Grizzly Peak

by Jonathan London

  By the time we reach the campsite it’s twilight. A fingernail moon dangles in the notch between peaks, about to set. We haven’t seen a soul all day. There’s no wind now but the mosquitoes on land aren’t so bad. Too cold for mosquitoes, I’m thinking. Lucky us.

  I rub my shoulders. They ache. Long time since I’ve paddled like that. But I did get the hang of it quickly again, which I’m proud of, and after the fiasco of the first launch, my paddle only clacked with Dad’s once or twice.

  We were in sync.

  “Let’s set up camp before it’s too dark,” he says.

  We pitch a two-man mountain tent even though I’d wanted my own tent. But Dad had said that two tents would weigh too much and take up too much space in the kayak.

  We set up a rainfly over the tent and over the fire ring, because the sky looks threatening again. Firewood’s provided at this campsite but I search for bigger chunks of deadwood, and scare up some creature that bursts away into low brush. A fox, I think. Or a lynx. I’d love to see a lynx!

  Eventually we get a pretty good fire going in the fire ring.

  We eat canned beans with bacon bits, and out here it tastes great. I’m so hungry I could eat all the beans myself—and the can!

  The moon’s down now and the stars are crowding in. I just want to lie back and gaze up at the stars, but Dad says we have to clean up. Can’t leave food for the bears. Even the garbage. We’ll have to pack the garbage out, but meanwhile we store it with the food in the bear locker. A metal box with a sunken handle only humans can open (hopefully).

  After washing the dishes, I lie back on the bank. I listen to the water lapping and the night sounds and watch the stars. It’s so clear now that the Milky Way pours across the night like spilled cream.

  Dad sits beside me. “What do you think?” he says. “About all this?”

  “Not too bad.” It’s hard to admit, but it’s really pretty cool being here.

  Epic even.

  “This is what it’s all about,” he says. “There’s beauty and there’s terror in the world, Aaron. I saw nights like this in the desert, when I was in Iraq during the war.”

  “Why don’t you ever talk about it, Dad? I mean, going over there and fighting and stuff. Were you afraid? Did you kill anyone? You’ve never told me anything about it.”

  He doesn’t answer for a while. Finally, he says, “Not right now, Aaron. We’re here now and I just want to enjoy it.” He tosses a pebble into the lake and watches it sink. “Time to hit the hay.” He climbs to his feet and wanders off toward the tent.

  Beauty and terror. Sounds like something he told me when we were on that wild trip down through Desolation Canyon, two long years ago.

  I’ve come a long way since then, I think.

  Then again, maybe not far enough.

  I stare at the fire. The flames dance like devilish creatures in the night.

  Later, when I join him in the tent, he’s already snoring. I lie awake, listening to the forest. The wind’s picking up again, to a dull roar. It makes me think of grizzlies out there.

  I hear a branch snap. Near our tent.

  A grizzly. I’m sure of it! Prowling for food.

  I think of waking Dad, but I don’t. What could he do? I shrink into myself. Pull my bag up over my head. As if that will do any good against a hungry grizzly.

  It’s the end of Day One. We have six days to go.

  If we live that long.

  DAY TWO

  THE VISITOR AND

  THE LUNATIC MOOSE

  In the morning we see bear tracks in the mud. All through our camp. Huge, deep prints, with five toes and sharp claw marks. I was right!

  “Grizzly,” Dad declares. “Check out the size of the tracks.”

  I think of the lost Boy Scout and a shiver runs through me.

  We start building a fire for cooking, looking around every few seconds for last night’s visitor.

  It’s warmer today, and swarms of mosquitoes emerge from the shadows. They buzz and whine. We swat and yell—as if yelling will do any good—and race back to the tent. Dad gets out the bug spray. He pulls off his shirt and shrouds himself in a mist of repellent. Then hands it to me.

  I wonder if it would repel grizzlies, too. Take that! Pssst! Pssssssssst!

  When the sun strikes our camp and the breeze picks up, the mosquitoes fade away and we get breakfast going. Dad fries eggs and bacon and boils coffee, while I use a small hand pump to filter the lake water, so I can fill our water bottles for the day.

