"Turn here, take a left".

I jam the brakes on just before we reach the Lapie Canyon and turn sharply onto a narrow dirt road with a Do Not Enter sign posted at the entrance. We ignore it and bounce down through the forest in my pickup.

"There should be a big meadow down here somewhere, this is where we used to camp, when I was a student working for the Geological Survey of Canada mapping Finlayson and Quiet Lake map sheets."

We keep descending until glimpses of river appear between tree branches, a small clearing is passed through, then the road ends.

"This is it!"

I look around, poplars and spruce stand 20 feet high in every direction and there's no sign of a camp.

"In in the early 70's mineral exploration was booming and for the 3 summers we were there we'd put out a radio call to the camps and host a party here. People would come out of the bush from all over the place to the Lapie. Sometimes there'd be 5 or 6 helicopters parked right here. It was the party of the summer, and gave exploration crews a chance to get together to take a break, catch up and tell lies. There was a running race up that hill over there. Jill Pangman was always first or second."

We leave the river, cross the Lapie Canyon and set up for the night at the government campground. It's a weekend, but nobody's there. Moss is beginning to cover the tent sites, the skies are grey, it's not August yet, but it's cool and raining lightly.

"This is what I remember summers were like here."

We cook moose over the fire, and as I chew I think of the clearing that no longer exists, of parties that no longer happen, and of grey summer days a lifetime ago.

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