By Sarah White

Whenever a weekend was coming up, and my parents thought the weather forecast looked good, my brothers and I would get the word: “Pack your pillowcase. You have an hour. We’re going camping.” That meant we needed to fit everything we thought we’d need in one pillowcase: clothes, underwear, pajamas, books, stuffed animals. Mother would take care of raincoats and sweatshirts, but anything else we might need was up to us.

While we stuffed our pillowcases, Mother pulled the big aluminum ice chest and the dry goods box from the shelves in the garage next to the big white station wagon–the shelf where all our family camping gear stood at the ready. She emptied the fridge into the ice chest and checked the supply of canned goods in the dry goods box. In an hour, we could be ready to go, the wayback filled with the cooler and dry goods box, and between them and the rear seat, a soft area made from the big rectangle that was our canvas tent, topped with the sleeping bags and foam mattress pads. Any child in need of a nap or just freedom from being squished in the middle of the back seat was welcome to lounge back there.

On top of the car went a little fiberglass boat filled with more gear and toys. Strapped on top of that were the folding chairs. Rolling down the highway, we probably looked like Okies headed west from the Dust Bowl.

If a weekend was all we had, we might head anywhere in Indiana or south across the Ohio River into Kentucky. Seems like campsite reservations were never a problem in those days, the mid-1960s.

Camping was when I liked my family the best. My brothers weren’t as mean to me. Mother and Father weren’t as tense. Nature was all around us, and we were the better for it.

Once a year in August, starting when I was six, we packed even more gear into the station wagon and headed north to Canada. The activities were roughly the same, but the boreal forest setting made my heart sing. I felt in my bones that this was where I belonged.

As the youngest of three, no one ever consulted me about anything. I was never offered a role in the planning or even asked my opinion about our camping life. It never dawned on me that I could, or should, have a say. That changed one day in August 1970 when I was nearly 14, I spoke up.

We were camped at Lake Superior Provincial Park, deep in the forest on the northern coast of Lake Superior. It was a spectacular setting, with inland lakes as well as the wild Superior shore, and miles of rocky trails crowded by blueberry bushes.

While camped for our usual two weeks, we enjoyed all our well-honed family rituals—the sandwiches and desserts made with the “quickie-pie” device, night walks to the shore to lie on our backs on the stony beach while Mother pointed out constellations with a flashlight, drives into town for groceries and laundromats to dry our soggy clothes and bedding after it rained.

Returning from one of these town trips, we stopped at the park gatehouse to read notices on a bulletin board. There, I saw an advertisement for the Agawa Canyon Train Excursion. It was a day trip, with several hours for picnicking and fishing between the outbound and return legs.

As we got back in the car, I said, “We should do this!” And for the only time I can remember, my voice was heard. Father and Mother agreed it sounded like a fun day trip, and the brothers didn’t raise objections.

And so the next day, we did it: boarded the train and rode through gorgeous scenery deep into the canyon. When the train stopped, we disembarked on the grass-carpeted valley floor. After a picnic lunch, Father got out his fishing gear and settled in beside the stream that gurgled through the narrow valley. The rest of us hiked up to the Lookout, a promontory approached by a trail that turned into 300 stair-steps. The view was magnificent—vast and empty of human structures, other than the toy-sized train on its tracks below and the picnic area beside it, where our fellow day-trippers were scattered about like tiny dolls. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Mother said. The brothers said nothing, but even so, I felt a silent “thank you” slide toward me. I felt as if I’d grown an inch.

For the first time I can remember, my family took direction from me. And as it turned out, that was the last time, as well. That was the last summer Canada camping trip. We three siblings were teenagers now, headed in new directions. But I’ve always treasured the memory of that day I got us to Agawa Canyon.

©2026 Sarah White