The First Stretch

I woke up early on Monday morning, ate breakfast with my family, packed a few last-minute things, and hugged my people goodbye. My family joked that the first song I should play on my drive ought to be John Denver. I smiled and took their advice, queuing up “Rocky Mountain High” as I headed down the driveway. I teared up melodramatically as I drove down our road in the magical morning fog; I’m not mountain-bound on this trip but the song gets me all the same. One time when I was just a wee tadpole, my dad put on a John Denver CD as we drove somewhere in the RV with all six of us kids in tow. I remember sitting on the armrest just behind his seat, staring at the passing trees through the massive windshield and being transcended into an adventurous, outdoorsy feeling as I listened to that opening guitar strum. From that moment on, I was a lifelong John Denver fan and his melodies became the soundtrack for my camping adventures.

I thought a lot about those family camping trips as I headed down the highway. I’ve had lots of camping experiences in my life but this is my first time going solo for more than a night. The first hour of this drive felt ordinary; I’ve driven the stretch between Belleville and Kingston hundreds of times over my seven years as a Queen’s student. I know every exit, curve of the road and rock formation by heart. Even driving up to Cornwall felt pretty normal but the adventure became real once I hit Quebec. I’m originally from Atlanta and spent my childhood in the Blue Ridge mountains and I didn’t learn any French. I took three years of French after we moved to Canada but the classes weren’t practical and I left no more fluent than when I started. Not being able to read the road signs immediately threw me off but as the day progressed I learned to rely on other informational clues, and much to my surprise, every person I’ve encountered so far speaks at least a bit of English. I’ve attempted a “Merci” when paying for tea and a hashbrown at McDonalds but even that simple word has come out more like (please have) “mercy”. Needless to say, I downloaded Google Translate and keep it on standby.

I moseyed my way into Quebec, taking a stretch break every hour or so to ease myself into the long drive and to give Cece some breaks. She’s in great shape (minus the exterior rust) but she’s also a 2011 with 305k, so I try not to push her through super long stretches of driving and I park her in the shade when I can. All in all, Cece and I covered about 575km on the first day and settled into a campground midway between Montreal and Quebec City. I plan my stops by pinning a few possibilities in Google Maps and end up staying at whichever place feels the safest and most homey. This campground had great reviews (from what I could tell on their very French website…) and the photos showed a seasonal RV park with a playground and lots of forest-like trees. Sure enough, when I arrived the atmosphere was very family-like and I saw a lot of older retired people and (grand)kids walking around, mingling from site to site.

I pulled in around 8pm but I couldn’t tell which building was the main office (there were a few buildings near the front but none of them had signs). I drove slowly through the park browsing possible sites and met a very kind older man who was walking down the road. He spoke English and I explained that I couldn’t find the main office, didn't have a reservation, and just needed a place to park for the night. He chuckled and said that the place was very laid back and nobody checked sites after this time of night. He told me to just pick any open spot and set myself up. He kindly pointed out where the bathroom buildings were (they weren’t labeled either). I smiled, brutally executed a “merci”, and found a cozy (and free!) spot for the night.

I only had about a half-hour before dark by the time I parked, so I quickly boiled water for the next day’s breakfast. I’m a creature of habit and whether I’m home or travelling, breakfast is always super-strong-overnight-steeped green tea and is usually accompanied by oatmeal with brown sugar and crushed nuts. I sautéd some shrimp that I brought from home and added them to a bag of dill pickle salad that I picked up at Metro on one of my stretch breaks. I ate my dinner and in turn, the mosquitos ate me. I had long pants and a flannel on, plus my thermacell AND a citronella candle going but they still munched away. After inhaling my dinner in record time, I tided up my “kitchen” and grabbed a towel to rinse the sticky heat off of me before crawling into Cece for the night. I discovered that the showers operated on a loonie-pay system and I had given my last coins to a parking meter in Kingston that afternoon, so I splashed cold water on myself from the sink and dried off with my towel. It wasn’t a full scrub but it did the job and that was good enough for me.

I curled up in Cece’s backseat bed and soaked up being in the safe, cozy space that my imagination and my family’s nifty craftmanship created. The short camping trips I’ve taken over the last month helped me prepare well for this trip and I’ve got most of the bugs worked out, literally. I have an anti-mosquito system of window screen covers and I crafted privacy curtains by attaching a cut-up tapestry to the window frames with strong magnets. There are also two strands of battery-operated fairy lights that line my ceiling cargo net and meet at the backboard by the rear window, creating a full loop of soft lighting. I fell asleep around 10:30 and slept like a baby.

The thing that stood out to me most from today is how fluent laughter is. As I laid in bed and drifted off to sleep, conversations from neighbouring campsites floated through the air. I couldn’t understand a word that was being said and sometimes even the tones left me unsure if the conversation was happy or angry, but the bursts of laughter were always crystal clear.

One day down, lots more to go!