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The Double Eagle

My parents enjoyed the outdoors and taking us kids on adventures no matter how loudly reluctant we were. We strolled, hiked, rode bikes and took out a canoe from time to time. Imagine our parents’ delight when our grandfather sold our family his boat, a 14-foot, 1980 Double Eagle, in pristine condition. It boasted orange decking, brown leather chairs and an off white hull — an adventurer’s dream. A six-pack of chunky, bright orange life jackets later and we were on our way.

All four of us were helpless casualties of their meanderings and self-guided boat instruction. The Double Eagle made them feel limitless with the wind in their hair (at way too many knots an hour) and their newfound capacity for exploration, they had the whole natural world at their fingertips. The Double Eagle was a patient teacher, rather built well. That’s the thing with boats — you learn as you go, and learn they did, thank goodness she was sturdy, built for unyielding adventure.

We hit a sand bar in one lake, sputtering us all right back into reality, our fate resting in the goodness of passersby to free our boat. We also ran out of gas, more than once if I recall correctly. Thankfully, we had oats and boaters, in general, are kind people and they came to our rescue. Our parents eventually learned the exact limitations of that boat and all of our sanity by putting them both to the test. Perhaps there was no other way — in the words of T.S. Eliot, “Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.”

We would pull up and jump ashore beside other boats more sleek and more modern coloured, it’s riders sported neoprene life vests in fashionable colours, I’d have given anything in those moments for a trendier neoprene life vest.

The trips started out small, just a few hours searching for everything we had been missing out on while boat-less. We found elusive beaches, hidden waterfalls and spent countless hours beach-combing for “jewels” — strangely shaped wood that had the potential to be made into a table leg or a lamp by my dad, who had very little extra time for projects. We would cheer him on, often adding our own finds to his growing pile. The wood secured the best seats on the boat and it became our responsibility to fit into the boat as best we could. He would lovingly place each piece of carefully curated treasure in a heap beside his shop. He’d eventually move the pile from house to house, very few pieces of wood ever reaching their full potential. Perhaps the pieces of wood were ok with that though, having enjoyed an extra moment of admiration, far after they had provided shade or danced in the breeze.

During one of our expeditions we landed on the shore of a boat-in only campsite. There were three groomed sites for tents hidden in the forest behind, a large beachfront and an outhouse. It was free, off-grid and involved the boat — our parents were thrilled.

Camping sites, back then, were first come, first served and we would drive around with a vehicle packed to the hilt with camping gear, tarping supplies, a large assortment of treats and four very hopeful children. No vacancy signs, confirmed by speaking with site attendants filled us with dismay as we drove with growing urgency, further and further from home and later and later into the day. How much trickier it would be to ensure the boat-in site would be ours, it was imperative we beat the weekend rush.

We never pared down our camping supply list, on account of needing to boat in all of our supplies, in fact we brought more. My dad packed enough two by fours and a sheet of plywood to set up a very elaborate beachfront tarp system, complete with level picnic table and of course an ample supply of firewood. We would need to do two trips. Weighed down, the trip took 45 minutes to an hour depending on the moodiness of the water. When we picked up speed, the rear of the heavily-packed boat often threatened to sink below the surface; it was my brothers job to hop up onto the bow. Those of us who could, clambered forward and the rest of us just leaned and held our breath, hoping we could displace enough weight to not go under. Somehow, our ambitious packing never caused our capsize, though in one terrifying moment, my brother and his friend were both washed into the water, but just once.

We had enough supplies to fill the beach, due to my dads over-sized tarps and furniture made on site. To onlookers, I’m sure it seemed as though we had always been there and were leaving no time soon and so we never had to share the camping area. I’m quite sure the small number of unruly, bedraggled children had nothing to do with it.

Upon arriving at our explorers paradise, the skies broke open and the rain poured down. We set to work unloading and setting up our tents. The outstretched arms of the cedar trees offered very little protection from the rain. We longingly joked about abandoning the whole trip for a warm hotel, but we grew up on a budget, dad had already left for the second load of supplies and it was already growing dark. We were just barely able to see beyond the branches of the trees, the rain making the lake’s surface come to life. We fumbled through set up and took shelter inside the kids’ tent. We climbed into our sleeping bags, clicked off the flashlight and settled in to wait for morning.

After what felt like forever, we heard the trusty hum of the Double Eagle’s motor. Our dad —an experienced camper—startled us all as he walked around the tent pushing on the walls, “stay away from the walls to stay dry,” he warned. We huddled together, with our backpacks, in the middle of the tent. Sleep overtook us all as we imagined what tomorrow’s light might bring, listening to the falling rain on the tent.

We excitedly unzipped the tent and stumbled out to find a much more favourable day for camping. We played amongst the trees, on the sandy beach and cooled off in the frigid water. We enjoyed tubing, holding on for dear life until we plunged into the cold water that smacked like concrete and took our breath away. “Faster!” We screamed.

