2045:
In the city, the world is always at my fingertips. My phone is an inseparable extension of myself, ever-present, always buzzing with notifications and updates. Any lull in my day is swiftly filled with the glow of the screen, a quick scroll through social media, or a new app to explore. Boredom doesn't stand a chance—it's smothered in seconds by an endless stream of digital distractions.
But out here, in the wilderness, on my very first night, the silence felt unbearable. Boredom pressed in like an unfamiliar weight, and I found myself craving the constant influx of stimuli I'd taken for granted. Yet, each attempt to pacify that craving—whether through a fleeting thought or a momentary diversion—was hollow, unsatisfying. The emptiness grew deeper, pulling me into an endless cycle of restless yearning. Every temporary fix only fueled the next urge, an insatiable hunger waiting around every corner.
My thoughts drifted to how different my night could have been. I imagined myself wrapped in the comfort of a warm bed or laughing with friends over the latest school drama. I bet none of their grandpas ever whisked them away to some remote camp with no one else around. Not even a sliver of cell service to text them, let alone the chance to complain about it. The natural beauty surrounding me—the towering trees, the first sign of a glittering star—was lost in the tangle of my anxious thoughts.
I would have gladly taken a nap, but my stomach wouldn't let me. All of the paddling and portaging had left a chasm of need desperate to be filled. Hunger gnawed at my insides, demanding attention, and so instead of resting, I threw myself into the tasks ahead. Setting up the tents, getting the propane grill fired up, and making a much-needed trip to the latrine all awaited me. But the camp wasn't going to set itself up.
As my bladder nagged at my senses of urgency, tent duty had to be finished before the relief could be satiated. We laid a tarp on the ground first, a simple but essential barrier to keep moisture at bay. Then, we secured the two-person tent between a pair of sturdy trees, a precaution against the unpredictable gusts that could sweep through the campsite. Grandpa must have been getting hungry too as he was getting shorter and shorter with his temper.
"No, not like that. Just hold the tent while I slide the poles in," he snapped, his tone sharper than necessary. I bit back a retort, too tired to argue and desperate to just get it over with. As I held the tent in place, a faint buzz near my ear made me flinch. The first mosquito had arrived, and I instinctively slapped my leg where an itch flared up, leaving a stinging imprint of frustration behind.
Once it was up, the tent felt like a miniature sanctuary. It was spacious enough for both of us to stretch out comfortably, with a bonus feature—a small vestibule in front of the entrance. This extra space wasn't just convenient; it was practical. It served as a spot to stash our muddy boots, keeping the interior clean, and added an extra layer of defense against any unwelcome insect intrusions, yes I'm talking about you mosquitos.
Inside, we made quick work of setting up our sleeping area. Inflatable mattresses, easy to blow up, formed the foundation of our makeshift beds. We rolled out our sleeping bags on top, the soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet air, and tucked a few bags inside for safekeeping. The tent quickly transformed from an empty shell into a cozy retreat—a little slice of comfort carved out in the middle of the wilderness.
We had clothes, we now had shelter, and so we needed another of life's essentials, food.
Grandpa set to getting a meal ready for us and squaring away our boisterous bellies. There was no reserved tables or need to use the right silverware for such cuisine. It would be boiled water added to a packet of dehydrated food and served on a metal plate that was in a plastic bag the whole journey. I used the time to finally address a different call of nature.
A narrow trail snaked its way from the campsite to the latrine, barely wide enough for a single person to navigate. Grandpa handed me a plastic bag containing toilet paper, his instructions clear and firm: all business *must* be confined to the latrine. The warning wasn't arbitrary; it was about avoiding unwanted attention from wildlife—bears, in particular.
The latrine itself was, at best, a crude structure—a glorified hole in the ground with a makeshift seat perched on top. There were no walls, no doors, just you and the open forest. Sitting there, pants around your ankles, you became part of the wilderness, exposed to whoever—or whatever—might wander by. Thankfully, the only "bystanders" were squirrels darting along branches, birds chirping indifferently, and chipmunks scurrying through the underbrush. None of them paid me any mind, which was a small mercy. It wasn't the most dignified moment of the trip, but I kept reminding myself—it could always be worse.
