Oddly Roughing It in the Bush in 2013 (written on another even day - oh well!)

We went camping last week. Not in a clean, bright, colourful tent from Bass Pro Outdoor World. But in a shadowy one-room log cabin built deep in the northern back country of Algonquin Park back in 1922.

It's called Bissett Road Ranger Cabin if you want to look it up. If you know me, you won't believe we actually chose this place over a stay at Arowhon Pines, but we did. Eleven-year-old R has been begging us to go on a family camping trip for years and years. And as she's growing so quickly, it just seemed like we couldn't put it off any longer. Oh, the things we do for our children, huh?

The Ranger Cabins are a pretty interesting alternative to tent camping - especially if you don't own a lot of camping supplies already. And if your child is interested in living like a pioneer for a few days, all the better, because this really did remind me of Little House in the Big Woods from the Laura Ingalls Wilder series.

Constructed of logs almost a hundred years ago, it was originally built as a moose hunting camp out in the middle of nowhere. With moose, bear, deer and goodness-knows-what-else wandering freely through the surrounding forest, swamps and meadows ... it must have been a hunter's paradise. But for a middle-cass family from Toronto? Well, its appeal was questionable.

When we first arrived at our campsite after a loooooooong drive along a lonely dirt road upon which the only traffic were squirrels, voles and herons, there was some initial confusion over how to pick up the key to the cabin. Secretly I was pleased because - on seeing the cabin for the first time - I couldn't picture us actually staying there. Even the Bates Motel would provide a more relaxing sleep, I thought. At least we'd know there'd be hot showers! But this wooden hut was very tiny, and rustic, surrounded by trees and clouds of mosquitoes, and looked almost like the crooked little house of folklore.

There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile.

He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile.

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

But we did get the key, eventually, from the nearest Algonquin Park office about a 25-minute drive away. And we did end up sleeping there in that ancient cabin, snuggled against one another on the hard wooden bunk beds, warmed by the fire my daughter built in the black iron wood stove. And by the second morning awakening there, we were very sad to have to pack our things and leave.

Why? Because of the silence, for one thing. We live in a house in the city. The roar of traffic and construction and trash-mouthed people - and just the tiresome din of civilization - is what we hear on a regular basis. We sometimes find ourselves shouting over the ambient noise of our community, just to get ourselves heard by one another.

But at the cabin - aside from the brief rumble of a logging truck that passed once each day - our family was immersed in complete silence punctuated only by the songs and rhythms of the natural world. There were no humans around us for literally miles and miles. The trees were ridiculously tall and wide, with dense, rough, ancient bark embedded with markings that looked like symbols - like Mother Nature's hieroglyphics - telling the dark secrets of the woods and its inhabitants over the past few hundred years.

After their batteries died, our electronic devices were silenced, as well, by the complete absence of electrical power and the lack of signals. No Blackberry. No 4G. No phone service. Nothing.

Day or night, all we could hear were the squawks and calls of birds, the chirrups of chipmunks, and the weird scratching and popping noises of what we liked to imagine was a curious black bear lurking in the shadows. The symphony of blue jays and herons. The occasional hiss of the wind rushing like a river through the pines and birches. The mysterious - almost frightening - drumbeats of the unknown. The hungry crackle of the campfire. The rustle of J and R collecting sticks and branches to keep the blaze fed.

I never wanted to tune any of it out - but rather found myself listening attentively. Appreciatively. Relishingly (which is apparently not a real word, though it should be!).

I'd love to say - now that we're home - our family yearns for the tranquillity of Algonquin Park. That we wish we were still back there burning pancakes on the outdoor grill. That we're rugged nature-lovers of the true north, strong and free. But none of that is the case. A family of Catharine Parr Traills we're not!

Despite being back to the grind of work, and emails, and subway delays and ready access to all the world's bad news again (hello again, Rob Ford, Egypt, and Sammy Yatim) ... we are very glad to be back home. And we are grateful that we can simply swipe a light-switch when it's dark, or boil our water on the kitchen stove, or go to the bathroom without a massive tarantula-like spider staring at us from the outhouse door. And the ability to flush? Pure heaven! Yup, convenience, on demand, is how this family rolls. Yikes, hold on a second while I see why my phone beeped ... Oh, I have to take this call. Bye for now blog.