As the day warmed, an old man kayaked over to our campsite, two smaller kayaks in tow. A tiny bathing suit showed off his sun weathered skin, his eyes appeared so large behind the thick glasses he wore on a strap fastened behind his head. He may or may not have been a little “off,” said my mom who prided herself on her stellar intuition and never took her eyes off of us as he hoisted us in and out of his kayaks, summer after summer. I’m not sure if it was politeness or curiosity that led her to allow us to follow him to his campsite a short hike down the beach. She followed closely. He was set up to stay the majority of the summer in an incredible fortress made of the wood he had collected from the beaches. These sticks were surely enjoying their second life; I’m sure he was a good guy.

I admire my parents resolve for adventure. Taking four whining, heavily-resistant children into the elements is not for the faint of heart. I don’t recall any of us kids ever loving the boating part of these escapades, though when our feet hit the ground again, as we reached our destination, we were happy explorers.

My brother-in-law recently rewired the motor at my mom’s request, and we all cinched up our orange life jackets extra tight (pretty sure those were original), sat our kids on the brown cracked leather seats and took a ride on the Double Eagle, for old time’s sake, fondly thinking back on all the trips we survived.

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Don’t Tell Mom

As kids, we were routinely locked out of the house when our mother needed some well-deserved down time — which usually consisted of her reading her water-logged Bible in the claw foot tub, in our one bathroom house. We never knew how long it would be before outside time ended, she had a habit of stirring in more hot water and Revelation had fallen into the water a long time ago. It was our job to entertain ourselves on an eight acre acreage, complete with an abandoned barn, a forest, a creek and a pond, flanking the aptly named Bear Mountain. 

Our knocks and urgent hollering fell on deaf ears, in event of emergency we were without a doubt, on our own. After we wrapped our minds around things, we embraced the predicament we found ourselves in and lost ourselves in the voracious landscape and our imaginations. We could conquer this infinite passage of time — together. It was us against the elements, for perhaps eternity — there was no way to be sure.

Funnily enough, we never saw a bear, perhaps our heads were too caught up in our games to notice any curious onlookers. Perhaps we were too loud. Or perhaps our free-spirited, free-roaming dog, my dad found in the “unwanted” section of the newspaper —free to good home— kept them at bay. Shamoo, came with only the name, a half-bag of kibble and his thick white coat, full of the mysteries and adventures his happy grin only began to allude to. He traversed the perimeter of our property (and well beyond) alerting predators of his and our presence.

While there were places and activities forbidden to us, the rules were stretched or forgotten altogether when we ventured outdoors unsupervised. Our imaginations grew as we created portals into another world, one where only we existed, outside of the rules, outside of reality. We climbed tall ladders into high hay lofts, we rode dirt bikes at break neck speed we spent whole afternoons capturing and releasing creatures. While it was expected we had common sense, common sense was best learned by making a myriad of mistakes. Left to our own devices, it was up to us to learn and appreciate our own limits.

Given a brief introduction to knife carrying safety, my brother was set free with his first Swiss Army knife— never whittle towards yourself or run with an open blade. The instructions seemed straightforward and the knife made sense for reaching the next level of outdoor enjoyment. Sharp weapon-like sticks and rudimentary carvings were already in the works. It wouldn’t be long before we were blazing trails with machetes. When my brother fell, doing something he shouldn’t have, he lodged the knife deep into his hand between his finger and thumb. “Don’t tell mom,” he said. Those words were a pact we all deeply understood. 

While we enjoyed tattling on one another at many points in life, the wilderness built within us a camaraderie like no other. The fresh air that filled our lungs, ran through our veins and fuelled our hearts, coursing through us all — we were different outdoors. It was us against everything and we most definitely would respect the pact, by not telling mom. We learned wound care that day, and a deeper respect for sharp objects. 

Due to our apocalypse-fearing Christian upbringing, we often played an enchanting little game called, “End of the World,” where we imagined we would soon be the only people left on Earth, or need to go off-grid for any variety of reasons. Whatever the situation, it was pressing that we sharpen our survival skills. Imagine our dismay, when we learned a compass comprised of a magnetized needle and a leaf in a bucket of water could not save our mortal souls. It didn’t much matter we could survive the rugged terrain, bellies full of the sourest huckleberries. We could catch fish in buckets and we discussed the nutritional value of grubs and insects, only one of us brave enough to try. We had nothing but time, the wilderness and each other and so we practiced well. 

A friend from work mentioned she had removed a book from the school library shelves, titled Schoolyard Games, a how-to type of book, circa 1980. One of the chapters boasted a fun little game where children throw pocket knives at the other participants to avoid boredom and of course, increase knife skills. Thinking fondly of my own childhood, and us throwing sharpened sticks at eachother, I suggested she re-shelve the book (to no avail — though probably for the best). 

