I tidied up, then paddled in silence, thinking it over. The women in my family were often Rangers. I’d always been shown the big environmental picture.
I smacked my blade onto the water surface and startled a long-legged walker who flipped in the air and skated away. I laughed and murmured an apology to the little guy.
I decided to nickname Luiz, “Laxy.” For “laxative.” It made me feel better. “Well, Rich. There’s a small rapids ahead. Should be fun. Shall we beat them to it?”
I began to enjoy it again. The sun bounced off every water ripple. The rocky shore rose high and glinted rusty reds and pinks. Feisty green cedars curved up out of impossible crevices. No museum could rival it.
An hour later there was a darker blue line ahead in the water, and a sign on the right shore.
“It’s the portage,” I explained. “Around a rapids. Let’s have a look!” I showed him how to exit carefully, then I pulled the canoe up on sand between rocks, and led the way uphill. The rapids was full of deadly rocks with a gradual drop of nearly my height. Water gushed forward, was split by a jammed log and boulders and sprayed up. It hit more rocks, arcing up at each, and joyfully raced downstream. A mist caught the sun and created a kaleidoscope effect of light and refracted colours. Arcobaleno. Qaansoroobaad.
When Rich joined me I reached for his hand. How incredible it must be to see for the first time.
“Nice spot,” he commented. “Are we carrying the canoe around this?”
The magic cracked. “It’s not as bad as it looks. There’s a path off to the left.”
He let go of my hand. “Why didn’t we bring a jet pack? Or hire a guide?”
Surely he was kidding. “We went bare-arm,” I reminded him, “And if I can do it, you can. C’mon.”
He muttered as he followed me back but I didn’t ask him to clarify. It was his first time. He’d learn it wasn’t a big deal.
I hoisted the packs to the side, out of the way of Kojo and Laxy, approaching. Beginners usually carried a canoe tandem just to get the balance and way of it, so…
“If you’ll stand on this side with me,” I directed Rich, pointing, “and reach over like this…” I waited for him to follow suit.
Grunting with disapproval, he did. I rolled my eyes. We lifted the canoe up easily, then proceeded to walk up the bank. “Watch your footing,” I called. “Slow down please,” I had to add a moment later. At a sharp turn in the path, “Whoa! Watch out or you’ll knock me over the edge!”
Rich complained about the heat, the sand in his shoes, flies, and that he couldn’t see anything. It was a relief to reach the end, 300 metres. I splashed water over my face and neck, took a deep breath, then turned. “Coming?” I asked mildly.
We pulled on packs then scooped up paddles and small things. I smiled at Kojo, pulling their gear out. Laxy was washing mud off his shoes.
“Is it long?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Easy.”
Rich made pleasant small talk this time, which, I understood, was his way of apologizing for whining. I debated aloud the merit of a quick swim. Tempting, for the current would be fun, pushing you downriver a little.
“That’s safety allowed?” he asked, then blushed. His skin was so pale, emotions were written clearly on his cheeks.
“It’s a good question,” I said. “You wear the safevest to play in rapids, and you keep your shoes up on the surface, pointing downriver. It’s fun. Especially if you’re hot.” We set our gear in the canoe and Rich started to laugh. I looked up.
Laxy was standing at the crest of the rapids, pants open, urinating. “Streams away!” he shouted.
You idiot, I thought. I turned on Rich, who was chuckling. “That’s not funny. That’s disgusting.”
“What? Are you uncomfortable with healthy body functions?”
“No. I’m delighted his urinary system works and his sense of humour is an eight-year-old’s. Perhaps next, he can defecate in your Japanese garden.”
Rich frowned. “It was just a moment of—play.”
He’s an asshole, I thought. “Well, if you’d like to swim in his urine, now’s your chance.”
“That volume would be dissolved in seconds.”
I handed him his safevest. “Fine. Just swim over, then float on your back. It’s fun.”
Rich took the safevest and put it on. “Well, I’m not that hot. By the way, where’s the sunmist?
