Trip of a Lifetime
On Different Wavelengths
By
Tamia Nelson and
Farwell Forrest
A Note to the Reader
The last
time out, Ed, Brenna and the Nearys stepped off a train and into a
wilderness. Now they're on the water, and they've been battling almost
constant headwinds. The struggle is taking its toll. More and more often,
the two couples seem to be on different wavelengths.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters are figments of the
authors' imaginations. It's NOT a paddling guide. If you're planning a
trip on the Albany River, consult the most recent edition of a good
guide-book and be sure you're thoroughly familiar with all applicable
regulations. While maps of Ontario show some of the waterways mentioned
here, the places depicted in our story exist only in the authors'
minds—and in yours.
A REMINDER A new chapter in Trip of a
Lifetime, our paddlesport novel-in-progress, will appear on the
first Tuesday of each month. If you've missed a chapter, or if you're
joining us for the first time and you want to catch up, just use the
hot-linked title to go to the In the Same Boat Archives. It's all
there.
Our story continues….
November 6, 2001
Chapter Twenty
"I wouldn't mind spending a few days on
Wabakimi Lake," Brenna yelled to the Nearys, who were paddling alongside,
no more than twenty yards away. "Might even see a caribou. This whole
area's a calving ground, you know, 'specially the islands. Be nice to get
out of the wind, too!"
Her shouted words ended with a grunt. The big canoe's bow had started
to yaw, and she needed to push hard on the hook of her J to keep the boat
on track. Her eyes never left the rocky spur that served as her point of
reference, a fixed guide in a moving world of wind-driven waves.
From the bow of the heavily-laden XL Tripper, Ed maintained a
constant, almost hypnotic pace. His favorite paddle, an ash beavertail
with its grip worn smooth and black from many years of use, flashed
forward, caught the water, and began to pull. The canoe met each
onrushing roller at an angle. It's bow lifted slowly, paused at the
crest, and slid down into the trough, only to lift again as the next wave
approached. No water splashed in.
As much as he enjoyed the ride, though, Ed was praying for a break. In
the last three days, they'd fought their way north up a chain of lakes,
battling constant headwinds. On the rare occasions when they weren't
fighting the wind or the current, they were portaging. Now they were on
Lower Wabakimi Lake, and Ed was almost exhausted.
A gust grabbed the bow, but before Ed could react, Brenna brought them
back in line. Ed thought of their sail, wrapped around its tripod mast in
the bilge of the canoe. "A fat lot of good that's been," he muttered.
Dead weight on the portages and dead weight on the lakes. A dead loss, in
fact. If only the wind would back round! In his mind's eye, Ed saw them
flying up the lake on a beam reach. Another gust hit the bow, stronger
than any so far, and this time Brenna couldn't hold them. Ed pried. The
bow swung back. Then Brenna yelled, "Switch!" and Ed did so, gratefully.
Minute by minute, the four paddlers struggled on toward the narrows at
the head of the lake. Once there, they began searching the islands and
bays for a campsite. Brenna was determined to catch a glimpse of a
caribou. Perhaps she'd even be able to make a couple of paintings. Ed
hoped against hope for good sailing weather. Karin just craved a warm bed
and a respite from the drudgery of constant paddling. She was sure she
was coming down with a cold. Pete was even more impatient to be off the
lake. He was hearing the wind's dirge inside his head all the time now,
even during the rare intervals of calm. He longed for peace and quiet.
A shout from Karin cut through the whistle of wind: "Let's camp
there!" And she pointed toward a sheltered crescent of sandy beach backed
by a dense stand of black spruce, just now becoming visible behind the
rocky point that had been Brenna's guide for the last hour. "I'm bushed!"
she added, and then sneezed.
Ed squinted against the glare of the late afternoon sun. "Look's good
to me," he yelled back. He thought the blackflies would like it, too, but
he kept that thought to himself. Any port in a storm. They were all
tired.
Within minutes, the bows of the two canoes ground gently on the sand.
