Frontiers of Self-Awareness
My affection for city life in bustling Toronto had decayed over recent years. It had prompted several moves, latterly to the tiny service-town of Pointe-au-Baril, Ontario. For the past two summers I’d lived in a cabin on the privately owned Osawa Island, providing maintenance work on the rustic accommodations and preparing for their winterisation and lock-up. Very few people remain on Georgian Bay islands through winter due to ice which forms in the bay.
At dawn one August morning, I’d woken to familiar haunting calls of loons. The sun had barely risen above the small rocky outcrops which dotted the waters around Osawa. With my pre-packed rucksack and sleeping bag stowed in the canoe, I pushed gently into clear waters. Dipped my paddle, pulled gently, glided. Dipped, pulled, dipped and pulled. The 12-foot traditional canoe responded effortlessly. Polished timbers cut through tranquil waters of Georgian Bay as I silently paddled southwards amongst pristine and uninhabited granite outcrops and sparsely vegetated islands which are part of the 30,000 islands in Georgian Bay on Lake Huron.
My plan was to explore the place that had become my sanctuary. I would over-night on uninhabited islands, feast on wild blueberries, learn a little about myself, dance in the ballroom of my mind. I wanted to be a more self-aware version of myself tomorrow than I was today. I would paddle as far south as the Red Rock Lighthouse before returning to Osawa Island. Over my shoulder, the maple leaf of the Canadian flag dangled limply from a pole in front of the camp and I passed the inukshuk I’d constructed on a small island not far from Osawa. This stone figure was pointing southwards, guiding me towards the archipelago of small islands I’d intended to hug in case the weather turned. “You are capable. Go,” it had seemingly conveyed.
Towards evening, I rough-camped beneath my upturned canoe on an uninhabited but vegetated outcrop near Boucher Island. My day had provided new air to fill my lungs; had coaxed a smile out of me that had been struggling to be freed. Beneath my canoe, I absorbed the exquisite sounds of the night, the gentle lap of water against granite, the soft song of the breeze, the absence of any human noise.
Following a hasty breakfast from my well-stocked rucksack, I spied several wild blueberry shrubs nearby and stomped in their direction through low grasses and small rocks. The chittering sound at the base of one of the shrubs froze me. Less than three feet in front, an unmistakable adult Eastern Massasauga rattlesnake was warning me – don’t take another step. Located around Georgian Bay, these reptiles are now in diminishing numbers. If I’d trodden on it, I’d probably have been bitten and envenomated. Being isolated and without a buddy, this could have proved fatal. Leaping backwards involuntarily and emitting castrato squeals and a prolonged cuss word, I retreated from the rattler and returned to the canoe, quite shaken from my close encounter.
Appreciating the fragile grasp we have on life, I’d struck out for Red Rock Lighthouse at the southern tip of the archipelago. Built in 1881 to orient shipping towards the harbour at Parry Sound, it was nowadays fully automated. Constructed on a smooth reddish granite outcrop in the bay, the prominent red and white painted tower had loomed ahead of me in the early afternoon. I tethered my Canadian to a rusted iron ring embedded in the granite at water-level, then tossed my sleeping bag and food rucksack upwards onto the rock at the foot of the lighthouse. Once more I was sensing that a new sun had begun to warm my face, illuminating crevices concealed within my mind. Here, I was less than 15 km from Ontario’s mainland, but I was exploring the extremities of my personal universe. I would sleep below the lighthouse then commence my northwards trek towards Osawa Island the following day.
Discarding clothing onto sun-warmed rock, I’d plunged into the depths. The water was surprisingly chilly against my nakedness but the tingling soon became pleasant, liberating. I floated on my back, gazing upwards, and whooped with appreciation at the inherent sense of beauty and isolation that enveloped me. And that was when I’d realised I wasn’t alone. Stifling a cry of anguish while treading water, I watched in despair as the large black bear tore my rucksack to shreds and plundered the food and fruit I’d packed. It took little notice of me as it satisfied its overarching need to gorge prior to the upcoming winter and inevitable hibernation. I’d not had a previous bear encounter, but I was aware they swam strongly and were attracted to human habitation for easy food sources. Through necessity, the camp kitchen on my own island, Osawa, had been bear-proofed.
Rapidly recalling the actions to take in the event of bear encounters, I began shouting as loudly as I could from my severely handicapped position floundering in deep water. Snorting and exhaling in raspy breaths, it stuffed my sandwiches and fruit between its jaws. What could I do? My canoe was tethered between the bear and myself. From my position beneath the water, I couldn’t make myself appear any larger and, being naked, I was unable to raise a coat above my head to appear taller than the bear. The first rule of an encounter, to stay calm, was very quickly overlooked. No, the manual for bear encounters had obviously been written by somebody on land. And probably clothed.
Shouts eventually morphed into screams as panic about my predicament overwhelmed me. The morning’s near-miss with a rattler had already shaken my sense of wonder. I envisaged a bloated and mauled body being discovered floating near the lighthouse. But belief in the goodness of humanity returned when fortuitously a passing outboard powered runabout veered from the main channel and gunned towards the lighthouse. Had they spotted my predicament? Heard my screams? The two middle-aged women on board cut their engine about thirty yards away and drifted towards me. By this stage I’d thrashed frantically through the water towards their boat until I reached outstretched hands. Dragged roughly over the side, with my lily-white arse pointing towards the bear, I collapsed to the floor of their runabout, hyperventilating, naked, humiliated.
The magic of my journey of self-discovery had quickly deserted me. Am I a better version of myself today? I am firmly of the belief that self-awareness is an introspective exercise which is hugely overrated, and I found myself appreciating the relative security of the city when, shortly after this experience, I relocated to the bustle and noise of Toronto.
