BY CHRIS BRAUER
Advance staff
I look up from my book to see the last of the direct sun highlight selected peaks and pockets of the Selkirk Mountains as the men stand on the end of the rocks with their fishing rods and the women sit on a blanket on the beach as they flip through magazines and copy inspirational quotes into their journals. There is still snow at the top of the range, and the sun provides a warm amber glow to the icy blues that remind us of our long winter. On the other side of us, above the highway, is untouched wilderness. The lake is calm and painted in broken reflections of blues and greens. The water is high, and has captured much of the beach so we are closer to the tree line than on previous visits. As I look out towards the far end of the lake, I kick off my sandals and massage my feet on the smooth warm pebbles. The dog is now content to sleep on a towel and she waits for the possibility of sausage ends at dinnertime. The past half-hour was spent running into the water and playing fetch, and now she’s tired. I watch as she breathes in and out, and I know she is dreaming of running when her legs twitch.
Only later did I learn the area is called Burden’s Cut. We still refer to it as French Poodle Beach because that’s what we named it one summer when the boys were little. Some call it Trashcan Beach because the pull-off at the trail’s head once featured a trashcan, but it was removed years ago. The act of naming it made it feel more personal somehow and it is still one of our favourite places to picnic when the weather is nice. It is rarely spoiled by obnoxious day-trippers that fill the quiet with annoying techno music or crass conversations about drunken escapades. It is a safe haven from the busier beaches like Twin Bays, and I have mixed feelings about sharing our experiences there for fear the secret will be out and the beach will become overrun.
I walk back to the car along the narrow trail that winds up to the road to fetch my journal and pen. I find footing on the rocks and roots as tree branches lightly scrape my bare arms – already pink from a long weekend under the sun - and return to find my son collecting small sticks for a fire. Twenty minutes later, as the fire burns, we pick away at the food left over from the weekend: a piece of cheese that was never opened, apples that escaped unscathed, and we pass around a container of watermelon chunks we cut up that morning in Kaslo. We were an hour early for the Kootenay Lake Ferry and we stocked up on samosas and sausage rolls at the Old World Bakery & Deli. We wash it all down with iced tea and lemonade. A little while later, the flames have died down to provide us with hot glowing embers. It is perfect for cooking and, wrapped in tin foil, the Dolly Varden trout that was caught earlier in the evening is placed gently on the coals. The campfire smoke rises gently into the air and then blows around the corner where the sun dips further behind the mountains. We spy a golden eagle as it scans the water for his dinner. Once the fish is cooked, we flake off the pink flesh and pair it with Miss Vickie’s Sea Salt and Malt Vinegar potato chips.
We finish the day with marshmallows, and toast the cubes of white fluff to perfection. After sandwiching them between chocolate covered digestives, we toast the day with our s’mores and wipe excess melted chocolate and marshmallow stick from around our mouths. As it gets darker, and the pebbles that were once warm are now cold to the feet, we put on our sweaters and become entranced by the last of the glowing red coals. One of us breaks the spell, comments how late it must be, and we haul our belongings back to our respective vehicles. The weekend is over and, after the drive home, we quickly put the food away before dutifully crashing into bed with the warmth of the sun on our eyelids.
Time: 8:32 p.m.
Place: Kootenay Lake