While it was still raining, we pitched up our tents inside of the barn on the second floor loft (accessed by an old, sketchy ladder) so they could dry and hung up our drowned sleeping bags wherever there was room. A band of guys set out to find the canoes and rescue them from the river. I remember hearing that they took turns diving below the water to cut the ropes that the canoes were secured to, so they could be set free and brought up the gravel road to the barn. One of my friends came back with his teeth chattering, lips blue, shaking from head to toe. We recognized the signs of hypothermia and the guys who had remained at the barn helped him out of his wet clothes while the rest of us dug through our bags to find dry clothes and warm fleece jackets that would fit him. It was interesting to see how the experience of the flood wasn’t driving us apart but pulling us together.

 

The barn was fairly small with old musty hay scattered over the mud floors of long-vacant animal stalls and across the creaky floorboards of the barn loft. There were picture windows created by broken beams and missing boards that let in the afternoon sunlight that washed the previously grey and dreary surroundings with yellow and orange hues. When they midday sun banished the rain, we came alive.

 

Blue skies and puffy white clouds with a slightly warm breeze made for an idyllic day as clotheslines and hammocks were strung up from tree to tree. Everyone’s gear was drying, the lunchtime spread was being put out, we had fresh water from Jack who lived up the road, and the canoes had been saved from the flooded river one by one. We set out our camping chairs in the midday sun to dry and sat in circles, reading, journaling, and napping. People ventured beyond the barn and the little area that surrounded it, past the “No Parking” sign that stood between us and the gravel road we had walked up on earlier that morning, carrying our heavy packs and gear into what looked like hopelessness under a tin roof. I had been wrong about the barn.

 

We banded together, groups of people taking on cooking responsibilities, others visiting our new neighbour up the road to make the necessary phone calls to our leaders, exploration parties seeking to review the state of our underwater campground, and others who reviewed our situation and began to step up into roles of leadership and make choices.

 

The day passed quickly and we gathered together in the evening. This was a crucial moment for our group. Would the leadership that had formed be accepted and respected? I sat slightly nervously on the edge of my camping chair, wondering if the people around me would agree with the decisions that had been made or if our Swiss Family Robinson life would take an irreversible twist into a Lord of the Flies world of doom. I saw that my worry was wasted as people nodded along with the purposed plan in the near dark. Our group had avoided the possibility of major dissention and was getting along well.

 

By each person in the group working to our individual strengths and knowing what we were capable of (I wouldn’t have been able to drive into the river to free the canoes), we were able to settle ourselves into the barn and enjoy the nice weather that was to follow after the flood. The days we spent at the barn was a time that drew us close together as a group, allowed us to relax and enjoy each other’s company without having to wake up early and canoe every morning, and gave ample opportunity for reading and journaling, and enjoying the scenery around us. It was great to be able to enjoy the best part of our camping trip in harmony; as a group undivided and working together towards a common goal.