Home Is In The Evergreens

Exactly one month ago, I woke up in a beautiful cabin overlooking the mountains. The first morning at our new home. Somehow our little family of three had managed to land an affordable rental with a view in a renter-starved market. The view was magnificent, with floor to ceiling windows showing off the impressive Rocky Mountains that dominate the landscape. We had packed up our lives, set off across the country, moving for the first time away from family, away from all that we knew, with the hope of adventure and new beginnings.

It is known as Beautiful British Columbia for a reason.

This place has all the right things for enviable instagram photos.

And yet, in all its majestic mountain beauty and grandeur, there is something missing. This is not home.

Home is where the heart is, as they say. I found both at the tender age of twenty-three, deep in the heart of Algonquin Provincial Park.

Two hours north of the cozy rural neighbourhood I grew up in, is a world class nature preserve, filled with bountiful forests and an endless web of connected lakes. It is home to extensive wildlife and the folks crazy enough to travel deep into its woods hoping to find some peace and quiet. A nature-loving friend was eager to have company on a canoe trip, and so four of us gathered supplies, and made our way there.

After a gruelling day of canoeing across the park’s largest lake with unrelenting waves working against us, we found a vacant campsite. With a small island to ourselves, we hopped out of our boats, up to the modest fire pit and rough-sawn log benches and began setting up camp.

But first, I went exploring. As I wandered through the dense forest, toward a clearing on the other side of the island, the scene that awaited me brought tears to my eyes. I felt a sense of “arriving” unlike anything I had ever experienced. So wild, so untamed, so unbelievably peaceful. What was this world I had found myself in?

“I can’t believe I’m twenty-three and this is my first canoe trip!!” I exclaimed to the others, making my way up to fire pit after climbing along the rocky shore to camp.

I was not new to the outdoors. Camping was a big part of my childhood, but this was different. We were far from the car camping I had known as a child. No powered campsites, no RVs. Far from other humans, far from the noise of the industrial world, far from the chaos that so often took over my brain.

“This it it,” I thought. I was home.

The years that followed consisted of weekdays worked in the city, and as many trips as my husband and I could possibly embark on into the wilderness. We dehydrated food, collected hand-me-down outdoor gear from family, and packed as light as possible. For days we would travel deep into the woods, until the only sounds we could hear were our own voices, and the slow drip of water falling off the canoe paddle as we paused in wonder.

We would wake before the sun, eager to watch it slowly creep up on the horizon. It cast colours I did not know could be seen in the sky, violet and magenta drenching the clouds overhead.

There was not much to do aside from travel, eat, clean up, sleep. Everything took longer when you did it by hand, and by paddle. What seemed like a chore in the city was now an immersive experience you could have if you were willing to work a little to get there.

When we weren’t busy portaging a canoe to the next best lake, we were taking the five hour drive to Mackie Lake. A small family cottage two hours north of Kingston, Ontario, owned by my husband’s grandfather. Another access to nature in its finest form. I had found my home that first night in Algonquin Park, and arriving at Mackie Lake sparked just the same revelatory bliss.

Nestled among the trees, balancing delicately on the rocky Canadian Shield, was this perfectly sized, perfectly simple cottage. It was far enough from civilization to feel like true wilderness, even with several other cottages occupying the shoreline. The outdated decor and faded yellow-flowered couches were a reminder of a simpler time.

I had arrived. Again. My thoughts shifted, my heart grew, my spirit came alive. I could sit and watch the water ripple for hours, until the sun set over the rolling hills of evergreen forest, leaving us with a starry expanse to end the evening. In the mountains, one can lose themselves in the expansive view, as the world looks small, the giant rocks towering overhead. But these lakes invited you to dip your toes, watch the sun rise over the hills, listen to the trees sway gently in the breeze. It was approachable, immersive, home.

Sure, there was a house that sheltered me for most of my life. There was a small town that gave groceries, provided education, had people and things to do. But this, here in the trees, was my home. Far enough into the woods to hear my own ears ringing, the silence was deafening. I loved every minute of it.

When our little girl came into the world, I wanted her to love it too. That wasn’t a very difficult task.

People thought we were crazy, bringing a little baby out on these trips. I figured, parenting was challenging anywhere. At least this way I was in my happiest of places, and could share a little of my bliss with our baby girl. Hopefully one day she will feel at home here just as I do. If not here, I hope she knows her home can be anywhere, wherever it is that fills her heart with bliss.

Now, as I look out over the mountains, the delicate blue silhouettes in the distance beneath the blinding sunshine, I feel an expectation of bliss. Maybe it will come. Or maybe, home will always be the fog rising up from the sparkling surface of the lake, as the sun rises from behind the trees.

Maybe it will always be a coffee by the shore, listening.

Home is where the heart is, and my heart is in these evergreens.