Another Sign

The view from our campsite, at Jones Falls, in 2013.

Three...

Two...

One...

*Click*

It's been a ritual for nearly a month now.

DW and I set our alarms, daily, so that we can get out of bed by 6:50. We trudge downstairs, to our dining room, where a couple of laptops await us. We power up, log onto the same Web site, and search for available spots, and count down the seconds to 7:00, when we can click a button.

Reserve.

Like hundreds, if not thousands of other people, we've been trying to reserve camp sites in the dozens of Ontario Parks grounds. The rules allow you to reserve up to six months in advance, and reservations can start at 7:00 in the morning. But because many people are turning to camping, rather than travelling abroad, because of COVID-19 restrictions, these camp sites are being snapped up at record levels.

DW and I have created our own accounts and are trying to get a reservation at Killarney Provincial Park, where we'd like to kayak around the northern end of Georgian Bay, around Philip Edward Island (a different PEI). And every morning that we try, we are thwarted by someone whose mouse click is just a nanosecond faster.

The Ontario Parks Web site even has a clock that lets you synchronize, so that everyone has the same advantage. I'm beginning to wonder if there is a slight lag between the time the reservations open up and the time I click my mouse. Tomorrow, I'm going to try to click about a half of a second before the clock rolls over to 7:00:00.

Because I know that if I'm even a second late, any available site will be gone.

While it would be nice if I was the one of us who successfully snags a site, to make DW happy, I'm also secretly hopeful that neither of us has any luck. After all, I don't really want to go camping. Several years ago, in the Dordogne region of France, I told my family that I had had my fill of sleeping on the ground, of having only a thin layer of waterproof polyester between me and the elements, of having no sound barrier between me and my neighbours.

But because DW and I bought kayaks last year, we've come to the realization that it can be difficult to go for day trips in some of the most beautiful parts of the country without pitching a tent. Most hotels aren't situated close to where we could store our kayaks.

We camped once, last summer, in Algonquin Park. I promised DW that I would break my vow to never camp again this one time, but that I wasn't going to make it a habit. And I let DW know, the next morning, that I didn't have a restful night, that I didn't appreciate the mosquitos that were relentless in their pursuit for my O-negative blood, and that I really didn't enjoy eating or washing up outside.

A couple of months ago, DW was searching for kayaking adventures, once again looking at places where we couldn't just drive to for the day. She's booked us a night, back in Algonquin Park. Unable to secure a camp site where we could park our car, she's booked an interior spot, where we would have to leave our car behind and to where we would have to paddle, with all of our food and equipment with us.

She's also booked two nights at Samuel de Champlain Provincial Park, along the Mattawa River. The fact that she was able to secure two nights over a weekend makes me wonder about how nice a place this is. (I'm sure it's lovely.)

And she wants us to go to Killarney, where (if we can reserve a spot) we would be staying for three nights. I told her that this would be it: no more camping after this. In 2022, don't dare ask me.

She's purchased new gear: a compact double mattress that packs smaller than either of our single mattresses. New collapsible chairs. A trolley for easily rolling our kayaks over portages.

Now, more than ever, I can't wait for this pandemic to end, when we can travel abroad like we used to.

And stay in hotels.