Still, my unease lingered. I couldn't shake the irrational fear that something might already *be* inside the latrine. Every rustle in the bushes and snap of a twig sent a jolt through me, my imagination conjuring absurd scenarios. A chipmunk, a snake, or even—dare I admit it—Bigfoot crossed my mind. It was embarrassing, but out here, away from the comforts of modern life, my thoughts seemed to take on a life of their own.
There's something profoundly humbling about using a toilet in the middle of the woods. Stripped of walls, doors, and any semblance of privacy, the act itself becomes a stark reminder of how far removed this experience is from the cushioned convenience of modern life. It's a vulnerable moment, one that lays bare our humanity in a way that few things can. Out here, there's no one to judge you, no societal expectations looming over your head. Nature doesn't care about your appearance, your clothes, your status, or any of the countless labels we carry. It was oddly liberating in some ways.
But perhaps that's the point. Out here, beyond the reach of mirrors and expectations, lies the chance to discover who we are beneath it all. To embrace the freedom of simply *being*. Of course, that freedom is easier said than done. Old habits and insecurities don't vanish overnight, and in this moment, I was far from that revelation. For now, I just hoped to finish my business without attracting any uninvited company.
We tend to perform for others without even realizing it. At work, we craft the image of competence; with friends, we might lean into humor or playfulness. Even within the family, we adjust, slipping into roles defined by years of shared history. But out here, in the wilderness, there's no audience—no one to impress or entertain. Eventually, the performance becomes internal. You're no longer acting for others; you're putting on a show for yourself. Yet, the more time you spend gazing into the crystalline lake, the less it reflects the actor. Instead, it reveals something deeper—a glimpse into your own soul.
Practicality, however, doesn't allow much room for existential musings. Out here, you must yield to necessity, or discomfort will swiftly remind you of your place. The wrong pair of shoes can leave you hobbling with blisters. Forget to pack dry clothes, and a simple chill could spiral into a serious problem. The wilderness is unforgiving; neglect the small things, and they'll soon snowball into larger, unmanageable issues. Such thoughts floated about my head as I sat.
Nothing snaps you out of deep thoughts faster than a swarm of mosquitoes descending like a relentless, buzzing storm. The scent of my blood must have finally reached whatever strange sensors they use—whether it was the carbon dioxide in my breath, the rhythm of my heartbeat, or some invisible electric field of life that gave me away. I didn't stick around to analyze the science of their attack. Becoming the star dish on their buffet line was not on my agenda. Without a second thought, I bolted back to camp, swatting wildly, and for a brief, glorious moment, I think I managed to shake them off.
The camp itself is sparse and utilitarian. A fire grate forms the centerpiece, surrounded by rough-hewn logs for seating and scattered rocks. These humble amenities are thanks to the efforts of rangers and volunteers, who maintain the trails and campsites across the region. Rangers wear many hats here—caretakers, border patrol, even protectors against poaching. They, too, paddle through this vast expanse, camping under the same stars, keeping an ever-watchful eye for rule breakers. But there's no ranger station nearby, no easy way to summon help if needed. Their presence, while reassuring, feels distant and elusive in a place this large.
What little the camp provides is just enough to get by; the rest is up to you. It's still possible to retreat to the car if something goes wrong, but with each paddle stroke northward, that safety net feels thinner. The deeper you venture into this wilderness, the more the risks amplify. A simple injury could become a serious threat. And should a sudden storm roll in, the very trees that offer shade and beauty could turn into dangerous projectiles, battering everything in their path. Helicopter rescues are not uncommon here—a stark reminder of how quickly the breathtaking vastness of this place can turn perilous.
"What's for dinner?" I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I found a spot on one of the rough-hewn logs around the campfire. Cooking over the propane stove had become our default method; it was far easier than scavenging for dry firewood, especially with the constant risk of fire restrictions in this forest fire-prone area.
"Beef stroganoff, if that works for you," Grandpa replied, stirring the pot. "While I get this ready, can you get some water?" He said gesturing toward the folded plastic water jug nearby. "Jordi, can you grab the pump and fill this up? Just stick the long tube into the lake—it's got a filter. Use the hand pump, and try to get enough for washing dishes."
