Skip to content

In your own backyard: Ruth Lake

An afternoon of napping on Ruth Lake
12610294_web1_180712-OMH-staycation-ruthlake
Ruth Lake on Sunday, July 8. Beth Audet photo.

How does one write about taking a nap?

Well, I suppose that’s not all I did at Ruth Lake on Sunday, July 8. I also tried reading and swimming, not simultaneously, of course.

I’ll start over.

Driving up Eagle Creek Road, I was sure I’d gone the wrong way. It was all thick, dense forest.

Then I turned a corner and gasped, something I’ve been doing a lot of since moving to the Cariboo.

It was nearly impossible not to gape at the scene unfolding over my shoulder.

Curvy tree-lined banks framed the shoreline of the powerfully still water, hinting at secret hideaways around every corner.

Eyes on the road, eyes on the road, eyes on the road.

Sunday was hot and bright and glorious; I’d expected a crowd.

Only two other families lounged by the water.

Kayakers and paddlers drifted in the distance.

RELATED: In your own backyard: rodeos make for some entertaining days

I plunked into my lawn chair and cracked open Linwood Barclay’s Stone Rain.

Minutes later my eyes wandered off the page towards the water. The story was failing to take hold of my imagination.

The lake, however, was flirting with me.

I conceded and put down the book. No escape would be necessary that day.

I reclined my neck and accepted the full force of the sun. I breathed deeply and smiled.

A little girl off to my right giggled as she played in the water.

Two large dogs to my left rolled in the grass.

My thoughts slowed and my inner dialogue turned off. I closed my eyes.

The world was frozen; nothing mattered.

Stillness will do that to a person. Like a black hole you willingly throw yourself into, she consumes you and rewards you with rest.

I couldn’t tell you how long I layed there until I drifted off, or how long I had slept for (I left my phone in the trunk) but when I woke I was slick with sweat and drool.

Time for a swim.

RELATED: In your own backyard: the South Cariboo Farmer’s market in 100 Mile House

To say the lake was cold would be a dirty, filthy lie. It was arctic. Or, more likely, my sun-soaked skin heightened the chill.

I squeaked at first touch. The sound that came out of me was involuntary and embarrassing. I proceeded.

I’ve never been a big swim-in-the-lake kind of gal. Fish freak me out.

So when a school of long and transparent little swimmers curiously approached my calves, I froze.

I wiggled my toes and they dispersed, only to return moments later.

One brave little bugger gave my ankle a nip before returning to his buddies, a total Finding Nemo “He touched the butt” kind of moment.

That was enough swimming for me.

I returned to my lounge, succumbing to the sporadic pull of rest, before hunger woke me for good.

Packing up my gear I looked back out over the lake.

Ruth, you have hypnotized me.

I drove home heavy-limbed and took another nap. If this isn’t a vacation, I haven’t a clue what is.


beth.audet@100milefreepress.net

Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.