"Gawd, that was tough," Karin said, slumping in her seat, elbows on
knees. Pete stepped out into calf-deep water and waded ashore in his
neoprene socks and Teva sandals, pulling their canoe far enough up the
beach so that Karin could get out without wetting her feet. She smiled at
Pete. "Chivalry isn't dead, after all," she joked.
Brenna pried the stern of Leviathan round to bring the canoe
broadside to the beach. She and Ed leaped out together, splashing through
the water in their wellies as they beached their boat. A quick inspection
convinced everyone that the campsite was ideal. "Man, this looks
wonderful," Karin pronounced, digging her toes, now freed from
their rubber prison, into the firm sand above the strand line. "Looks
like a great place to spend a few days."
"Sure does," Brenna agreed. "It's wonderful not to be fighting the
wind all the time."
"The damn blackflies think so, too," Pete said ruefully, rubbing his
hand around his neck. A smear of blood could be seen on the collar of his
chamois shirt. Then he scratched his chin. His new battery-powered razor
had quit working on the first day of the trip, so he was letting his
beard grow. It itched.
Despite the blackflies, it didn't take the two couples long to set up
camp. The two tents went up first, followed immediately by two tarps.
Finally, packs were stowed under the tarps, and a driftwood fire soon
crackled in a square fire-pan on the beach. The fire-pan was one of Jack
Van Dorn's many gifts to the expedition. He'd made it from sheet steel
and an old cooker grill. Now a large pot of water was heating on the
fire, and the beach camp was beginning to feel like home.
His chores done for the moment, Ed had gone fishing. He roll-cast a
black leech streamer under a large spruce snag, hoping for a walleye, but
he had no luck. After a dozen fruitless casts he gave up and resigned
himself to curried lentil soup and bannock.
The Nearys had their own menu—homemade pasta primavera, carefully
sealed in a plastic pouch. Yet after looking forward to this treat for
hours, Karin found she couldn't even taste it. Her nose was blocked and
her head ached. She gazed disconsolately across the lake. The dark spruce
were now bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, but even that
couldn't cheer her up. The evening chill sent shivers up her spine.
"Well," she thought, "at least the blackflies are gone." Then she heard
the buzz of a single mosquito. Soon the lone pioneer was joined by
several dozen more, and the solitary buzz had become a chorus.
Hurrying through the washing-up, Karin alternately swatted and
shivered. As soon as she could, she retreated to her small Kelty tent to
put on thicker and warmer clothes, safely out of reach of the cloud of
mosquitoes. Sometimes lying down, sometimes half-sitting, she struggled
into long underwear and her heaviest fleece jacket, tucking her long,
unruly hair into a birthday present from her daughter—a
multi-colored, tasseled "joker hat" that looked remarkably like a fool's
cap. Karin winced. It had seemed a good joke in her living-room back
home, but the humor was starting to wear thin.
When she was done, she joined the others around the fire-pan.
"There you are!" Brenna said, as Karin shuffled over to the
driftwood log that served all the paddlers as a seat. "Water's just
coming to a boil."
"Let me make you a cup of Mus Po," Pete said solicitously, taking note
of his wife's strained expression. "It'll warm you up." He spooned a
scant teaspoon of the tiny black pellets into an insulated steel cup and
poured boiling water over them. When he was finished, Pete put the pot
back on the grill. Ed waited a minute for it to start boiling again and
then filled the Trangia teakettle. He noted the time. Five minutes. No
more and no less. A perfect cup of tea. Mus Po was all well and good, Ed
thought, but it didn't measure up to Earl Grey.
Karen added honey to her cup. She felt better already. The mosquitoes
weren't so bad down on the beach. "Aren't you having any, Pete?" she
asked.
"Not now," he replied. His sandal-clad feet scuffled awkwardly. "I'm
going for a paddle."
"OK," Karin said, not moving from her seat by the fire. Then she
sneezed. A drop of Mus Po splashed onto her fleece jacket. Ed and Brenna
stared at the flames.