I nodded, grabbing the jug and trudging down to the lake's edge. Sitting on a flat rock, I set up the pump and got to work. The process was simple enough, but tedious. Each squeeze of the pump's handle yielded a small trickle of water, and the rhythm soon became mechanical.
One of the perks was our campsite offered a stunning view of a small, forested island just across the water. As I kept pumping, I was taking it all in, the lake revealed its quiet magnificence. The silence was almost unnerving—no voices, no traffic, not even the faint hum of city life. It was a void I wasn't accustomed to, filled only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the gentle lapping of water against the shore.
The lake itself was a masterpiece. The stillness of the water turned it into a flawless mirror, reflecting a palette of colors that seemed almost unreal. It was as if nature had painted this scene just for us. Something stirred deep inside me, a mix of awe and serenity that began to calm the relentless pace of my mind.
After what felt like an eternity, about fifteen minutes, Grandpa's voice called me back. Dinner was ready. Just in time as the jug was finally full enough for my satisfaction. My hand and arm now even further depleted of strength.
To my surprise, the beef stroganoff was far better than I'd anticipated. When your meal comes out of a vacuum-sealed pouch, expectations are naturally low. But this one, to my relief, hit the spot. Maybe it was my hunger or the undeniable magic of eating something warm and filling under an open sky. At home, I probably would've turned my nose up at it—the flavors were mild, almost forgettable, if I were to critique it too deeply. Yet out here, it was palatable enough to quiet any objections.
Perched on a log with the bowl cradled in my hands, the rich, meaty aroma mingled with the crisp, earthy air of the woods. It was an odd scene—sharing this simple meal with Grandpa in the heart of nature, far from my usual comforts. Everything about this trip felt strange, unfamiliar, and just a bit unsettling. Like the wilderness itself, I found myself bottling up my concerns, letting necessity take precedence over complaints. Out here, there weren't many choices, and that left me with no choice but to adapt.
"What do you think?" Grandpa asked, his voice laced with curiosity."About what?" I replied, momentarily confused.
"The food, the camp, all of it," he clarified, his eyes bright with expectation.
He looked so eager, almost pleading, that I couldn't bring myself to crush his enthusiasm. Forcing a smile, I gave the safest answer I could muster. "It's nice. The camp, the food—it's all... nice." My tone was as diplomatic as I could make it.
"Oh, nice," he echoed, the edge of disappointment unmistakable in his voice. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and I suddenly felt a pang of guilt.
With a meal now squared away, Grandpa set to work boiling water that I had pumped earlier. The clean water we'd packed was limited, reserved for quick, immediate needs, so for the remainder of the trip, we'd rely on pumping lake water through a filter directly into our bottles.
As I sat on the log, holding my plate still containing a few scraps, a small Canadian Jay fluttered down and perched beside me, its bright eyes fixed intently on my plate. The little bird didn't seem the least bit shy, its head tilting as if it were begging.
"I think some of the animals associate people with food," Grandpa remarked, noticing my new feathered companion. "I've seen jays like this around camps before. Some people don't obey the rules and can't resist giving scraps over."
Curious, I put my plate across my leg to see if the little bird was desperate enough to come over. At first, the jay hesitated, hopping closer only to flit back nervously. But soon enough, curiosity—or hunger—won out. It darted forward, snatched a little morsel in its beak, and flew away.
Not long after the bold little bird returned, swooping down for another treat. I couldn't tell if was the same bird or not but I made the assumption it was. Grandpa was giving me an evil I of judgment, and for a brief moment I thought he was going to rebuke me for tolerating the scavenger.
"Be sure to eat as much as you can, even scraps." Grandpa said finally, "We have to be mindful of even our waste."
"But there is hardly anything here. We're just going to toss it." I said in my normal aloof manner.
"For one, any food we don't eat, we all be carrying around with us." he replied matter-of-factly. "And for two, garbage and leftovers, even little scraps, are like fine dining to creatures of the forest. They don't usually turn away from something so easy to scrounge. Raccoons and squirrels are just the tip of the iceberg. Bears will surprise you in what will peek their interest. We must dispose of even tiny amounts of food in a smart way. The garbage will go with the rest of the food pack, strung up in a tree and in our barrel."
