Motorcycling and Imaginary Horror Films

I left my house at about 11 a.m., one hour later than I wanted to because I got a little side tracked applying for Expedia jobs. A couple in Massachusetts that I thought had passed, and another in London I forgot all about. We'll see what comes of those. Mom called and woke me up at about 8 a.m., she told me there would probably be no rain today, but most likely on Sunday. Yeah, she was a little, how do we say? wrong? I got a little past Arnprior on Hwy. 17, when it started pouring, no evidence of civilization anywhere in sight. Great. I get totally soaked and pull off when I see a small town gas station. The lady in the store has a thick Russian accent. "Hi, I will need some gas in a little bit, when the rain dies down. Mind if I hang out here for a bit?" "A store is not a place for hanging out." "OK, I understand that, but it's kind of pouring out there." (point) I walk away and pick up some Ben and Jerry's. She immediately perks up. I ask her how far it is to Hwy. 60, and she tells me, smiling, in her best broken English. Oh my. I figure it's probably going to rain the whole way there, so I put my whole rainsuit on. Yeah, it totally saved my life. The whole way there, driving through enormous swamps and beside gorgeous lakes, I couldn't really enjoy it because I was periodically wiping my visor off with my gloved hand and squinting through the streaks it left. Nevertheless, I would still recommend a similar drive. I remember driving past Denbigh, the town near Ken's cottage, where I spent Canada Day weekend. I drive the rest of the way through ominous skies and brief rainshowers. An old man at the next gas station just outside Haliburton, advises me against driving a motorcycle through a storm watch. I look at the sky and it's dark grey with an underlining of purplish red, not exactly friendly. The clouds are spread thick, like gauze, and I solemnly nod in agreement, silently cursing my mother for not meeting me at camp on Thursday night instead. I finally get to Hawkestone, on the edge of Lake Simcoe at about 5 p.m. Aleasha booked a site at Bonita Glen, a Girl Guide summer camp during the week, and general peaceful place of rest for Guiders and other members during the weekend. I park my bike and expect to see somebody, anybody there. The place is deserted. I guess all the campers have already gone home for the weekend as well as all the counsellors, even the camp director is nowhere to be found.

Context: Bonita Glen is a camp near and dear to my heart. I came here way back in 1995, for my first "interprovincial" camp. It was a pretty monumental affair. It was the summer after grade 8, and I was super excited, because everyone who went to this camp had to pass a rigorous (for a 12 year old) paperwork process. Adult reference letters had to be written, the applicant had to write an essay on why she would be a star candidate for such an adventure. We really were an awesome (read dorky) bunch of pre-teens. Anyway, I had a super great time there, and I still keep in touch with a couple friends from that camp, on Facebook, yeah, but whatever. So anyway, here I am walking around this legendary (to me at least) camp. First of all, it's way smaller than I remember (of course) and I keep having flashbacks (of the campfires, of swimming at the beach, of crafts on the picnic tables, of flying a kite that I made that same day...I kept it up high in the sky until dark. I also remembered dressing up like a bright red lobster and painting my face with lipstick to star in the Lester the Lobster skit.) Incredible how vivid memories are sometimes.

Anyway, so I'm walking around the campsite and the last cabin I come to is Lake, and it's FULL of stuff for a typical Guider camp, party mix and who could forget the cherry whisky? One bag I recognize as my mom's and immediately I notice a note for me: "Hi hun, (Louise) We went to get groceries in Orillia, see you when we get back." I don't know why everybody had to go, but I guess they had important business to contend with. I wait around, lounging on Trinettes famous luxury lawn chair and write. Before I know it, it starts to pour, and tremendous claps of thunder sound right overhead! It's starting to strike me as some bizarre B-horror flick. I imagine my ladies are all really kidnapped and from inside the cabin, I'm pretty sure I just saw the Blair Witch dart past one of the open windows. I examine the note a little closer, it doesn't really look very much like my mom's handwriting anymore... Oh God... what was THAT?! The rain continues to come down in sheets and I shiver with sheer fear on the plastic-encased mattress in the corner. Please come quick! Someone, PLEASE! A nice man with long grey hair in a pony-tail comes to see if we have our own tents. I of course, have no idea. He seems nice, and very concerned...or is he? This is exactly how everything starts. He tells me to phone when we figure out our tent situation. Yeah right, I'll be watching you, Bill... if that's your real name, of course. So 8 p.m. comes around, and my mom and her friends finally show up. They have not been kidnapped by alien brain snatcher scientists after all. I had gotten pretty hungry, and imagined everyone was out having a posh dinner somewhere. Turns out, it was just East Side Mario's and mom brought me some grocery store sushi. So, the rest of the time was spent giggling and eating snacks while drinking my mom's crappy wine coolers. At about 11 p.m.-ish, me and Aleasha had the urge to go night-swimming. We convinced Heather to come with us. So we went down to the beach and jumped in the extra-cold water (because of the rainstorm you know)... That took about five minutes. You cannot fathom the exquisite feeling of putting on a warm sweater after a swim in a cold, clear lake. If you haven't done it yet, do it tomorrow, honestly, you'll thank me. We changed into our pyjamas and went back inside for some more wine ruined with Kool-Aid, and then we went to bed in one of those old school canvas ridge tents. Hurray.

Found a note!

Sad at Bonita Glen, deserted