Just this year during summer break, my Grandpa, my Mom and myself were disappointed to hear that all of the Algonquin campsites near our Huntsville were booked all the way through the summer, which meant our annual camping trip would have to be held at our cottage. It wasn’t too big of a deal, since we would still be able to kayak and go on hikes, but without the midnight mosquito bites and the struggle of locking up food every night.

The first day my mother and I drove up to the cottage had been declared a “relaxing day”, since we had gotten up around noon and were pretty tired from the long drive. The next day, however, was a very important day. My Grandpa, who my family calls Buppy, loves canoeing and kayaking. He adores the history behind Canoe Lake, and so we canoe around that area every time we go camping. However, the one thing he has always wanted to do, but had never been able to do, was to find Tom Thomson’s gravesite.

So, we packed up for our annual canoeing trip. Except, this year, we were planning on something a little bit different. The canoeing alone took what felt like forever, and my arms had already begun to hurt halfway through the trip. That didn’t stop me from immensely enjoying myself, though. The weather was perfect- not too hot with a bit of a wind. Just warm enough to wear shorts and a t-shirt without completely freezing or boiling. The water reflected the warm summer sun, and even with my fear of deep water, I found it to be absolutely breathtaking.

We weren’t even truly sure where we were heading, until we met a nice old lady who happened to live near the site. She was kind enough to give us the general directions to follow to help us on our way. The rest of the trip only took around ten or fifteen minutes, since we were decently close. We pulled our canoe up on a rock near a small forested area, and stopped for a small break. My shoulders were killing me, but I didn’t pay too much mind to that, as the view of the massive lake consumed my vision. Blues, grays, whites, purples and greens shone from the water’s crystal surface, and the only thing I could think of was how in previous years I didn’t truly take the time to admire this breathtaking sight.

Our break didn’t last long though, since soon enough we were on the trail to our destination. It would have been a much shorter hike, if I hadn’t gotten us lost. We definitely should have followed the bright orange arrow spray painted on the ground. My bad. With the help of my mom’s excellent eye, we found the hidden pathway into another forest and made our way into what seemed like an endless path of trees. Just when we had lost hope, there it was. Just over the hill, a small grave site belonging to Tom Thompson- and it was the water that got us there.