I flipped open a pocket on the pack and handed it to him. “Good idea, whitey,” I teased. I didn’t mind his colouring. Inconvenient for him, but it made me look gorgeous beside him, I’d said once to be funny. (It was true.) He made the most of his genetics, though. His light hair looked stunning in those metallic stripes and he’d had his eyes dyed aquamarine.
I pulled out the skeeterpills. “Despite vaccines, I usually take one before twilight.” We each popped one and sucked on it. Raspberry cinnamon flavour.
“Thanks.” He had misted himself. “Anything to munch on?”
I gave him a bar. “You are more tolerant of that guy—” I gestured backward. “—than me. This is a special place to me.—”
“Your Sacred Church of the Woods?”
“Ha ha.” I arranged the canoe to point downstream and motioned him in. “No. But there is a lot of beauty here. His attitude bothers me. I’d appreciate it if you talked to him when necessary and let me—avoid him.”
“I can do that.” He was seated now, bony white knees poking up above the gunwale. “Spare you.”
“Thanks.” I was about to push off when I heard footsteps. “Hey Koji! Everything all right?”
“Good, thanks.” She was carrying their canoe solo. I’d follow her lead from now on.
“We’ll head down. Next stop will be our campsite,” I said pleasantly, then pushed off and hopped in.
***
We’d already yanked our tent in the air to fill the tubes, pegged it down, and set up the cooking area when the others arrived.
“A loon popped up just in front of us,” enthused Koji. “It fluttered its wings then dove under.”
I nodded. “They’re rare now. They’re shy and they’ve moved north.”
“Like everyone,” said Koji.
Laxy strutted up like a peacock. “Good day! So, who wants a beer?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I blurted.
Laxy arched one eyebrow at me then dug into their gear and pulled out two cans. He held one out to Rich… who took it.
I counted to five. “So guys, you all signed the forms in Temagami. No alcohol. No cans. No drugs. No garbage. So…” I looked at them as mild-mannered as was humanly possible, given that I was pissed. “What gives?”
Rich gave his sexy bad boy smile. The spiral on his right eye tooth glittered. “It’s just a beer, Makemba. It’s not a forest fire.”
“I promise to pee it out,” said Laxy. “A firefighter technique.”
Both men laughed, raised cans, then drank.
I tried to channel my meditation teacher’s advice but it was no use. Like most things in life, it was excellent in a classroom. Useless with annoying real people.
“Well. You two are on dinner. I’ll go find the privy area. No peeing around the campsite,” I said, mock sternly, though I meant it.
“Women,” muttered Laxy. “Just because they can’t.”
I stopped. “Do you think, because you have a penis, only men can pee anywhere?” I held my hands out. “Women can pee wherever they like. With no hands.” I took a couple of steps forward then paused. “We just choose not to soil our nests.”
“Nor attract wildlife,” added Kojo mildly. “Luiz, do you care where we put the tent?”
I turned down a narrow path toward the “latrine.” The plasbox was pristine with no odour—a testament to science, a full powder dispenser, and good campers before us. I followed the trail farther, winding up a narrow ridge, then found a glacial erratic with a 180 degree view.
Spread out below me were mixed woods, coni
ferous and deciduous, a swampy inlet (mental note re: skeeters), and the river curving away. Directly below was our camp on the point, but dense woods concealed it. I let my legs dangle, spread out my hands on the warm rock and took long, slow breaths, concentrating on making the exhalation longer.
Even the clouds seemed more alive out here. There was a small one with rabbit ears chasing a large one with a grey bottom. Chase it away from here, I thought. I’d prefer no rain if possible.
Pine, earth, and river smells floated past. My Nana could sometimes identify the vegetation in front of her if you blindfolded her. We used to do that, as kids. I drummed my heels against the rock. I wished Lorid had been free for this trip. Her partner, Mara, was a music-scientist who loved camping too. They’d been accepted for a sperm donor and I think I was more excited about it than Lorid, who thought it was simply the next step.
How was it Lorid had come out of the womb knowing what she wanted to do with her life? She’d been working with Mexican and American refugees, counselling, filling out paperwork, accompanying them to courts. I’d seen her shouting in protest marches, even running a bubble booth at a New Canadians Festival.
