“Too late now. And we’re already toughening up. Look at those muscles of yours.”
“Aching muscles is what they are. But I’m alive again, and I don’t mind doing it the hard way one bit.”
“Me neither. I like this, relying on our own devices in the wild.”
“Like wood gypsies.” Barbara held out her arms. “The burn from the sun, scratches from brush, even mosquito bites—it all feels splendid.”
“And no need to be anywhere.”
“Yes, it warrants a story,” she said. “I’ll call it ‘Travels Without a Donkey.’”
“And what’ll you do with a story like that?”
Early on, Barbara had mentioned her writing successes to Nick, Denise, and John, but she hadn’t touted her aspirations to continue writing. She required nothing now but freedom—and the means to secure it. “Why, try to sell it, to build up my traveling fund.”
“Who’ll be the hero?”
“That remains to be seen.” She angled her head and squinted at him. “I have a philosophy about this trip.”
He leaned back against the log they’d built their campfire by and raised his eyebrows, inviting her to go on.
“Heading for Georgia is fine, but I want to live here in the wilds, away from the city, as long as I like. That’s what this expedition ought to be about.”
Nick bounced his head. “Sure, but I wouldn’t mind bragging about hiking the whole trail.”
The next day the going was rough, the trail unmarked, the rises steep. They battled through thick brush, stooped under drooping hemlock and spruce boughs, and scrambled over big boulders and through crevices. Three times they had to remove their packs and shove, lift, or pull them through narrow rock crannies. Spent from hours of strenuous hiking, they rested atop a rocky ridge, amongst thorny briers and sharp-edged rock. Barbara looked down on the velvety hills before them, as smooth and inviting as beds of moss, and smiled. Yes, she thought, this is heaven.
That evening they arrived at Moosehead Lake, a sprawling basin with jagged peninsulas and wooded islands.
“We ought to get a canoe,” Barbara said, scanning the lake’s expanse. “We could camp on some of those islands out there.”
Nick nodded. “Then take it down the Kennebec.”
“Do you think we can manage it by canoe?”
“We can find out.”
In the morning, they hiked into Greenville, a sparsely populated lakeside village, refreshed themselves on ice cream cones, and inquired if they might find a canoe for sale anywhere.
The shop owner directed them up the road to “old man Webber’s dilapidated two-story.” It was easy enough to identify. The porch slumped over a bowed lattice skirt, and only remnants of blue paint covered its sides. They knocked, and the door groaned open. Mr. Webber stood there with a pipe dangling from his mouth, dressed in a flannel shirt too heavy for the August day.
Nick looked down on the stooped fellow. “Good morning, sir. We heard you have a canoe for sale.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, eyeing their solid leather shoes and brimming packs. “It’s around back.”
He led them to a garage and tugged its creaking doors open. It was his work shed. Greasy tools covered a pocked workbench. A jumble of pots and gardening implements crowded in a corner. No, Barbara thought, I could never live like this, weighed down by shabby stuff and ever-beckoning chores.
“Here she is,” he said, walking to a canoe balanced upside-down over two sawhorses. He grabbed its midsection and rocked it onto its side. “She’s an Old Town. Trusty as they come.”
“Pretty good-sized,” Nick said.
“Yup,” he said. “Eighteen feet.”
Barbara stole a glance at Nick. The canoe’s hull was battered and patched, and four of its ribs cracked. It lacked a bow seat. She turned to the old fellow. “Looks like she wants some repair work.”
“Oh, those broken ribs? That’s nothing. A canoe’s not worth its salt without some give. She’s as good as any you’ll find.”
Hmm, Barbara thought, never heard anyone put it that way.
Nick knelt and examined the bottom. “Won’t leak, will she?”
“No, see here.” He stroked the hull. “She’s got a nice coat of shellac. Exactly what you want in a canoe.”
Barbara asked, “Can we try her out a few days?”
“If you pay me first. Don’t mean to be ornery about it, but I don’t know you folks.”
Nick scratched his cheek. “How much do you want?”
“I’ll take twelve dollars.”
