Camping
The Tent has been worth every cent.
Worlds away, I’ve managed to write pages upon pages a day. Not to mention all the letters, such as this one my dear friend.
It took nine days to pack in. You wouldn’t believe it, myself and the canoe, loaded so heavy you would think water would pour over the sides. Nine days of lakes, rivers, and portages.
Although I long for the fall and my return to the city, these have been some of the most naturally productive and centered day’s of my life. I’ve managed to write pages upon pages a day, not to mention all the letters in between (such as this one my dear friend). The letters and pages are leaving on a float plane that brings the supplies, and all I have to do is deliver the words. It’s perfect. My editor is a thousand miles away and the meager pay cheques are supplied via direct deposit.
An existence full of free time will find it's own routine, and I've slowly sunken into mine. Every morning I wake with the sun. As it cuts a strong shaft through the folds of my tent, I rise from my cot. Often the coals from the night before are still glowing in my fire pit, and all I need to do is stir them, add some kindling, and let the flames grow before the adding larger logs. Then it's coffee and bacon before I set out to walk around the lake. It’s not a large lake and I’m usually back to camp before 11.
This is when I suffer the most.
I sit at my tiny portable desk, the one you gave me, with my paper and pen and struggle through every word. The early evening writing always feels easier compared to this attempt, yet I appreciate the warm up. At three I break from the toil and go for a swim. I’ve found afterward that I enjoy hiking to the small bluff above my camp in the buff. It’s a low, maybe 175 foot, rocky prominence set off from the lake. The climb is a scramble but straightforward and the view is horizon to horizon. Upper Canada has never felt so expansive and I imagine I can see clear to the Hudson bay.
Around seven I fish as the sun lowers and the shadows get long. Some nights I keep my catches for supper, other times I release them back into the lake till we meet the next day on my swim. Then, rolling up several joints, I retrieve my day’s “ration” of beer and food and begin the "good "work. The fun work. The inspired writing.
I’m already in the third act and, dare I say, this may be the greatest Ashley Thompson Adventure yet. He’s found himself bound to a warlord, working an arms route into their local conflict. I may even get to outline the next book before my time in the wild is finished. I will not say anymore less my inspiration be diminished.
I love you dearly and long for the next time we meet and yet, there is nowhere I’d rather be.
Do write back,
-4.25” x 5.5” card & gray envelope
-Blank inside
-Printed on 100lb Cardstock
-Made in USA
The Tent has been worth every cent.
Worlds away, I’ve managed to write pages upon pages a day. Not to mention all the letters, such as this one my dear friend.
It took nine days to pack in. You wouldn’t believe it, myself and the canoe, loaded so heavy you would think water would pour over the sides. Nine days of lakes, rivers, and portages.
Although I long for the fall and my return to the city, these have been some of the most naturally productive and centered day’s of my life. I’ve managed to write pages upon pages a day, not to mention all the letters in between (such as this one my dear friend). The letters and pages are leaving on a float plane that brings the supplies, and all I have to do is deliver the words. It’s perfect. My editor is a thousand miles away and the meager pay cheques are supplied via direct deposit.
An existence full of free time will find it's own routine, and I've slowly sunken into mine. Every morning I wake with the sun. As it cuts a strong shaft through the folds of my tent, I rise from my cot. Often the coals from the night before are still glowing in my fire pit, and all I need to do is stir them, add some kindling, and let the flames grow before the adding larger logs. Then it's coffee and bacon before I set out to walk around the lake. It’s not a large lake and I’m usually back to camp before 11.
This is when I suffer the most.
I sit at my tiny portable desk, the one you gave me, with my paper and pen and struggle through every word. The early evening writing always feels easier compared to this attempt, yet I appreciate the warm up. At three I break from the toil and go for a swim. I’ve found afterward that I enjoy hiking to the small bluff above my camp in the buff. It’s a low, maybe 175 foot, rocky prominence set off from the lake. The climb is a scramble but straightforward and the view is horizon to horizon. Upper Canada has never felt so expansive and I imagine I can see clear to the Hudson bay.
Around seven I fish as the sun lowers and the shadows get long. Some nights I keep my catches for supper, other times I release them back into the lake till we meet the next day on my swim. Then, rolling up several joints, I retrieve my day’s “ration” of beer and food and begin the "good "work. The fun work. The inspired writing.
I’m already in the third act and, dare I say, this may be the greatest Ashley Thompson Adventure yet. He’s found himself bound to a warlord, working an arms route into their local conflict. I may even get to outline the next book before my time in the wild is finished. I will not say anymore less my inspiration be diminished.
I love you dearly and long for the next time we meet and yet, there is nowhere I’d rather be.
Do write back,
-4.25” x 5.5” card & gray envelope
-Blank inside
-Printed on 100lb Cardstock
-Made in USA
The Tent has been worth every cent.
Worlds away, I’ve managed to write pages upon pages a day. Not to mention all the letters, such as this one my dear friend.
It took nine days to pack in. You wouldn’t believe it, myself and the canoe, loaded so heavy you would think water would pour over the sides. Nine days of lakes, rivers, and portages.
Although I long for the fall and my return to the city, these have been some of the most naturally productive and centered day’s of my life. I’ve managed to write pages upon pages a day, not to mention all the letters in between (such as this one my dear friend). The letters and pages are leaving on a float plane that brings the supplies, and all I have to do is deliver the words. It’s perfect. My editor is a thousand miles away and the meager pay cheques are supplied via direct deposit.
An existence full of free time will find it's own routine, and I've slowly sunken into mine. Every morning I wake with the sun. As it cuts a strong shaft through the folds of my tent, I rise from my cot. Often the coals from the night before are still glowing in my fire pit, and all I need to do is stir them, add some kindling, and let the flames grow before the adding larger logs. Then it's coffee and bacon before I set out to walk around the lake. It’s not a large lake and I’m usually back to camp before 11.
This is when I suffer the most.
I sit at my tiny portable desk, the one you gave me, with my paper and pen and struggle through every word. The early evening writing always feels easier compared to this attempt, yet I appreciate the warm up. At three I break from the toil and go for a swim. I’ve found afterward that I enjoy hiking to the small bluff above my camp in the buff. It’s a low, maybe 175 foot, rocky prominence set off from the lake. The climb is a scramble but straightforward and the view is horizon to horizon. Upper Canada has never felt so expansive and I imagine I can see clear to the Hudson bay.
Around seven I fish as the sun lowers and the shadows get long. Some nights I keep my catches for supper, other times I release them back into the lake till we meet the next day on my swim. Then, rolling up several joints, I retrieve my day’s “ration” of beer and food and begin the "good "work. The fun work. The inspired writing.
I’m already in the third act and, dare I say, this may be the greatest Ashley Thompson Adventure yet. He’s found himself bound to a warlord, working an arms route into their local conflict. I may even get to outline the next book before my time in the wild is finished. I will not say anymore less my inspiration be diminished.
I love you dearly and long for the next time we meet and yet, there is nowhere I’d rather be.
Do write back,
-4.25” x 5.5” card & gray envelope
-Blank inside
-Printed on 100lb Cardstock
-Made in USA
