The End of Summer

Just your average Sunday. It began with plans to test drive various city toilet facilities after the Chili and Blues Fest here in Gastown (appropriate locale). 18 types of chili for the bargain price of $15. What goes better with chili than Blues? I don’t know sour cream, toilet paper, avocado, cheddar cheese? Plans were rearranged 45 minutes into the day when all of a sudden out of nowhere came the offer of an intimate flight for 7 up to a secluded lake in the mountains. By 3:00 we were soaring up into the wide blue yonder. It was in fact blue, and wide. Few clouds plenty of sun, and little white paper bags for yours truly to heave into should the fancy strike her.

A 25 minute flight and we were at 5000 feet altitude in a float plane landing gently on the azure waters of Phantom lake. No shit. For a couple delightful hours a group of 7 enjoyed a picnic, some swimming and some feeble attempts at fishing. It was suggested next time we fly up to this particular lake we figure out what sort of fish are calling it home ,and pack lures and bait accordingly. One of my fellow passengers idea of digging for worms was only slightly overshadowed by my idea to stab a small chunk of my roast beef sandwich onto the hook. That worked ok until the line broke. Still, a more successful try than when I tied a string to my finger and tried to lure fish to the surface with that.

I am happy to report I only felt truly nauseated once when we were landing on Phantom Lake. I am also happy to report the Chanel bag I happened to be carrying when we were hijacked to go flying survived the trip. There is photo documentation of some twit hauling a Chanel bag onto a float-plane to god knows where. As we all stood on the dock I felt like we were about to embark on what so many misguided groups do. That being a run of the mill horror movie, where by the group of us would be murdered gruesomely and indiscriminately. By the end of the day we’d (the prerequisite two of us that remained unscathed-ish) end up with at least 5 unexplained disappearances on our hands, and multiple chases through dark and branchy woods.

As it turned out this aforementioned scenario did not happen. But in keeping with my cinematic imagination, I was also reminded of the film classic Lake Placid. As I dangled my dijits in the gently lapping waters surrounding me I asked my boat-buddy over my shoulder “what was it . . . . . (pausing to adjust the string on my finger, as it dripped on my silk blouse) an enormous crocodile?” (delicately splashing the surface again, not noticing the sinister yellow eyes that had just broken the surface 15 yards away)

This also did not happen. What did happen was simply lovely. Not in the slightest dramatic or bone-chilling. We flew to a lake, we landed, we snacked, we “fished”, we left. A delightful Sunday to be sure. The perfect way to celebrate one of the last weekends of Summer.