  The bacon’s burnt but I like it that way. There’s no milk for the coffee but I drink it anyway, with lots and lots of sugar, while I look at the map.

  “Aaron!” Dad claps his hands together. “We’ve got to get this camp shipshape, and weigh anchor. Pronto!”

  “Geez, Dad! You sound like Roger and Willie, all rolled into one!” Roger with his pirate talk. Willie with his cowboy drawl.

  He snaps me with a towel. I grab it and almost pull him into the fire.

  He almost laughs. Not quite.

  “Seriously,” he says, all business now. As usual. “Our little spill lost us a day yesterday. We should’ve made it across Indian Point Lake by last night. And we have a long uphill portage just to get there. And that’s after we paddle across the rest of Kibbee Lake!”

  The day’s just begun and he’s already barking orders at me.

  “I’ll take care of the tent,” he says. “You do the dishes and douse the fire. And be sure to scrub the frying pan good.”

  “How about I take down the tent and you scrub the frying pan?”

  He folds his arms across his chest and glares at me.

  “Fine!” I grab the pan and a pot, plus my dishes, and head down to the water. Actually I like dousing the fire. I like the way it sizzles and steams up. I like to watch the last embers shrivel and die. Pzzzzzzzzzz.

  We’re back out on the lake within the hour. I’m in the stern again. I release the rudder line by hand so the rudder plops in, because we’re making a beeline for the far end of the lake and a strong breeze is shoving us sideways.

  There are small waves but we slice right through them. I love being low in the water. In a canoe you sit well above the surface, but in a kayak you feel like you’re inside the water, a part of the boat.

  We get into a rhythm. We both paddle with strong, smooth strokes, and never clash. We’re totally synchronized now.

  If only our lives we’re in sync like this, Dad and I would be models of the perfect father and son.

  But we’re not. Not in sync. And not models.

  And yet, while we’re plowing through the waves, I get a glimpse of how it could be.

  And I don’t hate it.

  No more sign of bear. No movement on shore. No wind. No waves. All is still and silent, except for the soft, steady paddle-splashes we make as we glide across the pure mirror reflection of the sky.

  Kibbee Lake “accomplished” (Dad lingo), an hour later and we’re portaging the 1.2 miles to Indian Point Lake. Even with the cart it’s hard work. We don’t speak. We sweat.

  To forget the pain, I let my mind wander. I wonder who the Indians were here, or the First Nations people, as they’re called in Canada. And if there are any still around here. I wonder if they made dugout or birch bark canoes, and if they portaged them upside down, on their shoulders with their heads inside. Or if they used a travois to drag them along the ground.

  I bet they wished they had portage carts like we have, and I’m glad that Pam, the pretty park ranger, talked Dad into using one.

  Small birds flit and flicker between the trees, chipmunks chuckle, and sweat drips down my sides. The sun’s straight up and there’s no shade. We’re trudging steadily uphill. My legs feel like lead pipes.

  When we finally arrive at Indian Point Lake—which tapers at the far end and looks calm at the moment—we plop down on the shore and eat a snack of gorp and guzzle filtered water. I gobble two energy bars.

  As we sit there, everyth
ing changes. I can feel it. It’s ominous. A huge dark cloud blocks the sun now. A cool breeze slides down from the mountains and makes me shiver.

  Out on the lake the sky continues to darken. No big thunderclouds, just a solid gray, like the underbelly of a whale.

  Dad doesn’t need to say, Put on your spray skirt, Aaron. It looks like rain.

  I put on my spray skirt all on my own, wash down the energy bars, and we’re ready to push off. Me in the back again. The boat at my command.

  By the time we’re halfway down the length of Indian Point Lake, it begins to rain. A light, steady rain. Since I have my spray skirt on, attached to my cockpit, I have to release it to grab my poncho, which I keep tucked behind my back as a kind of cushion.

  While I do that, we start drifting with the wind. “Stay on course!” Dad snaps, yelling over his shoulder.

  “I’m putting on my poncho!” I yell back. “Calm down.”

  While Dad gets into his poncho, I use my paddle to adjust our direction, lining up the bow with the tallest tree at the end of the lake. Soon we’re a team of two again.

