I have to begin with an apology to and , for missing their legendary Canada Day BBQ in favour of heading north to Georgian Bay this past weekend. I heard your party was amazing and fully attended, so the loss is all mine, but I remain sorry for changing my RSVP at the last minute. We will party together soon.

Other than that, I have no regrets – absolutely the best Canada Day weekend ever, complete with smores, burgers, beer, a bonfire by the lake, kayaking, rock climbing, speedboating, hiking, sunbathing, a full moon and mild nudity. 100% pure cottage goodness.

Thanks to the kind hospitality of my friend Matt, whose family owns a large chunk of rock on Smith Island (south of Bone Island and north of Honey Harbour), I got to spend a few days with some of my most beloved boys from residence – Adam, Casey, Stephen, Todd and Will – and quickly girl bonded with Matt’s ladyfriend Jessica, who makes a damn fine Lemon Square.

I met Matt early on Saturday as we scrambled about buying graham crackers, marshmallows, burgers and other camping essentials. On top of our excessive amounts of food, we squeezed a tiny barbecue and large bag o’ charcoal into the car, along with four passengers and their luggage. Then the long drive north through Barrie and weekend traffic, where we debated nanotech, engineered food, and whether spiders or mosquitoes are “the real enemy”. Casey made my favorite quote of the trip, saying that mosquitoes are street thugs, looking to mug you for your blood, but spiders are criminal masterminds, plotting for world domination. So true, Casey, so true.

After loading the boat and ferrying folks and supplies over to the island, Todd prepped his sexy brushed steel cooler with ice and beer, Will did a brilliant job of building a coal pyramid and firing up the grill, Casey assembled his delicious chicken kebabs with strawberry and pineapple, and Stephen hauled wood for our big bonfire. Jessica and I sat around and looked pretty, and Adam made scintillating conversation in both official languages. That evening, what we lacked in fireworks, we made up for with singing and a very fine single malt scotch (thank you, Adam).

As the evening wore on and the scotch worked its magic, I became more and more reckless in my decision making, leading to rock-climbing in the pitch black with no flashlight that resulted in large, nasty scrapes on my shins and feet and knees that I found in the morning. In retrospect, maneuvering over the Canadian shield late at night, drunk in the darkness was perhaps not the wisest choice, but it seemed like a great idea at the time. The moon and the dying embers of the campfire were a beautiful setting for my pain. At least I didn’t fall in the swamp.

Sunday was adventure day, where we pitted our bodies against nature. As usual, I fail at the outdoors. Matt, Stephen, Jess, Todd and I went out on the boats and paddled around into a beautiful lagoon full of waterlilies. There were painted turtles lazing about among the weeds and dragonflies and frogs on lily pads. The weather was perfect and the water was warm, so Jess jumped out of the canoe for a swim while Todd and I took off for an extended kayak trip that turned into a Gilligan’s Island-style “three hour tour.” We got hopelessly lost in the endless chain of tiny, identical islands. Fortunately Todd had his cell phone on him, and there was just enough reception to call for help with directions. Two hours and one slightly sprained left wrist later, I made it back through heavy headwinds and choppy water to dry land. Kayaking is a fabulous way to spend the day and I would buy one if only I had anywhere to paddle it. Lake Ontario, you say? Not so much with the lily pads and blue herons, sorry.

Four of the boys took off Sunday afternoon up to Sundridge for a birthday party at Blackwell’s, and the other four of us stayed behind to do a little more relaxing. We took the speedboat out for a tour of the area, and went to a rock climbing area that bridges the cottages and the national park. On the way, we saw a shipwreck. A large yacht was almost completely submerged in the bay, with several small boats clustered around, waiting for a rescue barge. It was an evil omen – moments later, we experienced the reality of shrinking water levels in Georgian Bay ourselves, as we bumped jarringly into a submerged, unmarked rock. The hull of the boat was fine, just some scratches to the paint, but the sensation of ramming something solid in the water, even at low speed, made my heart stop for a moment. Butler subsequently informed us that he had calculated a 50% chance of such an event occurring in that waterway, which sparked a barrage of statistical mockery for the remainder of our trip.

We continued on to the scenic viewpoint and I flirted with death again as I followed the 6’3 man, 6’1 man and 5’11’ woman (I’m 5’4 at best) in leaping over several feet of white water rapids to get to the rock we wanted to ascend. Odds of me falling in the water, 25%. Odds of Casey’s camera phone falling in the water, 47%. The adrenaline served me well in scrambling up to the top of the 80-foot cliff, overcoming the sickening “oh god, I’m going to die, where is my f&#%ing harness?” gut-fear reaction. We paused for some photo ops, watched a bit of the sunset and I resisted the lemming urge to take a running leap off the edge into the deep blue water below.

When we arrived back at the cabin, we built a stove fire, cracked open a bottle of wine and toasted Canada’s birthday and Matt’s birthday. Then we foolishly cracked Casey’s evil bottle of hellwater (Sambuca) and toasted James Earl Jones for his voice, mammals for beating reptiles in the game of evolution, the Canadian shield and possibly a few other items but I’m afraid I forget what. A slow amble to the water’s edge ended the evening with Matt cursing the harvest moon for ruining his view of the stars and the rest of us listening to the bullfrogs and loons and crickets and seeing our faces glow in the pale white light.

Monday I started the day with yoga on the rocks and Casey and I cleaned and cooked breakfast for the birthday boy. Jess whipped cream and sliced fruit for my five-star gourmet challah french toast with cinnamon, strawberries, mango and maple syrup. Casey opted for the Breakfast of Champions, two large glasses of Coca Cola with lots of ice. Mmm. Breakfasty. We left at 2pm and miraculously made it back to the city by 4:30, even with a pit stop for Wendy’s (none of us ordered the “Baconator”, but mad props to the marketing genius who came up with that campaign).

So, the damage count for the weekend is just my torn-up leg flesh and a sprained wrist.
No burns on the campfire, no “beaver fever” from drinking bad water, no tipping my kayak and drowning under it, no sunstroke, no disgusting tick-burrowing incidents (ticks = arachnids with exoskeletons and proboscis that drink human blood = Satan’s minions). The shield was kind.

I love you, Canada. Happy birthday!