly passed around the arch. Shame, I thought to myself, someone at the port ought to clean that up before it becomes a real blessing for nature.

The parking lot for the beach launch presented itself to my eyes as I slowly passed around the second and final bend of the small trial. The parking lot was filled with cars, yet the beach was empty. The vicinage of this little launch site silent and eerily quiet, especially so because of how tremendous the morning has been so far.

Nevertheless I parked my vehicle and retrieved my fiberglass canoe from the roof, dropped it on the sand and dragged the little boat and oar to the edge of the shore. Inside the canoe was a duffel bag full of procurements for the trip I had purchased earlier: a bottle of brandy, a few grams of marijuana along with a bong, a package of cigarettes, some energy bars and water bottles with individually wrapped cheeses and salted meats, a flashlight, a rain poncho, and my wallet and cellphone. I double checked that the contents of my bag were all present, committed them to memorization, placed the bag inside the boat and pushed the little boat into the water. The nose glided into the water perfectly and I balanced myself into the boat without wetting my feet too much and set off. The first few oar strokes of my back-country quest provided me with a wonderful beginning to my adventure.

After I had paddled a few hundred meters the thought dawned on me that I have no bag to put my trash and ashes in during my day trip, oh well I thought to myself, not about to stop now and relaunch my boat for something so...unnecessary.

The first half an hour of the canoe trip proved beneficial to my health, a steady and glistening stream of sweat eventually colonizing all there was of the dry skin on my back, nape, and face. I stopped for a minute at a small and rocky island - it looked almost as if there was a bubbling cauldron underneath the aggressive surface - to refresh myself. I tethered my canoe to a pine tree on the little island and opened my duffel pack, as lunch will be later on in the day I smoked half a cigarette, saving the rest to mix with my marijuana in a few minutes, and had a shot of brandy to soothe the fatigue in my shoulders and arms. The marijuana and tobacco mixture I took a few bowls of warming my lungs as the brandy warmed the body, it always made cardio a little easier when I indulged.

I searched for a garbage bag in my pack when once again the thought hit me in my inebriated state that I neglected to bring one. I bibulously shrugged my shoulders.

“Oh well, over she goes!” I laughed heartily as the butt and ashes spilled into the water. Just as nature leaves her blessings, I leave mine too, I thought to myself as I unknotted the rope from the tree and pushed my paddle off the rock next to me, pushing my canoe away from the island. I stretched my back quickly before paddling again into the far two far-reaching blues I was at the mercy of.

I saw a few animals on my hours long journey: otters, loons, and a beaver once before I decided to stop at a larger and flatter island for lunch. I was able to sit and recline against a pine tree on the island while I ate my plastic-wrapped cheeses and meats, some water and an energy bar. I drank more brandy, smoked two cigarettes and took four more bowls from my bong before I decided to set off again. There was more waste this time compared to last as I had stopped for longer. As I untied my roped canoe and proceeded to set off again deeper into the bush, I left the waste on the island to the mercy of the wind. Water or wetland I don’t care where it ends up, I have no bag to bring it home and my duffel bag will not go home smelling like meat and full of ashes just because the infrastructure of this little village cannot afford to put a trash can on every island!

The weather and water became a little hotter as the sun rose to its eventual zenith and proceeding afternoon cycles, a little more demanding became the cardio and breathing of the humid environment but it was negligible and easy to cope with.

As I continued further down the lofty lakes, minutes turned to hours, and so the sun would shed those hours, and fall below the horizon. In my inebriated state and with my mind’s-eye turned bibulous, I was unable to realize to my horror and disappointment that I was in too deep now to turn around and paddle back; the night creates undiscoverable routes and roads that previously could be easily navigated by the likes of landmarks.

I continued to paddle further into the darkness, illuminating my surroundings with the cellphone I fished from my bag, in hopes of finding an island with some sort of shelter from the thick nippers and moths that buzzed by, attempting to touch the artificial sun I created.

A splashing and bustling bursted from the water to the west of me, almost as if an animal, like an energetic child jumping with a running start from a cliff into the water, the noise was so tremendously noticeable. Luck was apparently on my side, as not far from where my ears and eyes ascertained the splash I noticed a medium sized island with an old and penury dock sticking out into the water like a sorely broken finger extending outwards.

I paddled quickly with extended faith upon my situation to the dock in hopes of finding a cabin, or at the very least some sort of tree coverage blocking out the star and bug filled bower above me.

Wood chips, moldy and mossy rocks, planks and poles extended from the island’s shore, the wreckage of what was once an old dock peeked out of the water, water bobbing over a few of the remaining poles as the flow of the slow wind extended it’s warm touch.

With vigor I paddled the last few remaining meters over the broken dock and onto the shore of the island, wrapping my duffel around my shoulder and dragging my canoe over the small pebbles of the beach.

As I continued to walk away from the beach, a small trial-road split ahead into two separate ways left or right. There was a signpost at the end of the road where the trail split with directions on it, the wooden arrow sign pointing left read “Trading Post”, while the arrow pointing the other way was labeled “Workcamp”. I quickly took my book off my shoulder to stretch and looked upwards as I rubbed my left shoulder - clouds were beginning to roll over those bright and beautiful stars, I had to keep going and quickly, no time to explore. I figured the left route would have a better chance of having solid shelter I could rest under rather than the apparent workcamp.