"What about little birds?" I asked, hoping for permission.
"Generally, it's best not to train wildlife to depend on humans. People come out here to see nature in their element. It might make for an amusing tale back home, but out here, it can make the difference between survival and dependence." Grandpa said with obvious disdain.
"You know, you should reserve that speech for parties, people will think you're so much fun." I said, lacing it heavy in sarcasm.
"Good to know," he said with a faint smile.
Grandpa put the water I'd pumped earlier onto the burner to boil. "This'll sterilize the dishes," he explained, "since we'll be using the same ones for every meal. Can't use soap—it could end up in the water and harm the environment."
"When you're done with your dish, scrape any big pieces into the trash," he continued. "For the rest, use some dry dirt to scrub it clean. Dump the dirt in the fire pit ashes, then rinse with the boiled water to sanitize. I've got a towel just for drying."
"I'll add it to the growing list of things I've messed up," I muttered, my tone sharp with annoyance. "It's a long list, and I doubt it's going to stop growing on this trip."
"Are you saying I'm being harsh on you?" Grandpa asked, his eyebrows rising slightly.
"No, but I'm sure if I get so much as a pimple on this trip, you'll point it out," I shot back.
He sighed, his tone firm but not unkind. "I'm sorry if it feels like I'm being hard on you, but this isn't the kind of place for hand-holding."
"And yet, here I am. I don't remember asking to come on this little adventure. Yet somehow, I'm expected to act like I've dedicated my life to mastering all this."
"I just want you to enjoy it," he said, his voice softening.
"Well, that hasn't exactly been obvious," I replied, harsher than I intended. "Is there *anything* I'm doing right? Since we started this trip, it feels like all you've done is criticize me. I'm not cut out for this. Maybe we should head back tomorrow. It hasn't been so long that the trip back would be too hard. This is enough."
He took a deep breath, his eyes steady on mine. "I know it's a lot to take in, but you haven't given it a real chance yet. I never promised you the Four Seasons. By the end, I think you'll see the point of it."
"The point? What point? Working my arms to the bone paddling? Losing all feeling in my butt from sitting in that canoe? Getting annihilated by mosquitoes who, by the way, are relentless? The food isn't exactly five-star dining, and we haven't even gotten to the sleeping arrangements yet. But if they're like everything else, I'm sure I'll be resting on a mattress of spikes!"
"Are you done complaining yet?" Grandpa asked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Yes," I said with exaggerated indignation, "but I reserve the right to vent later."
He chuckled. "You've been venting plenty now. Dragons have breathed less fire and gas."
"Ha-ha," I deadpanned. "So, are we going back tomorrow?"
"No," he said simply, returning his attention to his task. "Give it a little more time."
"Great. Like an infection—just let it breathe until it swells into something worse," I muttered.
He didn't respond, just kept working, leaving me stewing in my thoughts.
I knew my Grandfather's intentions were good, and his steady presence helped pull me out of my spiraling thoughts.
The mosquitoes were still in full force, their high-pitched buzz a call to arms. Despite my hood being snug over my head, the little beasts found my exposed hands, treating them like prime real estate. I swatted and slapped at my skin in a futile rhythm, catching only a few of the relentless pests. Grandfather wasn't faring much better.
"I think it's time to call it a night," he said, smacking at his forearm and tucking his life jacket away. "These mosquitoes are eating me alive."
"I'm right behind you," I replied, waving my hand around my face. "They've opened a new restaurant out here."
The battle didn't last much longer. We scrambled into the tent, doing our best to avoid bringing any of our winged attackers inside. As we zipped up the entrance, the sounds of the outside world dimmed, replaced by the cozy confinement of canvas walls.
Fatigue quickly settled over us. My corner of the tent felt far from luxurious, but exhaustion did what comfort couldn't. Grandpa's snores rumbled steadily across the small space—not that I minded. My thoughts had more than enough to occupy them: memories of friends, my troubles back home, and the whispering woods outside.
It took longer for sleep to find me, but eventually, it came, blanketing me as deeply as the wilderness night itself.