In just one day, we’ll be loading up the car (and probably overstuffing it) for our annual camping trip.
Last year, we spent two nights and three days on beautiful Manitoulin Island with a friend and some of her kids. The weather was perfect, and every day was full of laughter. We hiked to hidden lookouts, swam in clear lakes and under waterfalls, explored caves, and found beaches that felt like secret treasures.
One of my favourite quiet moments was on the shores of Lake Huron, where I spotted fossils embedded in the bedrock. It instantly took me back to my childhood, fossil hunting with my dad. He had passed away earlier that year, and in that moment, standing there with the waves lapping at my feet, I felt both the ache of missing him and the warmth of remembering those days together. It was like a little gift from the lake.
Of course, there were also the moments you don’t plan for but end up laughing about all year—like realizing we’d forgotten a hammer for the tent pegs. The kids gamely tried to push them in with their feet, kick them into place, and bang them with rocks. Somehow, it worked (eventually), and it definitely gave us some of the best laughs of the trip.
And then there was the legendary beach incident. My son, who was five at the time, decided that clothing was clearly optional at a remote beach. Before I could stop him, he had stripped completely naked and was sprinting across the sand, squealing with pure joy. His eldest sister, absolutely horrified, took off after him in a full-speed chase. I laughed so hard I could barely stand—his tiny bare bum disappearing into the distance while her desperate attempts to catch him failed spectacularly.
We cooled off with freezies and ice cream, enjoyed picnic lunches on trails and beaches, and spent evenings around the campfire making s’mores, sipping herbal tea (when the kids didn’t steal our mugs), and staring up at a sky full of stars.
This year, we’re making it three nights and four days—partly because we forgot how long we stayed last time, and partly because two nights just isn’t enough. We couldn’t get the same site, so we’re switching it up and heading to Grundy Lake Provincial Park.
It’s going to be hot—heat-warning hot—so the plan is to get up early for hiking and exploring while the air is still cool, then spend the afternoons in the lake until we’re almost waterlogged. We’ll have water guns ready for splash battles and a well-stocked first aid kit—just in case our adventures get a little too adventurous.
Evenings will be for campfires, meteor watching, and testing out our next-level marshmallow plan: jumbo marshmallows slit open and stuffed with Reese’s Pieces, Turtles, and Cadbury Caramilk, then toasted until melty perfection.
And the food this year? We’re ready.
- Breakfasts: crispy bacon and eggs
- Picnic lunches: wraps, fresh fruit, trail mixes, juicy watermelon, and cold drinks for hikes and beach days
- Dinners: chicken fajitas, chicken and veggie skewers, hamburgers with jarred salads, and toasted hotdogs over the campfire
We’ll miss the planetary alignment, but we’ll still catch a bit of night sky magic—the Perseid meteor shower peaks while we’re there. The bright moon will hide some of the faint meteors, but the big streaks will still light up the sky if we face northeast, away from the moon.
This trip also carries a different kind of meaning this year. My ex was recently arrested and then released on yet another promise not to break the promise he’s already broken before. Statistically, this is one of the most dangerous times for survivors of domestic violence. Camping, for us, is more than just fun—it’s a place of safety. A place where he cannot reach us, physically or mentally. For these four days, we will be wrapped up in the safety of nature, surrounded by the sounds of wind in the trees, water lapping at the shore, and the laughter of people who love and protect each other.
Of course, we leave tomorrow and I haven’t started packing yet—life has been a blur of renovations, paperwork for the new lawyer, and gathering documents for the next court battle. Thankfully, I have an awesome friend who made me a list, and most of the food is already bought. I still haven’t located a camp mat or the tent yet, let alone thought about the rest of the packing. The laundry is almost caught up and folded, so clothes should be easy, but there are always those elusive items—like the extendable marshmallow toasting forks—that seem to vanish every year.
I’m off to meet the new lawyer today, and hopefully by the time I’m back we’ll have a solid litigation plan in place. Then, paperwork can go in a neat pile to be forgotten about for four days while I go full-on camp-packing mode.
While we’re gone, my friend will be staying at the house with her dogs, looking after mine (and the cat). She’s also planning to do some wallpapering and painting for me, but I hope she spends time on the porch with a cup of tea, soaking up the quiet. Even though she’d insist I don’t, I want the house to feel welcoming for her. The bedding is in the wash now, and tomorrow I’ll get my son to pick her flowers from the property. We don’t have a formal garden, but wildflowers grow wherever they like here—and I let them.
This morning, my youngest daughter woke me at 5 a.m. so we could watch the planetary alignment together. There were smiles, hugs, and a few too many mosquitos, and although we only spotted two of the planets, it didn’t matter. It was time together—just the two of us wrapped in the early morning stillness—making another little memory before we even start our trip.
Last year gave me fossils in the stone, laughter on the sand, and a reminder that some memories live with us forever. This year will bring its own treasures—ones I can’t plan or predict. Maybe it will be a shooting star that catches someone’s wish, a quiet moment by the water, or another story that will have us laughing for years.
Camping with friends and kids has a way of creating the kind of memories that stick. These will be the trips the kids remember—the stories they tell when they’re grown, the laughter they hear in their heads when they think of summer, and the feeling of freedom that only comes from campfires, lakes, and days lived entirely outdoors.