Pete's evening excursions were no longer a cause for comment. Ever
since their first day on the water, Pete had gone off on his own for an
hour or so after supper. Sometimes he paddled along shore. Sometimes he
walked along the beach or into the forest. Karin had been too tired to
keep him company on the first night, and anyway he hadn't asked her. He'd
been gone longer than she'd expected, though. Later, when she'd asked
where he'd been, he'd just shrugged his shoulders. "Around," he'd said.
And that was all. It wasn't much of an answer, but it was enough. Karin
was happy to give Pete a little space. For her part, she was perfectly
content to sit back and chat with Brenna and Ed.
Now Pete's regular absences had become an accustomed part of camp
routine.
The wind was dying down. It no longer sighed and whistled through the
tree tops. Pete pushed off in the Explorer, kneeling in the center and
paddling toward the rocky point to the east. Once behind it, he nosed the
canoe into a granite notch. He craned his neck to see if anyone was
within sight, then he reached into his day-pack and removed a Yachtboy
world-band radio. He fitted the ear-bud in place and turned the receiver
on. The carefully-modulated voice of a CBC announcer sounded in his ear.
Looking around once more to be sure that no one could see him, Pete
leaned back against the canoe's central thwart and listened eagerly to
the announcer's every word. News! It was precious stuff. He needed it. He
craved it. And yet he felt a sort of secret guilt about his
solitary pleasure. It was hard to say why. There'd been no discussion
about bringing a radio—no agreement one way or the other. But he was
sure that the others…well, Ed and Brenna, at any rate… wouldn't
approve. For them, this trip was an escape, a complete break from their
everyday routine of work and worry. And Pete was sure that no
intrusion would be welcome.
But he simply couldn't do without his nightly fix now. He needed to
hear what was happening in the world. No. Not the world. The
World. That's how he'd started to think of the familiar sphere of
life outside the enveloping wilderness of forest and water, wind and
wave. The World was where his daughter attended summer classes at
Frontenac Lowlands University. Where the markets prospered or declined.
(Mostly declined now. But that was another worry.) Where he could
eat good food while seated in a comfortable chair, visit his
aromatherapist, play golf with his partners, have hot showers, sleep in a
soft bed. The World. His World. And the radio was now his only link to
it, his clandestine listening-in his only chance of contact. So he paid
close attention all the way through to the end of the world news summary.
Only when the focus shifted to local stories did his attention begin to
wander.
He hadn't imagined that he'd find a summer-long paddling holiday in
the Canadian north so hard to endure. But they were only three days into
the trip, and he was already anxious to be out. He longed to push the
pace, paddle harder, and keep going for more hours in each day. So far
they'd barely crawled along. Sure, the constant head-winds had held them
back, but the head-winds couldn't last forever, could they? No, sir. And
when they let up…well, he'd see to it that they really ate up the
miles.
Suddenly, he heard the CBC announcer say the words "New York." He'd
missed the first part of the story, but it seemed to have something to do
with an arrest at the Canadian border. He listened carefully.
…and in a printed statement distributed to the press, the
self-styled "Colonel" of the ISM, Lesserson Null, denied any connection
with illegal militia activities. The Innisfree Separatist Movement is,
his statement said, "a non-violent advocacy and educational organization,
committed to the long-term goal of establishing the Republic of
Innisfree," a sovereign and independent nation comprising all of New York
State north of the Mohawk River.
"When that day comes," the Colonel's statement continued, "it is our
fondest hope that we can live in complete harmony with our neighbors to
both north and south. We ask only that they recognize our legitimate
claims to sovereignty."
Later, Colonel Null was asked about allegations that the ISM had
recently acquired Camp X, the Second World War-era special operations and
commando training center near Kingston, Ontario. In reply, he repeated
his insistence that the ISM was committed to nonviolence. "We have
recently purchased a property in Ontario for the purpose of constructing
a recreational complex for our membership," he said, adding that he had
"no idea what use the former owners made of it."
The Colonel then referred all questions concerning the pending charges
for attempted weapons smuggling to his lawyer, who was not immediately
available for comment.
