Peterborough Morning

A rhythm explodes through my dreams and I am awake. I reach for my phone to stop the digitalized alarm and am suddenly immersed in mid-October morning sounds. The sun is shining, says the colour of my tent. Bright, lustrous orange. I push my head further outside the 'broil' setting of my sleeping bag and the cold attacks the newly exposed warmth of my face.

Maybe I can just sleep for a few more minutes. . .

But no. Today I am time wolf and the team depends on my wakefulness to start the day on time.

With the strength of responsibility, I push myself out of the tent and unzip the mesh, then the fly.

The grass sparkles silver. The fly is covered in a thin icy layer. Leaves twirl to the ground, the first frost--an abrupt farewell. A haze hangs over the river beyond our tent village--perched, unsuspecting, on the river bank.

I shake each tent and call the names of their inhabitants, making sure everyone has heard the call and responded with their consciousness.

I hurry inside and make my way to the bathroom. I haven't showered for six days, but the smell of last night's campfire makes for a nice perfume as I brush out the tangles in my hair and wash my face.

Photo by: Michèle Bigras

Outside of the bathroom, I fill a pot with oatmeal and water, for about the 43rd time since tour started. I cut up the apples that were donated the day before. I spread out the other breakfast options on the table, glancing out the window for signs of life from my fellow tent dwellers.

They emerge.

Wiping sleep from their eyes, but smiling to greet the chilly morning.

Packing gear and tents in silence, from where I stand, warm inside our host's house. I smile, feeling the rhythm, the routine, unconventional as it may be, that we've finally gotten into.

And I take a deep breath, 9 days left.