When asked where the prettiest spot we ever camped was, I have to confess (as a Presbyterian elder) it was in a place where there was a “no camping” sign.
The campsite 30 miles behind us was filled to the brim; tired and a bit discouraged we spotted a gravel road on our right that led to a small park. One look convinced us that this tiny treasure was irresistible. It boasted a miniature lake, full to overflowing … with the help of several beaver (who had dammed up the outlet stream.) Its edge of bulrushes were dotted with red-winged blackbirds, filling the air with a sound like squeaking gates. And best of all, there wasn’t a soul for miles … so we settled in for the night.
Off to one side was an overgrown field that had once been a small ballpark and nearby an outhouse with a decided lean. A quick look assured us it was serviceable as well as quaint. A rusty barbecue pit was soon filled with twigs and deadwood and we sat huddled around the coals sipping coffee as the twilight faded.
Our first peek out the RV in the morning revealed our tiny lake jumping with fish.
“It’s been stocked!” my husband shouted with glee. Minutes later, he slid his canoe into the water and in five minutes had rowed to the far shore. The water was a mirror reflecting fallen logs and nearby aspens. The canoe lay immobile as he sat quietly, fishing pole extended.
Then, almost silently, to his right and beyond his view, two beautiful white trumpeter swans appeared. They circled the lake, then satisfied, eased themselves into the water, right beside the canoe.
For almost two minutes, they rested there as my husband sat, mesmerized.
Suddenly, instinct seemed to trigger an awareness of his presence and with enormous strength they lifted their wings and almost ran across the top of the water and were airborne. As they cleared the lake, I heard them trumpet and then they were gone.
“Did you …?” my husband started to say as he pulled the canoe ashore. Then he looked at my face and knew I had witnessed the whole event.
Somehow the fishing no longer seemed important. We felt like intruders in this pristine park.
In almost complete silence we packed up and before long we were at the gate. I checked the rear view mirror as we pulled away. Reflected in its image was the picture of a tiny jewel of a lake, edged in green. For 12 hours we’d been privileged to share its beauty. Now, we returned it back to nature and its rightful owners.
Originally printed in Triple E Adventure Club Newspaper, March/April 1994.