The announcer's voice droned on, but Pete wasn't listening any more.
Another lunatic, he thought. The World was full of them today. Still, it
wasn't his problem. Republic of Innisfree, for chrissake! Might as
well be someplace in Afghanistan, for all he knew about it—or cared
to know.
Pete looked at his watch. It was getting late. He took the ear-bud out
and shut off the receiver, locking the keypad to prevent it from turning
on accidentally, and tucked it away carefully in a waterproof pouch in
his day-pack. Then he headed back toward camp.
As he beached the Explorer, Ed walked down the sandy beach toward him,
another steaming cup of tea in his hand. He was preceeded by the
unmistakable aroma of DEET. Pete saw that Ed was wearing his
repellent-impregnated bug-jacket. He didn't have to ask why.
"Let me give you a hand," Ed said, grabbing the Explorer's bow. The
two men hauled the boat well up on shore, where Pete turned it over. Then
he tucked the paddles underneath. Karin poured out a cup of Mus Po for
her husband. She sniffled. Her face bore an expression of patient
suffering. Pete settled down beside her on the driftwood log, put his arm
around her, and muttered, "Poor darling." Then the two of them sipped
their herbal tea and watched occasional flames play over the embers of
the dying fire.
Soon conversation picked up. "So, Pete," Brenna said, continuing a
discussion that had begun earlier in his absence, "what do you
think would have happened if Ralph Nader had won the election? Don't you
think we'd all be better off?"
Karin rolled her eyes and made gagging noises. Ed just grinned.
"Are you serious?" Pete said, pausing between swipes at the growing
numbers of mosquitoes prospecting along the seams of his pants. "The
man's a walking, talking disaster-in-waiting. Now take Forbes…he
would have been something else. Best man for the job. No doubt about it.
But Bush, well, you know, he's not so bad."
Karin nodded enthusiastically. She was about to say "I told you so,"
when Brenna started to making gagging noises of her own. Ed, not wanting
the evening to end in a quarrel, tried to steer the conversation onto
neutral ground.
"As long as we're playing a game of What if?…," he began,
"what if America had actually conquered Canada back during the War of
1812? What do you think would have happened then?"
"Then you'd have paid a lot less for your fishing license, that's
what," Pete retorted, glad to see the direction of the conversation
change.
Ed laughed, but his laughter rang a little hollow. He'd had no luck
worth mentioning so far, and he was beginning to wonder if it had been
worthwhile to haul his tackle along. Moreover, the license had
cost him an arm and a leg.
Karin followed up the attack. "You know, Ed, by the time you add in
all your fixed and variable costs, you're gonna find out that any fish
you catch will cost you far more than if you ordered them cooked to order
at the best restaurant in New York. Fishing simply isn't economically
viable. You'll see."
Ed shook his head ruefully. "You're telling me," he said. "Still,
fishing isn't an exercise in economics, is it? Any more than a canoe trip
is just transportation. Even you economists have got to acknowledge that
there are some things you can't put a price on."
"Come on, you guys," Brenna said, yawning. "Economics is boring, and
I'm whipped. My sleeping bag's calling me." She got up, stretched, and
turned to Ed. "Coming?" she asked. He nodded and tossed the dregs of his
last cup of Earl Grey into the flames.
"I'm off, too." Karin stood up, hugging herself against the bite of
the chill breeze. "You gonna be long?" she asked Pete. He shook his head.
"Not too long. Just gonna think things over for a bit."
Karin remained standing next to the fire for a minute. Ed and Brenna
left to go to bed. "Good night!" Karin and Pete called out in unison
toward their retreating backs. Then Karin ruffled the thin hair on top of
Pete's head, picked up his day-pack, and walked over to their tent.
"I'll take care of the fire," Pete said as she left. "And I'll be
along in a few minutes." He stared hard at the glowing embers. Then he
looked around him.