Barbara scrunched up her eyebrows and pleaded with Nick. Oh, for a canoe to explore the lake’s mysterious inlets and islands! But Nick was the one who’d be paying for it.
Nick shook his head. “Seems like a lot.”
The old man shifted his feet. “That’s with the oars and a setting pole.”
“Don’t think we can afford it,” said Nick.
The man tugged at his beard. “How about eight?”
Barbara nudged her chin toward a blocky handmade stool. “Will you throw that stool in for a bow seat?”
“I figure so,” he said.
Barbara smiled at Nick. It sounded like a good deal to her.
Nick asked the old man, “Do you think we could manage the Kennebec in her?”
“Might want to portage around the rapids. But sure, she can handle that old river.”
“All right,” said Nick. “It’s a deal.”
✭
They tried the canoe out on Moosehead Lake, gliding around rocky points and by island shores, pleased with how smoothly she moved, especially after they harmonized their paddling. The next two nights, they camped on uninhabited islands and fell asleep to the mournful call of loons. Barbara couldn’t explain why islands enchanted her so, but they did as if the surrounding waters turned them into sanctuaries, places unmolested by the world’s cares.
The next day they tucked their gear into the canoe’s bow and stern and paddled across the lake, to where it emptied into the Kennebec River. Putting paddle to water, they maneuvered to the river’s mouth. A strong current gripped the canoe and pulled her into its rippling middle.
Barbara glanced back at the lake. “On to the next adventure.”
Their second day on the river was windy. Strong gusts rattled the branches of the birch and black ash trees and howled through the treetops. Barbara pulled her wide-brim hat down over her forehead, shielding her eyes from the morning sun, as they tacked eastward along the bending river.
Ahead she spied a buck grazing in the brush, its antlers bouncing as it foraged. She pulled her oar out of the water, twisted around to catch Nick’s eye, and pointed ahead. She held herself still and let the canoe drift closer. As they hurdled over quickening water, the deer spotted them and bounded off into the woods.
They rounded the winding bend. Ahead the river roared.
Nick hollered, “Hear that?”
“Trouble,” Barbara called.
“Better get to shore.”
She thrust her oar to the right side to paddle for the left shore. At the same moment, Nick backstroked toward the opposite shore. The force of their countervailing strokes swung the canoe sideways. Rushing waters grabbed and swept them into a guttering torrent. The canoe bounced over breakers and angled toward the frothing rapids. Ahead white water swirled and rushed around boulders.
“Straighten her out,” Nick called.
Barbara stroked, trying to keep the canoe pointed forward. Whoosh, the front end lifted. Barbara bounced up off her seat. She crouched to steady herself. The canoe smacked down and rocked to the side. She leaned in the opposite direction. The canoe righted. With a grating scrape, its bottom ran over rocks and plunged ahead.
Barbara dared not turn around. She called, “The boat okay?”
“Just paddle,” Nick hollered.
The canoe bounded and fell in the writhing waters, grinding against rocks. The current swirled it sideways. Barbara struggled to steer the front downstre
am. She pressed her knees and legs against the canoe walls to gain leverage. But the seething torrent held the canoe in its grip. She was helpless against its power.
Bam, the canoe slammed against a rock. Wood cracked—either the hull or a rib. Her thoughts converged to a point: We’re in danger. No boat can bear this. She’ll break apart. We’ll end up in the water. Swim with the current. Head up. Arms out. Watch for rocks.
The canoe swished forward, straightened and swooped over black potholes, leaped over swells, and smacked down in swoops, jerking like a bucking bronco.
But still, it floated. She dug her paddle in, again and again, seeking some grip on the current, steering for the calmer center channel.
Then the river broadened and smoothed into a mild ruffle. The canoe seemed to relax as if releasing taut muscles.
“Better put in,” Nick called. “And check the canoe.”
Barbara’s body hummed with the ebb of adrenalin; her arms and legs went wobbly. She steered for the shore. “There,” she said, pointing with her paddle, “on that sunny bank.”
Once the canoe’s front caught the gravelly bottom, she leaped out and dragged it ashore. Nick followed.
