It had been a while since I had spent a night out camping solo, and I was itching to do so, especially after my friend Rob reminded me of a jewel I had almost forgotten: Philpott Lake. “Ya know, there are campsites on Deer Island which are only accessible by boat.”
He went on to tell me of the terrific time he and his young family had had there recently, paddling kayaks loaded with their gear out to one of the island campsites and spending an idyllic couple of days. It brought back happy memories of camping and water skiing on Philpott when I was a kid. Wow, I don’t think I’ve been there since.
Salthouse Branch Park is the jumping off point for Deer Island and the volunteer lady at the gatehouse cheerfully takes care of me. “You’ll have the island to yourself,” she says as I depart for the boat launch. I quickly and excitedly unstrap my paddleboard from the car roof racks and finish stuffing my camping gear for the night into a semi-waterproof duffle bag. I’m keeping it simple so there’s not too much.
The last things to go in the sack are the dinosaur-print bed sheet (a soft souvenir of raising three sons), and my dinner which consists of a can of beans, a cucumber, half a bell pepper and some barbecue potato chips.
As I’m zipping up the bag, I’m joined by two curious young boys who’ve wandered over from the adjacent swimming beach to investigate. I point to the island a half mile away and tell them of my plan. They watch me for a good while as I paddle off, no doubt the wheels turning in their heads.
Deer Island is a mile or two long and a quarter-mile wide. The afternoon is beautiful and the paddling so pleasant I decide to circumnavigate the island before choosing one of the twenty campsites scattered at intervals along its coast line.
I’m pleased at how well the bulging duffel bag rides on the board just aft of where I’m standing. The water is smooth; there’s only a faint zephyr of a breeze. I pass two other parties camping on the island and I wave as I cruise past. The occupants seem to be having a tough time of it as they swim and chill about their campsites.
I’m amazed at the quiet as I ghost along on my board just a few meters from shore. Now on the southwest-facing side of Deer Island I come to a campsite that has my name all over it. After a brief swim – ahhhh! – for which I may or may not have been “suited” I fully move in, setting up my one-man tent, making my bed and in general organizing my stuff.
I’ve got a bit of reading and writing to do so I arrange that, along with the food and galley supplies, on the picnic table. Seated at the table about to crack a book, perhaps I should be concerned about cracking my face from the huge grin that’s spreading across it.
Dinner, as mentioned, is a simple affair. I brought no cooking gear; the beans are enjoyed cold and straight from the can. I sit legs crossed on a rock by the water’s edge taking in – besides the beans and cucumber – the stirring sunset.
Darkness falls with a wave of a heavenly hand and with it dies the soft breeze, replaced by a profound stillness and a rising staccato of the night insects. I dip into the water one more time as the last smear of color fades from the western sky. I breaststroke slowly away from shore, careful not to splash and disturb this reverie.
Soon I’ll duck into my tent for the night and for a few minutes I’ll read by the light of my headlamp before dropping off to sleep.
In the coming weeks I’ll revisit this scene often. In my mind’s eye I’ll see the sky and the water and forest, I’ll hear the water splash and the cries of the night birds and insects, and I’ll smile. I know that the benevolent, nourishing spirit of such an outing extends far beyond the actual time devoted to it; it just keeps giving. It’s hard to beat getting away by yourself in the wild, being reminded of life beyond the man made.
Just a hunch but I think it’s good for the soul.
– Johnny Robinson
