On a recent camping trip to majestic Algonquin Provincial Park in Ontario, Canada, my husband and I reserved a double kayak for a half-day float down Hailstorm Creek, off Opeongo Lake. It’s a well-known location for spotting moose.
I’m not going to lie, I lay awake in bed the night before, letting aaaaall manner of worst-case scenarios run through my head.
What if we DID see a bull moose? And it didn’t like being seen?
What if the kayak had a hole in it, and we didn’t discover it until it was too late?
What if one of us was suddenly plagued with a bloody nose? or diarrhea? or a stroke? (Seriously, the midnight mind is bonkers.)
Why was I so afraid? Jim and I have kayaked many times, albeit on safe, small lakes close to home. This lake is enormous, around 22 square miles, with many arms, bays, and creeks branching from it. It's kept quiet, pristine and wild.
When we first pulled our trailer into our campground we noticed not one but two warning signs at its entrance:
Attention! Bears in area.
Caution! Wolves in area.
Not to mention the moose the park is known for.
Of course, the whole reason we came was to enjoy God's creation, to see wildlife in its natural habitat. But to see signs like this sure fired up my imagination. This may be our happy place, but it’s also slightly terrifying—especially out on the water in the middle of nowhere in just a kayak.
The next morning started with a promising sign: a mama moose and her calf by the side of the road just outside our campground. Jim was happy with the photo op, and so was I—from my safe spot in the truck.
At the access point on the lake, we climbed into the water taxi, driven by Jimmy, whose weathered face, flowing white hair, and easy handling of the kayak were evidence that he was a veteran of these waters.
His boat was beautiful, locally handcrafted from cedar, we learned, and though it was only five years old, it was as weathered as Jimmy. I took delight in the precise placement of every plank, each one perfectly curved to meet at the bottom.
I trusted these planks to hold us as we sped ten miles up the lake and the early morning wind froze my face and made my eyes water.
I trusted that Jimmy would remember, in four or five hours, this sandy patch at the mouth of the creek where he dropped us off. He would be back then to pick us up from this place that, to my eye, looked identical to every other river mouth and sandy spot along the lake.
We loaded our daypack, camera bag, and then ourselves into the double kayak and I trusted it to hold our weight and carry us down the creek and back without sinking.
I trusted also the Garmin satellite communicator Jim had promised to bring to ease my fears. No cell service in these parts, but if necessary, we could send out an S.O.S. and alert someone of our exact location. It would also help us to navigate the waters without getting lost.
Yet the night before this excursion I allowed every terrible possible scenario to play out in my head. I tried to pray, but no sooner had I said “Amen” than visions of overturned kayaks, sinking supplies, and charging moose came back to taunt me.
Why did my mind stick to these images instead of considering all the magnificent surprises God might show me the next day?
Because that is what He did.
The sun was warm, the sky blue, and the water edged by swampy greens—the ideal setting to see moose. Over and over, my paddle scooped the reflection of puffy clouds off the surface and spooned them back into the water—the only sound I heard. It was as if Jim and I were the only humans on the planet at that moment.
We passed seven or eight large beaver lodges along our way, impressive structures that displayed this creature’s God-given instinct and strength.
Lily pads floated on the surface in circles of green confetti, their stems like coiled copper wire shining below the surface. They reminded me of a multitude gathering for worship; I spotted several lily-white hands raised in praise.
The trees along the creek were tall towers of evergreens and maples that gazed wisely over the water, in the beginning phase of their autumnal wardrobe change.
And water bugs skittered across the surface carrying droplets of sunshine on their backs, tiny candles that zigzagged away from our boat.
We saw not a single moose, not even a beaver, but we certainly saw God’s handiwork, felt His peace. My fears were replaced with awe, with curiosity, with marvel.
We paddled in synchronized harmony back to the main lake and floated up to a vacant campsite to have our lunch. Several islands dotted the expanse of water; rocky outcroppings foundations for tall pines that pointed like arrows to the blue sky as if to shout, “He made this! He made this! Isn’t it glorious?”
As we sat on sunny rocks and munched our apples, the stillness was broken by the sound of loons. We spotted a group of three or four, calling and diving and calling back. The sound carried over the water—a quivering, haunting, yet thrilling tune, soundtrack to the wilderness.
What if, instead of conjuring up every worst-case scenario the previous night in my camper bed, I had remembered the creativity, the artistry, the power of God? What if I had allowed myself to imagine what beauty this portion of the world—where God had stayed the hand of humans—would hold? What if the flipside of worry was .... wonder?
What if?
Be still, and know that I am God.
Psalm 45:10
all photos by Jim Balcom
