The glass-like waters which I canoe on,

across boundless lakes and rivers I see,

a tawny deer and its spotted furred fawn,

in lush leaves laying staring back at me.

I fin’lly reach the sought after campsite, 

pitching the tent on moss-strewn rocks and dirt.

Smoke from the campfire rises to the night,

‘fore hopping in the tent, always alert.

Out of the comfort of my sleeping bag, 

preparing breakfast of bannock and jam,

canoe back in the water, what a drag,

portaging it at ev’ry beaver dam.

Although I’m grateful for my home a ton,

for me canoe tripping is number one.