Mud, Mosquitoes and Memories 

By Sylvie Potje

The first time my parents took me camping, I slept in a baby cradle.

Actually, I’m not sure any of us got much sleep that warm July night at Earl Rowe Provincial Park. I cried so much that my mom eventually moved me into the backseat of the van and stayed up all night watching over me. For an infant accustomed to the still and sensible suburbs, it must have been strange to hear the cawing birds and the swishing of trees instead of the relative silence of the brick house in Barrie.

My nights spent under the mesh netting of the portable crib were short-lived, though. I had a younger sister, who soon replaced me in the bassinet as I nestled between my parents’ sleeping bags in the tent, bringing with me the sand and leaves of a well-spent day.

With my parents’ jobs, we were fortunate enough to have the whole summer at our disposal, just waiting to be filled with adventures. We’d take road trips across the province, spending our weeknights at provincial parks while the weekend crowd was gone. From Algonquin (where my parents got engaged) to Killbear, to Bon Echo, and to Grundy, we took advantage of the bountiful Canadian wilderness that stretched beyond the city.

Like most children, my sister and I possessed an ever-expanding array of small toys. Our collection was impressively homemade: full of button furniture, seashell bowls, animal figurines, and wooden blocks. Every trip, after packing our Disney sleeping bags and polka-dot rain boots, we would fill a small box with our favourite toys. As soon as we got the chance, we’d clear a space in the dirt to construct houses of twigs and leaves for our little figurines. Acorns became cakes, sticks became walls, and pinecones became Christmas trees. A simple log was more than an obstacle; it was the gateway to our kingdom. To any passersby, it might appear strange to see two children lying flat on the dusty campsite, hands sticky with sap and surrounded by piles of twigs. We didn’t care; we were locked in a game that was equal parts dramatic roleplay and model-building.

Of course, at our parents’ insistence, we did eventually leave the campsite. The family took guided tours, balanced on rocks along the shoreline, and paddled in our kayaks around the lake. We took pictures of pretty rocks and trees, we cycled up and down the dirt trails, and we sang proudly as my dad strummed a guitar around the campfire.

Often, we’d take group camping trips with family friends, sparking several yearly traditions. One heavily anticipated event was a large group trip to Mara Provincial Park with six other families. As the parents sat around a seemingly undying campfire, dozens of children would assume their roles as fort-builders, fire-makers, leaf-collectors, and pretend-players. Once per trip, we’d engage in an elaborate “Amazing Race” style scavenger hunt, sending us running around the campground to uncover clues.

Another tradition was our annual October camping trip with two friends from school and their families. We’d book adjoining sites at Awenda Provincial Park every October when the leaves had started to turn red, and the wind grew colder. After the mosquitoes and the summertime crowds retreated for the winter, we’d enjoy a more peaceful weekend getaway. The six children would take on the six parents in an annual soccer baseball tournament on a diamond marked out by sandals in a clearing in the woods. Every game was a blur of wild kicks and heroic slides in the mud. The kids would tell you that they win every year, but the parents would disagree. Years later, they’re still demanding a rematch.

After we’d recovered from our tournament, we would allocate one afternoon to taking a long hike. A dozen bug-sprayed and sun-screened campers would bike to the trailhead and begin our 5-8km journey. Yes, some of us would complain about the heat and the exercise, but we all secretly enjoyed the experience. We’d sing repetitive camp songs until our parents’ ears bled and play Alphabetical Improv as we nimbly balanced on rocks and stumps.

As we grew older, our summers were filled with extra courses, day camps, and part-time jobs. It has become harder to find the time to get out into the wilderness, but I can still remember the sticky sap and mud under my nails, reminding me of those childhood summer days in the woods. I am grateful for the experiences I had as a child roaming the great outdoors, and I hope that this wonder and curiosity for the world will stay with me throughout my life.

Sylvie Potje is a youth writer from Barrie, Ontario. She is the winner of the 2023 Stephen Leacock Student Humorous Short Story Contest and a runner-up in the Barrie Art Awards for “Most Promising Youth.” She enjoys theatre, music, and environmental activism. She currently studies English, Theatre, and Knowledge Integration at the University of Waterloo.