Framed by the deep shadows of the spruce, Brenna and Ed's four-man
Timberland tent glowed Kelly-green, lit from within by a flickering
candle-lantern. A loon called nearby, and then Pete thought he heard a
wolf howling in the distance. Small animals scurried about in the forest
litter. A beaver slapped the water in alarm. Pete shivered.
Maybe it's just a mid-life crisis, he thought. Back in March when Ed
and Brenna had invited him and Karin to come along on the trip, it had
seemed like a great adventure. But as the departure date drew closer,
he'd become more and more attached to home. Karin, too. She obviously
wasn't having a very good time. Yeah, she was OK, sure, but she obviously
didn't feel anything like Ed and Brenna's excitement. Maybe it was just
her cold. Yeah, maybe that was it. Just a rotten summer cold.
And maybe, Pete thought, he'd start having fun, too, when they got on
moving water. He didn't like lake travel much. It was too much like work.
He stood up. His knees ached. "Damn," he muttered, wincing. "Must be
getting old." He didn't much care for that idea, either. What was the
point of all those hours in the gym and all those morning runs—not
to mention the thousands of dollars they'd spent on Feng Shui consultants
and health-food—if you got old anyway? What was the goddamn point?
The fire was almost out now, but Pete doused it with a couple of pots
of water and stirred the ashes. Then, just to be sure, he felt them.
Cold. Good. The woods were dry. Wouldn't want to start a forest fire, he
thought.
With that, he slumped away to his tent. He could hear Karin blowing
her nose on her bandanna as he approached, and when he crouched down to
crawl in the door, he could see that she was still sitting up in her
sleeping bag in the dark. He grunted a greeting and zipped the tent door
shut behind him, running his hand over the netting to kill any mosquitos
that'd gotten in. When he turned around again, Karin switched on the
headlamp suspended from a loop on the tent's ridge. He saw that she had
something in her hands. Was it…? Yes, it was. The Yachtboy.
"And just what do you think this is?" she whispered, her tone a
mixture of accusation and amusement.
"Shhh!" said Pete, inadvertently raising his voice in the process.
"Keep it down, OK? So I brought a goddamn radio along. So what?"
"Then why're you hiding it?" Karin asked. "Why are you sneaking off
every night to listen to it in secret? That is what you've been
doing, isn't it?" Despite herself, Karin grinned. "Just like a teenage
boy with a copy of Hustler."
In the harsh light of the headlamp, Pete looked more startled than
contrite. "Look. I couldn't let Ed and Brenna know I had it. This is
their big trip. They're supposed to be 'getting away from it all' and
everything. If they knew I was listening to the news every night, they'd
be pissed. It would, you know, sort of spoil the magic of the trip. Not
that I've seen much sign of magic so far." Pete's mouth drooped until his
expression was almost a definition of "hangdog."
Karin's tone became less severe. "They wouldn't mind," she reassured
her husband. "You're over-reacting. Silly boy."
Pete said nothing. He just pulled off his trousers and slid down
inside his sleeping bag. Karin switched off the headlamp and snuggled up
to him. Then he spoke again, his voice a barely-audible whisper.
"I've just come to realize that we're—them and us, that is, not
you and me—that we're on, you know, different wavelengths. They
like all this roughing-it bullshit. I don't. And I don't think you
do either. I keep asking myself, 'Am I having fun yet?' You know what the
answer is, don't you? 'No!' And I'll bet that's the same answer you're
getting."
Karin didn't know what to say. To agree was to admit that they'd made
a big mistake—a mistake that would get harder to correct every day
that they paddled north. In the end, all she said was, "Don't worry so
much, Pete. Everything's going to be OK." Then she kissed his forehead.
It was surprisingly salty. "Get some sleep," she said. "Things will look
better tomorrow."
Pete didn't reply. Outside, not far from their tent, some small
animal—a snowshoe hare, perhaps—shrieked in terror. There was a
brief flurry of kicking, ending in a sudden, sickening snap. Then all was
quiet. It took a long time for Pete to fall asleep.
To be continued…
Copyright © 2001 by Verloren Hoop Productions. All rights
reserved.