As I travelled down the leftern road, there were a few objects littering the edge of the route: century old mining equipment, pickaxes and shovels, and once there was both an old and withered flatbed truck and a massive and but non scented pile of old refuse beside the truck, the contents of which were both unrecognizable but immediately known as dated - this was not recent garbage, this was old, old trash, could it be the very trash that these mining folk developed within their society? Nevertheless, the trash pile appears as if it’s never decomposed at all! Labels had faded off any sort of item that could be used to evaluate where I was within Algonquin or why the trash itself seemed almost untouched by nature; this isn’t strange, this is...impossible I thought to myself

The serious slap of thunder that ricocheted all around me told me two things: One, the clouds have moved in quickly, Two, I have no time to share any longer at this trash. I must find shelter!

I eventually found the end of the road and an open circular expanse that had an old and stereotypically Canadian trade-post building, a small cabin with a little wooden sign above the door reading “will buy or trade”. The little cabin-shack was fairly stable for the age of it - it was most likely around a century old at least by the looks of it - and I decided instantaneously as the rain started to pour down that this would be my shelter for the night until the summer sun rose early again.

I dropped my canoe outside the shack, carried my duffel bag inside and sat myself down on the floor of the trading post, a perfectly square building with a counter running across the back wall. As I familiarized myself with the contents of the trading post, again more litter lay on the ground and again it was untouched by time - only labels were faded.

I was too tired in my state (and as the rain began to torrent down) to really care beyond a morbid curiosity about the reasoning of the remaining litter. It only reminded me of my hunger and of the remaining snacks in my duffel. I gorged down the remaining wrapped meats and cheese, the energy bar, and the two plastic bottles of water I had, tossing the garbage behind me to rest with the other dateless and timeless trash that are somehow forever denizens of this building and island.

I wrapped myself in my rain poncho for comfort, and laid on the floor (after sweeping some dust and trash away) in order to try to find some solace in sleep from my adventures and rest my body. The veil of sleep quickly overtook me in my wet, bibulous and fatigued state.

All I remember from my dream is seeing that figure, that character, that apparition in my dreams, rearing a horse and holding a tomahawk, hair long and flowing, eyes black - yet burning with hatred and vexed with constancy and dedication beyond measure to some course; I felt it inside when it grabbed my leg and stripped me down the Earth, hundreds of kilometers at a time, whizzing past Goblin, Imp, and Elf into that sinkhole until I woke up!

The figure in my dreams was both real and false, it cannot be an entirely real entity I assured myself. It was only real because I saw and felt him or her...or it. But it was false, I promised myself, because I know it’s nothing more than an apparition of my subconscious expressing itself through dream because of my unfamiliar surroundings. Regardless, that figure, that sallow and lean, blackened and phantasmagoric figure! It grabbed me and pulled me under the rocks and roots themselves! It dragged me into the burning depths of hell, foul figure! Why does it torment me?! What have I done!?

I was unable to sleep that night and decided to stay up until the sun rose, my discomfort was so high at such a dream.

The violent wind kicked open the door of the trading-post, my body jumped with fright from the suddenness of such an event, and I rose up quickly to close the door to keep the wind out...only the environment outside the building was completely bereft of wind. I looked at the door like a small child looking at a masterful scientific equation, so utterly beyond confusion and explanation was such an event.

Suddenly, the tremendous pile of trash rushed toward me, knocked me on my stomach and swept me away on top of it with a violent and rigorous pace, out the open door and toward the water! I grabbed the edge of my canoe as the force pushed me toward the water, dragging the boat with me as the trash tempest continued to push me to the edge of the island!

Branches, rocks, all the like pierced my skin was such the speed of the tempest opposed to the still air that rested everywhere else on the island. I was covered with splattered bugs, and animal feces, broken sticks and jagged rocks pierced the entirety of my upper body from the force of my chest scraping the ground at such a violent pace, until finally the tempest, launching myself and the trash heap into the lake below from a thirty foot cliff!

As I was holding the boat the entire time, my left arm was mangled and dislocated, bruised and broken as the canoe fell down the cliff and flipped over, leaving me with only one bloodied arm to push myself above the water.

I cried out in pain as I attempted to flip the canoe right side up, and the water below me began to bubble, as if some large fish was about to eat me whole. Suddenly something wrapped itself around my ankles and dragged me viciously under the surface, the trash following suit and pelting me as we travelled down the water with incredible speed - I turned my head down to see what was dragging me to my dear death and all I saw was the black but burning eyes of my phantasmagoric dream demon; the sudden glance was enough to tell me I was going to die to the ne plus ultra of whatever ancient spirit or energy protected these lands for millions of years. I yelled out of pure human panic at seeing something so...earthly.

Those bubbles that travel above my head to the pure morning bower mark the graves of all men, I know now, who disrespect the spirit of this land. It is we, the litters who die, never the Earth.