“Look at us,” she said. Their shoes and clothes were soaked, their hair plastered to their heads. She shivered from the chill.
Nick stood before her, hugging himself. “I let myself get distracted. Forgot about the rapids. We could’ve gotten hurt.”
“But we made it,” Barbara said, heady with relief. “And so did Old Bones.”
They took out their gear, spread it over rocks and tree limbs to dry, and flipped the canoe on its side.
“Kind of scraped up here,” Nick said, pointing to the hull bottom.
Barbara inspected the interior. “Another cracked rib. But looks like the hull’s intact.”
Nick knelt on the shady, open side of the canoe. “No light’s piercing it anywhere. It’ll live to see another day.”
Barbara eyed the shoreline. “Know what I want to do?”
“What?”
“Find a sunny spot just to sit and dry off. Come on,” she said, leading the way.
They wandered up the shore until they came upon a boulder tall as a teepee. They sat down, leaning against its sun-soaked warmth and facing the water. The river rolled along, gurgling and rippling as if declaring itself innocent of any menacing intent.
Gazing out on the river, Nick asked, “Were you scared?”
“Sure. Weren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Nick braced his arms over his knees. “You didn’t show it. You’ve got more spunk than ordinary girls.”
Barbara laughed. “Don’t believe I’ve ever been or ever will be an ordinary girl.”
“That’s just fine by me.”
Barbara took off her boots and socks, and Nick did, too.
She dug her cold toes into the warm pebbles and turned to Nick. “We’ve done it, haven’t we? As Kipling put it—we’ve melted into the landscape.”
He twisted around to face her, his eyes moist. “And each other.”
She lifted her face to his. When he kissed her, she thought, yes, this is right. I don’t care about the world out there, about other people. This is what I want—a daring man. And a fiercely wild place all to ourselves.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
BARBARA AT EIGHTEEN
New York City, October 1932
October 11, 1932
Dear Alice,
I’ve been blessedly secluded in the wilds, unbound by time. You must excuse my long silence. But I’m in New York now and can finally pour out news and philosophy and plans.
Over the past three months, I’ve discovered a new way of living, an altogether free existence. Just when I ceased to believe such a life was possible, I happened upon it—the very thing I’ve craved—and now I can’t turn away from it. I’ve jumped the whole structure of my old life and chucked the business of sitting in an office, trudging through life beside my woebegone mother, and kneeling at the altar of New York publishers. It’s all pretty experimental, but my heart tells me to follow this cosmic adventure to its end, wherever it may lead.
With the bare essentials of shelter and sustenance strapped to our backs, we trail-blazed and canoed from Maine to Massachusetts. You’d approve of the person I’ve spent these months with. Nick is wholesome and gallant, as much an adventurer as I could ever hope to find. He has surprising depths, which he reveals at odd moments: while calculating the distance to a mountaintop (“Four hours on foot for a view worth years”) or descending a rapid (“It’s trials like these that toughen one’s faculties”). He’s tall and tanned, rugged and resourceful, smart and practical—in short, altogether appealing.
It was bound to happen. We’ve been living semi-platonically, without any worry or prediction about what that means. And the ecstasy of throwing off civilization’s shackles is beyond intoxicating.
Only I had to tell Ethan, for he’d planned to visit this winter, and that forced me to tidy up the situation. I wrote to him and explained I’d met somebody, and the visit is off. He must have written the hour he received my letter, for I had a response in short order, a sad letter full of pleading: “Choose me over Dartmouth” (that’s where Nick graduated) and “don’t turn your back on our dream.” In truth, he’s a mere shadow in my life, and it’s been that way a long time. It was ridiculous, supposing I could build a life with a man who spends half his time at sea, a place he cannot take me. Now I realize he never offered any kind of definite future. His dream for us to settle in Alaska and fish its waters in a bobbin of a boat is not my idea of romance.
See how completely and enduringly my life has changed! I’m happier than I’ve been in years. Nick and I lived in the wild like innocents, swimming in only our skin, sleeping under the stars, never fretting about what others might think. It was just the two of us in a world of our own.