I couldn’t help but smile to myself, as my brother presented his own children with their very first pocket knife, during a family camping trip. I even got to listen in as he explained the simple rules for the miniature blades. I watched as they carefully realized what potential lay in their palms. “Enjoy.”

Now we have the most incredible opportunity watching our own children from our windows — giving them the illusion of aloneness — as they scale tall hills, use sticks as swords, catch frogs, gather insects and test their own limits, right at the foot of the same Bear Mountain. I watch as they increase their familiarity with the wild, one tiny step at a time. I listen intently though for worrisome sounds, not quite ready to draw myself a bath and lose track of them altogether, one foot in the 90’s, one foot right here. If ever I am lucky enough to overhear the phrase, “don’t tell mom” used by my own young children, I will try my absolute best to smile. 

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Unstructured and Unsupervised: Attempting to Raise a (somewhat) Wild Child

I’m slow reading a book titled The Last Child in the Woods by Richard Louv. It’s fascinating, but also long. Basically, due to a large number of factors, children are not playing independently and in natural settings as much as they used to, he believes this is having profound but unstudied effects on children today.

I grew up in the back of town on 8 acres with 3 siblings. We were free and encouraged to roam around and when my mom took a much-needed break (ie. shooed us outside, locked the door and ran herself a bath) that’s exactly what we did. I think back on my childhood with such fondness, but also with astonishment, partly that we all survived and partly because my parents encouraged our behaviours. I really wonder what they thought we were doing out there.

While she was bathing we were eradicating large wasp nests, with a barrage of both buckets of creek water and large rocks thrown from the safety of a very small embankment.

We laid out sticks on the street for cars to drive over, retreating to the woods for cover, triumphant when a car’s tire broke one in half.

We fished with sticks and buckets, bare feet precariously balanced on slippery rocks.

We built rickety fences with real hammers and nails, out of 1×2 pieces of wood and picked hay for the horses we wished to have.

We got blisters digging deep holes, imagining ourselves popping out on the other side of the world.

We lathered ourselves in mud, the thicker the better.

We threw clumps of dirt, handfuls of grass and rocks at each other. We learned to dodge them too, we learned to run fast and to throw back when necessary. We learned to negotiate, call truces and retreat.

We took turns riding our small dirt bike, which appeared small, but when full throttle could send 7 year old legs flying out behind it, while it’s rider continued to grasp the throttle, envisioning the inevitable crash, but hoping for the best.

We were allowed to attempt to sleep in our camper trailer, parked probably 100 meters from our front door. I say attempt because every single time, after the sun went down and our junk food supply ran low, we made that 100 meter dash, usually solo, for fear of wild animals breaking into the trailer. And later we actually slept in a tent, overlooking the trees, surrounded by empty bags of chips and candy wrappers.

When looking at my backyard my child eyes saw freedom, a place to explore to experiment and to build, to test boundaries and physical limits. We were explorers, conquerors and care takers; we were strong, we were brave and we were wild.

I just found out I’m a “millennial” parent, the cut off being the early 80’s, being born in ‘84, I am torn between my millennial thoughts and my desire to parent as my parents did. We were brought up in a different time, the age of double buckling and games of red rover, when we suspected my brother broke his arm, he was told to “sleep on it.” There was no google to tell my parents they were doing it wrong, so they just did. The only “mom group” my mom belonged to was literally a group of her three closest friends. Articles on social media didn’t alert them to the 1000 ways a child can die both in and outside of their home, forcing them to second guess every decision they made; they followed their instincts and their instincts served them well.

The millennial parent in me sees: a creek, filled with ankle shattering, wrist breaking, skull cracking rocks, ending with a drowning death pool, a busy road with fast dangerous cars packed with potential perverts, thumb bruising hammers and skin piercing nails, a perilous crash hazard, lurking bears, hungry cougars and angry wasps. I am so very fortunate to now live only 4 houses away from my favourite childhood property, surrounded by the forest, full of perceived potential dangers. It makes me anxious just thinking about my kids being outdoors without me, and yet I want that for them.

I want my kids to find joy in the outdoors, to navigate this space independently together, to use their imaginations and to care for nature. Louv says in order for adults to want to protect nature they must interact with nature as children and this occasionally involves destroying it. Which feels contradictory, but I think back to my days of trail blazing, feeding bugs to spiders, stepping on slugs, catching fish in the inhumane way, breaking off trees to make marshmallow roasting sticks, uprooting plants and cutting worms in half, and I know he is right. I have a deep respect for nature and I feel incomplete if I haven’t had enough time outside. I shudder to think of my children following in my borderline sociopathic footsteps, and yet so hope that they do.

I want to raise wild children while still keeping tabs on them. But I fear that’s not possible, because it wasn’t until my mom actually locked the door that we were set free.

Thank goodness, I’ve got a few years to wrap my head around this whole independent outdoor play thing, since right now, I can’t trust them alone down the hall.