A Brand New Day

I was recently asked to write the following piece -- for inclusion in a 20th Anniversary Book -- about a place near and dear to me, Wild Women Expeditions. It was a treat to reflect, smile and snicker-out-loud about my time there. Here's the story...

A Brand New Day

New Year's night, 2007, my journal declared: “This is it -- the year I will go to be a Wild Woman! Enough with the excuses for the past FOUR years. This summer I shall depart these carpeted cubicles and conference rooms and go to the Canadian wilds!!”

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"Again, tell me exactly what this wild women place is all about, eh?"

Impatiently, but trying to appear patient, I explained to the Canadian Custom’s patrolman, the third of his kind who I had spoken to in the past hour, "Officer, it is an eco-tourism business that leads hiking, biking, kayaking, etc. trips - exclusively for women."

His brow remained crinkled with puzzlement, "And you say you're not going there for one of these 'trips', but to work?"

"Well no, not to work in the traditional sense, just in exchange for room and board, not dollars. There's no monetary compensation. I'm a volunteer."

He half-nodded and exited the room. I wasn't convinced that he was convinced, and expected a forth patrolman to question me, or worse, escort me back to the lower fifty. They thought I needed a working visa, as they couldn’t comprehend someone willing to work for zero wages, and they thought that Wild Women Expeditions was a suspicious fanatical group of unruly tribal-like ladies (though, in hindsight, I guess they were kinda right about the latter). Perhaps it was the tears I mustered up – never underestimate the power of a wild, weeping woman – or maybe they simply decided to be nice, but whatever the case, my entry to Canada was conceded. After accidently back-tracking the border's bridge into the U.S. (believe you me, that mini-interrogation was somewhat disorienting), and pulling up to the patrol booth a second time with a meek: "A-hi there. Me again," I carried on my way.

Fortunately, this complicated crossing was no foreshadowing for the weeks that followed at WWE. That night, having racked up over 1000 miles since Maryland, my hardy hatchback triumphantly rolled into base camp, where the greetings were warm and my anticipation high.

As habitual a creature I am, I came to love – crave even – the un-routine days that followed. Accustomed to keyboards and speaker phones, the hammers, saws, brooms, paint brushes and screwdrivers entrusted in my hands were strange to me. Getting a grasp on such foreign objects was no small feat and it was fulfilling to witness the fruits of our worker-women-bee labor, e.g. a refurbished floor and décor in the Capatalist Store, fresh paint on the Beaver Bathhouse, Prospect Tents and out-houses, and pretty bouquets, fresh sheets and tucked in bedspreads in the cabins.

However, it’s only fair to note that while satisfying these tasks “ends” were, their “means” were another thing. Stinky sweat, biting bugs, a limp from a sprained ankle and headaches from fatigue made my city-gal self question whether I was being a wild woman or simply a crazy lady. Undoubtedly, it was the river – my friend the sweet, frigid Spanish River – that assured my sanity. Morning, noon and night I swam solo, in the nude, stroke after stroke, finding a rhythm just right. Refreshed from these dips I would often perch upon the deck, cuddled in my fleece and green towel, and jot in my journal. One such evening I wrote: “The sun simmers and begins to descend. It’s only 8:17 p.m. and sleep beckons me, wild, tired woman I am. But it’s such a pleasant state of tiredness – quite loose, quite lucid, quite the essence of excellence.”

The food we stewed, fried, steamed and baked in the base camp's kitchen were also all excellent. We made welcome dinners and bon voyage breakfasts for WWE trippers, and on my birthday I was flabbergasted by streamers, balloons and the best-ever gluten-free chocolate cake and crepes. Aside from my pancakes that set off the smoke alarms, and my rice pudding that I made so much of that we had leftovers for well over a week (and eventually compost), we were a gourmet, earthy-sort of cooking crew. And the days in the kitchen that proved to the wildest for us wild women that summer, were those catering to fifty-plus women who flocked into camp to attend a unique multi-day seminar with the renowned earth-based spiritualist, Starhawk.

Chanting and swaying circles of fifty-plus Starhawk enthusiasts. A mysterious riverside full-moon ritual. And a barn dance party that displayed women from all walks of life, liberated from their day-to-day routines and surrounded by an immeasurable sense of security. Dread-locks and barren breasts swayed, infectious smiles spread and Van Morrison’s chorus was sung out in unison: "And it seems like and it feels like, a brand new day, a brand new day, yeah." I clearly recall gazing at this mystical site from the barn’s high loft, seizing the moment and reveling at my good fortune of having come to these Canadian wilds.

That night, I scribbled with delight in my journal: “I’m absolutely as spoiled as can be with the life that I'm liven' here. I sleep in a wee cute log cabin alongside the splendid revitalizing Great Spanish. I’ve sprouted the bulkiest bi-ceps I’ve ever had. Kind hearts and open minds surround me. And tonight, at the barn dance, entranced by Van Morrison’s encouraging croon, I let my inhibitions aside, and danced to the beat of my own WWE Brand New Day -– my partner tenderly whispering instructions of steps, speed and assurance."

Alas, the day eventually came to pack up my hatchback and head out, back across the border, back to my D.C. city abode. I drove in the wake of my WWE gang for a portion of Rt. 17, and the tears inevitably welled up in my eyes as I watched their 'ole truck and bright colored canoes make a right turn in the opposite direction. Karen and Laura's arms were flaying waves of goodbye out the truck's windows, I was honking rhythmically on my little horn, and the rain was trickling down with a subtle fury to add to this touching scene of fare-thee-well. [sigh]

Good times my wild women friends. Good times.