Where the wild things are

My childhood memories include camping trips in July, as my pastor-father sought renewal in the wilderness of different provincial parks. In the early years of our relationship, Ralph and I enjoyed exploring parts of the country with a tent. We adapted when our older two were born and became skilled at packing the trunk of our Ford Escort with all the necessities, including sand toys and clip-on-the-picnic-table toddler camping seats. 

Try and try again

When our third and fourth children were born, with all their developmental concerns and medical equipment, we were determined to make camping still work. A generous brother-in-law let us use his trailer, and he worked with a local business to create a wheelchair ramp that attached to the door. Still, even a weekend away required a mammoth amount of work and stuff. Several years (and medical issues) later, and feeling overwhelmed at what used to be a joy, we decided to find adventures that suited our limitations. 

I miss the wilderness, the experience with nature that felt remote but just steps away from the camp store. There’s something quite amazing about breathing deeply at the pinnacle of Algonquin’s Lookout Trail or hearing the paddle touch the water, watching the j-stroke create little whirlpools in its wake. The wilderness I knew meant the hairs on the back of our necks might stand on end, as we listened to wolves howl or hear bears sniffing our campsite, but we could laugh with relief over our fears in the station wagon en route to home. 

Nowadays, we are navigating a different kind of terrain. On the girls’ first day of summer vacation, I took them to a local playground next to Lake Ontario that has some accessible features – a firm base (instead of wood chips) and a swing that I can set the girls in, provided I have another adult with me. My nurse and I watched Janneke sway in the summer breeze; Rachel fell asleep in the shade.

Rough ground

When Rachel woke up, we went to find the water. Ordinarily, there would be a mat placed on the sand, allowing anyone with mobility issues or strollers to navigate the beach. I was frustrated to see the mat buried in the sand, something our city’s recreation department was supposed to maintain. In that moment, I hosted a pity party in my heart, angry that something so simple was neglected. I was envious of the families around us, children skipping from their towels to the water’s edge. 

I was also mindful of my fear that so much of this work in creating access to the ordinary seems to rest on my shoulders as my kids’ advocate and caregiver. I’m not suggesting we pave paradise and put up parking lots, but I look forward to the day when more of us can experience the gift of being in the wild.