Instead of finishing the Appalachian Trail, we’ve decided to spend 1933 exploring Europe. We’ll scrape together our meager dollars, including a gift from his father and the last of my royalties. After the crash, Father told me to withdraw those funds. He claimed the bank was bound to go bankrupt. Once again, he was wrong, and now I can use the money for this intrepid journey. We’re hopping a ship for Spain in a month or two, and we’ll hike wherever we like, avoiding the expensive cities and enjoying the people and countryside until next summer or fall. Or maybe forever.
Helen doesn’t understand and hopes I won’t regret my “blundering ways.” Fortunately, Grandma Ding is visiting now. She sees how happy I am, and that curbs Helen’s protests. I’ve invited Helen to join us for part of our journey, for I know if she were to tramp alongside Nick and me, she’d see how perfect we are for each other. Of course, she’ll likely say that’s impossible and plead “far too many responsibilities.”
Don’t you ever give up hope that life will surprise you with happiness, my dear. I’m proof of it! This beastly money slump the country is in can’t last forever, and when it lets up, Bert will surely bring you and the girls East or find work in Los Angeles again. You can count on it.
Promising you sunnier days,
Barbara
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
BARBARA AT EIGHTEEN
Mallorca, Spain, April 1933
Barbara caught Nick’s eye across the clattery dining room and winked. It was their private joke: He only pretended to be the suave and polite waiter. Their humdrum jobs at the pension actually amused them to the point of hilarity.
Yes, he looked dapper in his white waiter’s jacket, and the pay wasn’t bad—twenty-five pesetas a week plus meals. But for Barbara, the novelty was wearing thin, not that sweeping floors, peeling potatoes, and chopping wood ever charmed much.
Barbara lugged a tray of dirty dishes to the back room, plopped it down beside the yawning two-tub sink, and swiped a forearm over her brow. It’d been a beautiful, sun-filled day, and the brick walls and tile floors still held the day’s heat.
Spring was
coming to Mallorca and, for Barbara, that changed everything. Yes, she enjoyed Palma’s Arcadian ways: the cafes teeming with townspeople and roving carabineros; the hilly streets winding past peach-toned buildings; Moorish archways and majestic palms; and young people eager to learn English and offer Spanish conversation in exchange. But the rest of Europe awaited.
By eleven, they’d washed the tables, mopped the dining room, scrubbed all the dishes and pots, and set the tables for breakfast. They sat down to a dinner of rice and the last of the fish stew, washing it down with the rugged local wine.
As they strolled back to their room, Barbara reached for Nick’s hand. “Change is in the air. Can you feel it?”
“Yes, it’s getting warmer.”
“And the earth’s breath sweeter, the birdsongs livelier.”
“I suppose,” said Nick. “Say, Edith wants us to pick up some milk for teatime tomorrow.”
Barbara put on her best English accent. “Oh, the English ladies and gents must have milk for their tea.”
Nick chuckled. “They are a peculiar sort of tourist.”
Barbara swept her arm before her. “I don’t see how they can waste hours at tea in the face of such gorgeous antiquity and scenery.”
“They don’t see the beauty like you do. I often don’t until you point it out.”
They meandered down the smooth-stone street conspicuously devoid of daytime’s busyness: men jawing with cigarettes bouncing from their lips; sad-eyed donkeys hauling rickety carts; and women toting children, bread, or groceries.
“I’ve decided to write Mother tomorrow,” Barbara said.
“I’m not sure about going to Germany,” said Nick. “Not with those ugly flare-ups in Berlin. My God, why would anyone burn books?”
“Mother’s always wanted to see the Black Forest. That’s nowhere near Berlin. And it’s bound to settle down by August.”
“Will you at least ask her if it’s safe?”
“You worry too much. How can anyone take Hitler seriously? He looks like a boorish Charlie Chaplin.”
They climbed the stairs to their meager rented room above a news and tobacco shop. Barbara unbuttoned her dress, yanked it over her head, and stripped off her undergarments. “I sweat up a storm tonight. Almost wish I could go for a swim.”
The Point of Vanishing Page 22
