Alex lives in Midtown Manhattan, and works for one of those big name financial services companies. He has the Russian accent, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and the globe-trotting past thing going for him. He's also friends with Lee, and clearly didn't know enough to run away when presented with two options for his weekend with Mr. Bowes: take a road trip to Montreal and hang out in the peeler pubs, or come along on a kayak trip on Georgian Bay.

Now, I'm the first person to declare my love affair with Georgian Bay. Or at least, I was, until my two kayak trips so far this year turned into soggy shivering sessions. A bit of rain here and there is fine, and the conditions don't have to be perfect. Uniform grey skies, grey water, and drizzle alternating with rain at temperatures far less than 15 degrees, though, and I can only maintain an optimistic "the sun will shine tomorrow" outlook for so long (how long? Five minutes or so...)

So, here I am, with many, many wonderful nights out on the Bay behind me, in a boat that I know and love, with some people I've paddled with a few times and enjoy, and some that I'm only meeting but have every likelihood of enjoying. And there's Alex, who had only spent one night of his life in a sleeping bag (something about a hike and a boy scout camp in Russia in his childhood), who had never, ever been in a kayak, and who obviously has a sadistic friend, since Lee's idea of fun is to take the new-to-the-backcountry, new-to-Canadian-wilderness, new-to-camping man on a trip with a forecast of solid rain. And low temperatures. During bug season. At a time of year when the water is very, very cold. And potentially choppy. On a trip that is rated GLSKA C-3, which means both "experienced" skill category and "strenuous" paddling. I'd say the likelihood of Alex discovering the great delights of the Bay is not exactly up there with the chance of winning your money back when you place $10 on the favourite in a horse race to win, place or show.

When I planned the trip, I put the C-3 rating on it because I wanted to go at a good clip, and I wanted to go a decent distance. However, the reality of an 11-person trip is that this is simply not feasible - not only does everyone have a different speed, but the velocity of a group travelling together is inversely proportional to its size for some reason. Lee, thinking we'd travel at a good pace, took Alex out before the rest of the group launched to teach him some strokes, and then communicated via FRS radio that he was going to take advantage of the head start. Given that Lee has kayak certifications and is far more qualified to look after someone than I am, and given that we had radio contact (such as it was), and given that we'd discussed the possibility of splitting the group if the speeds were too disparate, all that was good. Little did I know, though, that our group of experienced kayakers would not catch up to Alex and Lee until we reached our final destination, Dead Island, some 25 km later!

There's something about Dead Island. It was the fourth time I'd been there, and my third time camping there. I picked it partly because it's a route I know and love, but mostly because there is so much in that area to explore - and for some reason or another, I never, ever have the time. The first time I was there, I didn't have much experience at all and it was a day of choppy water and I was just happy to get past it. The second and third times were with Lee, and we did the boot up on Saturday, paddle back on Sunday thing - which leaves little time for a side trip to the Bustards. This time, I swore, I'd get to the Bustards - after all, we had three whole days for this trip, which meant a layover day! My Bustards day!

Of course, I'd reckoned without fate. Four of us on this trip - Sarka, Laura, Stef and I - had already had our quota of cold, rainy weekend on the McCrae trip at the beginning of the month. Or so we thought. Turns out, the powers that be wanted to ensure that Kasia, Melissa, Wayne, Paul, Willa, Lee and Alex were not left out of that particular Bay mood. Or maybe it was something to do with Dead Island itself - weird things happen every time I do that trip. Why make this one an exception? Why have the sun shine on us for even an hour when we can be forced to get to know one another while huddling under tarps? It's rained on every one of the Dead Island camping excursions, after all.

I never thought it would happen, but I found myself squatting under the tarp, dirty and uncomfortable, and I realized, this is fun? This is what I do on my weekends? I pay money for this particular pleasure? I would probably have gone on in that vein, but then Alex pulled out a big-ass bottle of vodka, and a deli's worth of sliced meat, rye bread and pickles. We were then introduced to some rudimentary Russian manners. According to Alex, every time you take a shot, you eat. Well, obviously I can do that! But then he also said that nobody stops until the bottle is empty, and my liver recoiled and snarled at me before I even had a chance to contemplate that thought. Regardless, we had a fun evening under the tarp, and it took taking his never-having-camped-before friend to get everyone else to admire Lee's provisions rather than make snarky comments about bagged soup and pasta...

All good things must come to an end. And some things that are not entirely great should come to an end sooner than planned. I woke up on Sunday morning to howling wind. I reached over and turned on my radio and found a weather forecast. Monday? High of 7. Heavy rain. It made Sunday's 60% chance of showers, high of 15 and winds 20-30km/hr (albeit with gusts up to 50 km/hr) look positively charming. So I did what all people fond of creature comforts would do: I talked to every member of our group, and we chose to abort. We'd travel back to Britt on Sunday, and have the holiday Monday at home. No Bustards. No second night under the tarp. No regrets. The only snag was the wind - at such cold water temperatures, and with not everyone wearing a wetsuit and not all at the same skill and fitness levels, I was worried that the trip back would be a bit more strenuous than the group would be entirely comfortable with. I proposed an alternate takeout, via the Key River. In the end, only Alex and Laura took me up on it, and Lee ended up joining us at the last minute. The rest of them, under Stef and Melissa's leadership, went back the exposed route. Me, I was cold and cranky and quite happy to take my flaky rudder (which Lee had temporarily fixed on Dead Island) and goof off on the 15 km boring stretch. And that was that. We went home.

It wasn't the greatest trip, but it didn't totally suck. If I said it totally sucked, I'd be dissing myself - after all, I was the organizer of this adventure, and a lot of the little things that weren't perfect could have been helped by thinking things through more effectively on my part. I couldn't change the weather, but I could have ensured a group of paddlers closer in paddling style. And that would probably have meant a smaller group, but I wanted all who came to be there. And besides, now that I've proven myself to be such a mediocre trip organizer, I can merrily use that excuse and go on other people's trips and just.... paddle!

And maybe, if the Russian wasn't totally turned off the Bay by the grey, wind, cold, wet, buggy, blister-inducing trip, Lee will take him again on a sunny summer's weekend, and then he'll see why there are nutcases like the rest of us love the place so much. Not that he complained, or looked disappointed in any way, until the very end - when he pulled out his cigarettes, which had turned soggy. Nothing like the look of a soaking wet Russian man trying to smoke a disintigrating soggy cigarette on a park bench in the rain to really sum up a trip