Hey there.

First off, I wanna say:

I may not know you. But in a weird way, I have a relationship with you that makes me feel like I do, and my feeling is one of gratitude to you for reading this.

So thanks, Steve.

(Just wanted someone named Steve to freak out by reading that).

ANYway:

I’m back from my trip to Temagami Ontario with my family, which I wrote about last week.

What happened

My 7-month pregant wife and I loaded the Corolla (not bragging) and left Toronto at 5:30 am, with our daughter and dog grumpily still waking up in the back seat.

We arrived at Camp Wanapitei mid-afternoon.

If you’ve never been to Lake Temagami, spolier alert: it’s beautiful.

Staying in one hunting lodge were:

• 7 families

• 11 kids (between 2 and 11 years of age)

• and 11 adults (the parents & grandparents)

It was beautifully chaotic. I loved it, but my wife had a hard time with that much stimulus, which is fair.

The event itself, and Luke’s story

My sister and Camp Wanapitei had worked together to have a session for the staff, where we:

• told the story of how my younger brother Luke died

• the impact it had on us

• what kind of a person he was

• and what we hope was learned from his death

His leaders, Vanessa and Bill spoke first.

On August 10th, 2005, which was day 10 of a 21-day trip, they realized they’d left some gear behind at last night’s campsite.

Vanessa and Bill, 20 and 22 years old at the time, agreed to split up; Bill would hike the short distance back to their previous campsite and bring the gear, and Vanessa would watch the kids, who wanted to go swimming.

As Vanessa described it, she saw Luke with his lifejacket and helmet on, but didn’t see him go into the water.

After a while, she realized he was missing, and had everyone search for him. Then, she saw his shoe floating in the water downstream.

She found him in the water, pulled him out with difficulty, and tried to administer CPR until it became clear it was too late.

Bill spoke next, and talked about what it was like coming back to the campsite to this nightmare of a scenario, and how they dealt with the kids, and called in the local police.

Luke’s campmate on that trip, a young lady named Kate, added some details.

Then, it was my turn to speak.

What I said

I talked about how canoe tripping gave me so much confidence as a teenager, and how I hated it at first, but quickly learned to love the wilderness, and the whitewater, and even the neck-breaking portages.

I told the story about how I found out Luke died while on my own canoe trip (see here if you want to hear that.)

I shared how I was sure I would become a trip leader before Luke died, but that his death made me give it up, because it was too painful to keep tripping.

I talked about how badly I dealt with it for almost 10 years (hint: drugs and booze).

And about finding joy in my life with a family, proving there is happiness and life after grief and loss.

And me, my mum, and my sister shared about the kind of kid Lukey was:

• He loved music. He played drums, guitar, piano, clarinet, and alto sax. We loved jamming together, playing Neil Young songs, his favourite artist ever.

• He was a complete chocoholic. One day in Grade 9, he was stoned and had no chocolate bars, and I caught him eating powdered hot chocolate mix with a spoon

• He played competitive soccer, even being really small for his age

• He was really good at planning, and strategy games, like chess and Warcraft 2

• And he was fascinated with Buddhism. He asked for incense, and Buddha figurines, and books on Buddhism for birthdays

Finally, I shared the fact that now, I’m a storytelling coach and public speaker / storyteller, which I don’t think is a coincidence.

The takeaways

Stories matter.

They matter because they hold wisdom, and knowledge;

They matter because they help us bond and connect with other human beings;

They matter because they remind us of our shared humanity;

And, in terms of true stories:

If they get changed, or lost, or corrupted, the people who’s lives they tell of get erased or obscured.

And as his family, and the people on his trip who were affected so much by his death, we didn’t want the camp to lose his story 20 years later, either what happened to him, or what kind of a kid he was.

And it feels like, telling the story to the camp 20 years later, that I can close a chapter in my life, marked so heavily by grief, loss, and shame, and embrace more joy and happiness over the next 20 years if I’m lucky enough to have that time.

Oh, and speaing of joy:

My daughter Ruhi and dog Mathilda absolutely LOVED the trip.

That’s it for this week!

Next week we’ll get back to the “paid speaking gigs” material, I promise.

Thank you all so much for reading, truly.

Greenblast, OUT 🚀