I wrapped my arms around myself and shook my head. I had no idea what to be. I was a whiz at Astro-Mathematics, but also liked solving where the leak was coming from, or why a generator had stopped. It was like putting a puzzle together. Mom was nudging me toward the Canadian Space Agency but…maybe I should be a Ranger. A badge would help with jerks like Laxy.
The clouds had changed completely, which meant I had been too long.
The pasta was fine if a little soggy. What isn’t good in pawmu? I could taste mangoes and pineapples in this one. The conversation was sports, Toronto politics, and the weather, predictable and polite. I made sure everyone had a pill before bed and the skeeter nets were snug. Malaria was not something to flirt with.
***
I slept like a log but poor Rich found the loon’s calls creepy. He snapped his bracelet on, tapped in sleep EEGs, and thus, was groggy in the morning.
“What happened to bare-arm?” was my only comment. It’s bad enough that slim band stored your health, academic, and personal stats, but if he started taking work emails…
I whipped up curried pea omelettes and toasted plantains, hoping dense protein and carbs would see them through. Lunch would be late today. Laxy thanked me and I complimented his hair, jokingly. It was all on one side of his face. He laughed and I hoped we were good.
This was the challenging day, I warned them, but the prize was the cave at the end. Amazing. Four portages—a chance to use your legs—and an untouched waterfall.
“Prettier than yesterday’s rapids?” asked Kojo, flipping her long black hair into a ponytail.
“I think so. See what you think. But the portage can be tricky. Watch your footing.”
“I’ll warn Mr. Tough,” she said, and we shared a grin.
It was a fine day to paddle surrounded by walls of green in every shade possible. I hummed and thought about Rich. In Toronto, he was funny, dramatic, always even-tempered. He made people laugh. Out with his friends, he was the one everyone turned to, the corners of their mouths already turning up.
At the first portage I told him I wanted to solo the boat today.
“What, I wasn’t good enough?”
“No. It’s just awkward with two people. It’s easier to maneuver solo.”
“Then I should take it.” He mock-flexed his bicep. “I’m stronger. Fact.”
“Right.” I dumped the food pack at his feet. “So this is heavier. All yours.”
I flipped the canoe up on my shoulder pads and began to walk. Once we were on a path of pine needles, I started whistling.
“What’s that you’re doing?” he shouted.
“Whistling?” I waited for him to catch up.
“Is that a real thing?”
I laughed. “It’s music.” I whistled a quick tune.
“You’re like a twisted bird.”
“Try it. Purse your lips and blow out.”
He looked hilarious, like a toddler with his first straw. I nearly dropped the canoe.
“Hey. I’m trying. Explain it better.”
“I will. Let’s finish this trip first.” My grandfather, a greybeard with kind brown eyes, was a champion whistler. He whistled at work, and sometimes a dance tune, whirling Nana Mpenzi around, her cheeks flushed. I smiled, remembering.
Kojo was sterning so they were on our tail all day. I was pleased she kept enough distance for private conversations. And silence. How I loved the sounds of the birds and our paddles. In Bancroft there was steady air traffic and hydro cars. Toronto was far worse, even up in their Skycity. Every air molecule vibrated with electricity, machines, people talking, beeping. People wore earpads to sleep or to stroll outside. Here, you didn’t want to miss a single sound.
By the third portage, Rich’s mood was sinking. I walked behind him, asking him to tell me about some of the exotic travels he’d taken, urging him toward pleasant memories. It backfired.
“Even hiking in the Falklands, guides brought our luggage by hydroplane to each campsite. This is primitive!”
I agreed. “That’s why we do it, Rich. To remember that we can. To get away from machines.”
“We’re an advanced species. We created machines for a reason.”
I was silent, groping for a topic. After a minute, I tried whistling one of his favourite songs.
Rich stopped abruptly, causing me to stumble and veer the boat to the right to avoid him.
“Must you? Are you trying to ruin a good song?”
