Around the Campfire

Every summer, my family takes trips to our camp on Goose Bay, an inlet along the St. Lawrence River near Alexandria Bay. As I’ve grown older and become busier, I appreciate the relaxing weeks I spend there more and more.

On the hot days, we pile into motorboats and ride to islands, where we sprawl out on the warm rocks before plunging into the freezing river water. When we return to camp, everyone lies in our field and snacks on chips and salsa. As the surrounding trees’ shadows overtake the field, everyone strategically maneuvers their chair or towel to sit in the remaining patches of sunlight.

After dinner, everyone huddles around the campfire. Sometimes we play guessing games. My uncle Kevin, for instance, always comes up with bizarre riddles that the rest of the family tries to solve. Other times my brother Sean brings out his guitar and plays some Dylan. Over voices and laughter constantly overlap with one another.

The goodnights come in predictable stages. Around 9 o’clock each night, my grandparents head to bed. It doesn’t take much longer for the married couples, like my parents and aunts and uncles to complain about how late it is (mind you, this is around 10 o’clock) and head to their cabins and tents. The last people sitting around the fire are always the group of teenagers and 20-somethings.

We sit around the fire, talking and laughing, until nothing but glowing embers are left. My brother dumps a pail of water in the pit. We listen to the ashes sizzle into lifelessness. After that, we ransack the community cabin for food and drinks before trudging through the dewy field to our huge, 8-person tent.

And there, curled up next to each under layers of blankets and sleeping bags, we say goodnight before drifting to sleep.