  Barely.

  That’s when I see something along the shore. It’s dark brown, and it’s large. From here I can’t tell if it’s a moose or a grizzly bear, but—from the safety of our kayak—I aim to find out.

  I pull up the rudder so I can change course and stroke wide on the right side till the nose swings around toward the left, and we begin heading toward whatever it is.

  “Aaron! What the—”

  “There’s a moose or a bear, Dad! Over there against the shore. I want to see it. Okay?”

  Dad wants to see it, too—whatever it is—as much as I do. I can tell by his posture.

  As we get closer it gets bigger. And then we know what it is.

  “Bull moose!” Dad yells. Nuzzling the lake water, Moose stands up to his knees in the sedge grass sprouting from the shallows.

  He’s a hundred yards away.

  Seventy-five.

  Fifty.

  He lifts his great flat rack up and water pours off like miniature waterfalls from his antlers and the duckweed in his mouth. He keeps chewing, chewing, watching us with beady eyes.

  I paddle harder toward shore, into the duckweed, as Dad yells, “Hold up, Aaron! Not too close!”

  But I keep paddling.

  Dad back-paddles just as hard—away from the moose.

  It’s a standoff.

  “Aaron!”

  “I’m not going to run him over, Dad! I just want to see him better.”

  “He’s gonna run us over if we get any closer, Aaron! Moose can be more dangerous than bears! Unpredictable!”

  “Chill, Dad! We’re not hurting the moose, and he’s not going to hurt us!”

  “I told you to back off, Aaron! Listen to me! I’m telling you!”

  You’re trying to control me again, but I don’t say it. I keep paddling.

  We’re still far enough away from the moose. It’s not like they can swim, after all.

  I’m wrong! Suddenly the huge bull moose comes crashing toward us. In no time he’s swimming, and he’s swimming fast: knees working like pistons, hooves churning, nostrils flaring.

  And all of a sudden I’m back-paddling with Dad. I plunge the blade in the water near the stern and we pivot on a dime. Then we forward paddle so fast we churn the water with our blades like a paddleboat.

  Away from the moose.

  “Paddle, Aaron! Paddle!”

  “Paddle, Dad! Harder!”

  I glance over my shoulder. The moose is just a paddle length behind us! He’s snorting like a demonic horse, snot flying out of his huge nostrils. We had trampled his duckweed . . .

  . . . and now he’s gonna trample us!

  DAY TWO

  OKAY, TARZAN

  But just as I decide that we’re about to be capsized by a lunatic moose, the beast changes his mind and swims a wide circle back toward shore, still chugging like a steam engine.

  We’re still flying along, skimming the waves, riding on the jet fuel of terror.

  Good-bye, Moose!

  I want to holler and cheer. I raise my paddle with both hands above my head and yodel like Tarzan.

  A loon yodels back.

  Or maybe it’s a wolf. I can feel my blood coursing through my veins and my nerves singing like a steel guitar. We’re rockin’!

  But my dad, he stops paddling. His head’s down and his shoulders are hunched.

  Here it comes. I know it’s coming.

  But it doesn’t. He just shakes his head, face down, and takes a deep breath. A long, loud breath. In, then out.

  While Dad gives me the silent treatment, I keep paddling. I want to enjoy this small victory. Maybe it was dumb, racing toward a moose, but it feels heroic. Epic! Super fantastic!

  After awhile Dad starts paddling with me, and we get back into our rhythm again. The rain lightens, almost goes away, comes back. Turns into a hard, pounding rain. Then silence.

  The birds are hiding. I look for moose. I look for bear.

  Nothing. Just dense green forest all around. Mountains sweeping up into clouds. The sky crouching down on us, ready to pounce.

  I want more action. I want another moose—or better yet a grizzly—breathing down my back.

  Is that sick or what? I don’t know. All I know is that it makes me feel something. Something other than mad.

  I wish Lisa were here, with her smile and sparkling eyes. Even Cassidy. Bad boy Cassidy. He would’ve loved that moose!

  Of course, he probably would’ve raced toward it first and stole all my thunder.

