Ontario cradles Lake Oba,
Two hundred miles north of the Soo,
A lake with rock ridges all over
And water as cold as it's blue.
Our summertime goal is to go there,
As pilgrims are drawn to a shrine,
No highway, just trails leading nowhere;
There's only Algoma's one line.
We stop at two hundred twelve miles,
The station, a post by the lake.
Our things are put off in mixed piles,
but each of us knows what to take.
The pontoon is there for the hodge-podge
Of clothing and groceries and gear;
Our launch rounds the point to the lodge
That's been in our thoughts for a year.
The camp tender comes out to greet us,
While chipmunks run over our shoos;
And soon the pet woodchucks will meet us,
Now out from their long winter snooze.
No current for lights and no plumbing,
No telephone hangs on the wall,
All part of our reason for coming:
We're "getting away from it all." |
Whitefish and the famed yellow perch,
Huge walleyes and grat northern pike,
These fish more than pay for the search
And fill us with thrills when they strike!
From somewhere, just north of the lake,
An eagle makes two trips per day;
While calls that the loons always make
Come in from a full mile away.
Both moose and red deer have been sighted,
And beaver abound everywhere;
Then, too, we're all scared and delighted
By visits, sometimes, from a bear!
The bracing air gives us the feeling
We're getting much more than just fish;
It's wholesome, it's healthful, it's healing;
It's all any human could wish!
Then, when these long journeys are over,
And time brings a change to our ways,
The mem'ries brought back from Lake Oba
Will live on and brighten our days. |