Shocked, I said nothing. I wanted to stride past him but the path was too narrow. I had to wait until he’d glared at me, then turned. We continued on in silence.
***
We paddled for over an hour under the cloud of his sulk. I felt it would be rude to whistle, and my attempts at pointing out things—the Caspian tern diving for a fish—were rebuffed. I tried to look at it from his angle. He was new to this, accustomed to success in physical endeavours such as jolsta dancing and playing fiscus in an adult league. He was, in fact, a bit of a star. This trip was…humbling. It was a “growth experience”, Nana Mpenzi would say. I gave up, and let him grow.
The river had widened into West Lake but now it narrowed and turned east. A great blue heron was standing, poised over a fish, exactly like the giant statue in one of his parks. “Look,” I breathed, pointing with my paddle.
The heron did his sorcery. He crouched, bent his long neck into an “S” and turned into a pterodactyl. His wings swept down, then up so hard that you could hear the wind from them. He stayed low over the water. In a few flaps he swept up and disappeared over the trees.
“We’re going into shore!”
“What?” To my surprise, Rich had continued to paddle, so we’d turned around. I straightened us with wide sweeps, asking, “Wasn’t that incredible? Have you ever seen one, alive?”
“Of course I have. In zoos. Plenty of times. What machine is that?”
“Machine?” I listened, and heard the rumbling ahead. “That’s the waterfall,” I answered. “Keep an eye out for the portage. I don’t fancy going over.”
The falls were the main reason I’d chosen this route, for there was another way to reach the cave. Rich was tired and cranky, so I fed him a chuksnack bar and started taking our gear halfway up the trail. After my second trip he’d recovered. “I’ll take the boat,” he said, trying to make amends.
I helped him get it up, adjusted the shoulder pads, then donned the food pack and led him forward. He couldn’t take the few flies who circled us, and kept dodging and cursing.
“You’re immune,” I soothed. “They won’t bite you. Try to relax.”
“What do you know? You love this stuff.” He flung the canoe off and let it bounce on the dirt and rock trail. “How did you fake it in Toronto?”
I quickly knelt at the canoe, feeling the keel for a split. “Are you crazy
? We need this to get home!”
“I’m sure you can whip us up a new one from a moose or something.”
I looked up directly into his lagoon blue eyes. His face was red from heat and emotion, sweat plastering his striped hair over his forehead and neck quite…unattractively. His nose was still straight and long, but his nostrils were flared like a horse. I wondered idly how much money it had cost to tattoo his teeth. It suddenly seemed tawdry.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” he demanded.
I pulled my gaze away. “Well, Rich,” I said calmly, studying the eggshell-thin surface of our canoe, “I was looking for signs of growth.”
“Growth?”
I flipped open my waist pack, pulled out duct tape and cut off a piece with the flipknife. “Maturing. Improving.” It only took two patches to repair, but I felt emotions heating up inside. Lorid had likened me to a volcano: slow to heat up, then—boom. “I’m sorry you’re not enjoying our trip, Rich.” I kept my voice flat. “Maybe it’s not your thing. That’s okay. But you need to treat me and our equipment with respect. We’re supposed to be bare-arm out here. We have to work together.”
“You said it was a holiday!”
“To me, it is.”
“I thought you were going into the Canadian Space Agency, not—the Primitive Aboriginal Society.”
I blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been playing a role.”
“As what?”
“Sweet and friendly.”
Boom. I was standing up before I realized it, pointing at him. “And you? Mr. Popular? Mr. Look-At-Me on the dance floor or the fiscus team? Would you behave any better if I gave you a gold star for pulling your weight? For not complaining?”
Eruption. I’d never spoken in anger once in the eight months I’d known him. Though I’d been irritated a number of times. I turned, and shut my mouth firmly.
He seemed to be having some thoughts. I didn’t want to hear them. I dropped the food pack, flipped the canoe up and stormed the rest of the trail. At the shore, it was very tempting to keep going. Alone. Jerk. Instead, I swam hard to the falls, tried to get behind the curtain of water, then let the current spin me away.
Glass and Gardens Page 10