  Whatever. I miss them both. Especially when Dad’s giving me the silent treatment. Again.

  I hunker down, and let the slow rain fall.

  Near the end, Indian Point Lake grows narrower and narrower, and finally meanders through a small marsh dotted with beaver dams and lodges.

  The drizzle has stopped. I look around for a beaver, and sure enough I spot a V-shaped wake trailing silently behind a furry head. It’s maybe fifteen yards away, heading for a lodge. I tap Dad’s back and point.

  We both stop paddling, and stay absolutely still, practically holding our breath.

  And for a while the beaver glides with us, at one point getting within five feet of our bow. It’s as if we’re floating in a bubble where time stands still.

  But then Dad starts paddling again and breaks the bubble. The beaver slaps its tail, and goes under.

  Dad’s still upset about the moose. I can feel it.

  The clouds are retreating but the sky darkens toward twilight. My stomach growls. I’ve got to eat.

  I’m starving and the high of the moose encounter has drained out of me. And after hours of paddling I’m just dog-tired. Beat. Bushed.

  How will I finish paddling to the end of the lake, let alone have the energy to set up camp. Make a fire. Eat. And write in my journal.

  When we do finally reach the end of Indian Point Lake, I drive our kayak hard and fast through the shallows and thrust the bow right up onto land. But it takes the very last ounce of my strength.

  That’s when Dad steps out of the kayak, straightens up, and says, “Okay, Tarzan. Now it’s time for the portage to Isaac Lake.”

  DAY TWO

  WHERE THE

  WILD THINGS ARE

  Dad bends over and starts pulling the kayak further out of the water just as I’m stepping out. I lose my balance and fall flat on my face in the mud.

  I slap the mud, rise to my knees, and stand up.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I swipe mud from my face and flick it into the water.

  “Sorry, Aaron. My bad.”

  “Don’t say ‘my bad!’ You sound like a moron!”

  Dad ignores this, but now we’re even. After all, he made me fall in the mud. I know it was an accident, but still. . . .

  Dad releases the bungee cords holding the portage cart and sets it up.

  “We have to portage to Isaac Lake, Aaron. This isn’t a good place
to camp. It’s way too marshy. Sure to be a breeding ground for mosquitoes.”

  As if to make his point, a mosquito bites my neck. I slap it, leaving a smear of blood on my palm about the size of a quarter.

  I’m in no mood for mosquitos. I feel a brief jolt of energy out of sheer anger. Anger about the unexpected portage and Dad making me fall in the mud.

  What happened to the quiet magic with the beaver?

  The portage is 1.6 kilometers. About a mile. I’m so beyond tired it’s like walking in a dream. A bad dream, plagued by mosquitoes.

  By the time we set up camp, the drizzle has started and stopped again, and it’s almost full dark. Dad has lit a lantern. The clouds are breaking up and stars start popping out, one by one. The moon is low, shrouded by a cloud.

  We make a fire, cook a freeze-dried chicken dinner, eat, and clean up, without saying a word. Then we sit back and watch the flames licking the night. You could cut the silence between us with a knife.

  Sometimes I feel like we’re an old married couple.

  I want a divorce!

  I almost chuckle at that thought, but I don’t.

  I look up at the descending moon, larger than yesterday’s, burning just above the peaks to the west.

  Is Lisa looking at the same moon?

  A chilly breeze with the smell of snow on it has chased away the mosquitoes. I scoot closer to the fire.

  I realize I feel proud, in a way. We’ve completed our first full day of paddling. We’ve covered a lot of miles today, more than making up for yesterday.

  It should be a night for drinking hot cocoa and roasting marshmallows. But Dad’s still not speaking, and the tension between us keeps building.

  I’m starting to feel like a tea kettle about to blow when Dad finally breaks the silence. “Okay, Aaron. Got to get an early start tomorrow. We’re doing Isaac Lake. It’s twenty-three miles long, the longest lake in the circuit.”

  “Tell me we’re not doing it in one day. We’re not, right?”

  “Wrong. I want to do it in a day. It’ll be a good challenge. If you can make it tomorrow . . . well, that would be a great achievement, wouldn’t it?”