THE SHADOWS LENGTHEN AND THE EVENING COMES....

Hanns F Skoutajan

My spouse and I were avid campers. We particularly loved Killbear Provincial Park near Parry Sound, Ontario. The essay below was first published in my book The Road to Peace: Memories and Reflections Along the Way.  As the days visibly shorten and summer seems to portend its end, I reflected on those final days of camping.

WOOD NYMPH OR WATER SPRITE

There is a sweet sadness about the fall. It is how mourning ought to be, an acceptance of the inevitable, of natural change, nature’s ageing process which leads from the seeming eternity of summer to an awakening of the passage of time. Suddenly one morning there is a change in the air. It is not only cooler  but a different texture can be felt in the warmth of the sun. 

It was Labour Day and throughout the campground  one could hear the tinkling of metal tent poles as they were being dismantled, a familiar sound indeed. There exists a kind of last day routine among campers. A reticent urgency to return home manifests itself among them. They are not quite holidayers any longer. They sense that ahead of them stretches the long slow drive back to the city with its traffic jams in cars loaded to the gunnels.  Thoughts of tomorrow’s resumption of the workaday life intrude rudely on the mind  that has been used to relaxing in what had seemed like a timeless sun. The young campers anticipate school with a variety of emotions  from sheer horror of classroom confinement  to the joy of meeting old friends again. 

By noon the exodus is well under way. Trailers are hitched up and creak out of their comfortable place among the trees. “Byes” can be heard  from a variety of voices as vacation acquaintances depart. “Stay in touch!” is a much heard farewell word. Thus loaded with boats, bicycles and lawn chairs, they rattle down the road toward the gate. It could be sad  but somehow they have already entered a different space and time.

By mid afternoon the woods are almost empty. The squirrels are well aware that it’s all theirs now  although they will soon discover the absence of the fast food supply that was once so plentiful. The beach which is usually crowded with sun worshippers  is almost vacant. Do the sea gulls miss them? The tour boat with almost empty decks still glides past  at its usual time, but its wake goes unwelcomed  by rubber rafts  and swimmers bouncing in the waves. The roar of seadoos has finally died, thank God.  Out on the Sound  the sails have largely disappeared. Convoys of cruisers  are heading for their berths in port. There is every indication that the season of pleasureful timelessness is over.  The first day of fall may still be several weeks away but  here in the park there is no doubt that a season has ended.

We are fortunate to be able to stay another day, a time of special quietness which we enjoy. As evening comes the setting sun puts on a final show. Only a few spectators gather on the rocky ridge for one more look. A strange camaraderie prevails among us . We are the few, the remnant, quite different from those who have left. That night there is an absence of campfire smoke which usually hangs heavily among the trees. The night seems darker, certainly quieter. A feeling of mystery pervades the groves.

Change is ever mysterious but now it takes place before my eyes. It also unfolds within me and between myself and my spouse. We have another night and day together. We spin out the time, visit once more those familiar places, the rocky ledge, the island, and paddle along the now deserted shores, take a final dip in the water that’s certainly cooler now.

We witness a figure emerging from the woods. She walks  pensively across the sand, then stops. Her hands go to her hips. She faces out toward the sea and looks into the past. What events does she recall? After a few moments she turns and retraces her steps, more slowly now and disappears among the trees, a kind of parting grace.

Finally, we too are ready, our time has also come . There is now no one left to bid farewell except the maples, oaks, the rugged pines, the rocks and sand, the water and the autumn sky. The car is packed, the trailer hitched. Our camp has lost its lived-in look. 

I see her in the rearview mirror, standing there directing me as I nudge our camper from between the trees out into the road. Sadness clothes her summer-warm features. I see her among the vegetation taking on a mellow glow , framed in the car mirror, like a colour slide . It seems as though she belongs among those trees, her natural abode. 

A strange thought comes to my mind. She must remain here to be found again another year. I feel as though I am leaving her . Perhaps she is unreal , this summer friend  with whom I played and loved and shared these weeks . Is she perhaps a wood nymph  or a water sprite who for this season  has taken on mortal flesh? And now she waits as I depart. She waves good-bye.

Already I see her taking on a phantom-like transparency . She turns and walks  toward the distant glistening shore. Once, twice, she motions me to go. The mirror blurs , tears becloud my eyes. I shut them hard and squeeze their lids  and then open them to see a new reality. 

The car and trailer bump onto the pavement , my partner and I are on our way.

SQ 28/08/2013