“Mind if we join you?” a voice said out of the dark.
Travis instantly recognized Dick Chancey’s voice. André, the other ranger, was standing beside him.
“C’mon out!” Sam hailed.
The two younger rangers came out along the point and sat with the kids, André in a low crouch as he absent-mindedly plucked small flat stones off the shoreline and effortlessly sent them skipping out across the water. Travis wished he could skip stones like that.
The young rangers were talkative. They told the Owls what they did each summer – making new trails, clearing portages, checking for fishing licences, even a couple of bushfires to fight – and it seemed like the second-greatest job in the world. Greatest, of course, would be to play in the National Hockey League. Or, in the case of Sarah and Sam and the other girls, to make the Canadian Women’s Olympic hockey team.
“Aren’t you ever afraid?” asked Fahd.
“What do you mean?” Dick asked, chuckling.
“I mean, you’re out here in the bush all the time. Sometimes alone. Don’t you ever get scared of bears and things like that.”
André nodded. He had a long blade of grass in his mouth. He pulled it out, and stared at it thoughtfully. “Well,” he began slowly, “there was one thing that scared me – but it wasn’t a bear.”
André looked at Dick. It was difficult to say in the dark, but Travis was half convinced he saw Dick shake his head hard once, as if to tell André to stop. But André was already committed.
“You never heard about Slewfoot, then?” he asked.
Several of the Owls said at once: “Slewfoot?”
“Well,” he said, “they say there’s an old ranger around here who went mad. They say he lost his canoe on the river in the whitewater and smashed into the rocks when he went down the rapids. It destroyed one of his legs, and he always drags it behind him when he walks.
“He also hit his head on the rocks. He had no idea who he was when he came to. No one knows why he didn’t drown like the other ranger who was with him, but he didn’t. He took off into the bush and they tracked him and searched for him, but they could never find him.
“Every once in a while we get a report about something being in one of the camps. Campers think it’s a bear, but it never does any damage like a bear. All they know is that it breaks into their food and takes off into the night. In the morning they find these strange tracks in the dirt like someone’s been dragging something.”
“His … foot?” Simon said in a trembling voice.
“Your guess is good as mine,” said André. “I’ve never seen him, just heard the stories …”
“And,” a very large voice said from close by, “we’ve had just about enough stories for one night, haven’t we?”
André Girard turned sharply, almost ducking as the big voice of Ranger McCormick cut through the night air. They had all been so caught up in the story, no one had noticed the older men coming up on the group.
“That story, kids,” the older ranger said, “is what we call a bush myth – it simply ain’t so, so don’t go thinking about it. There was no such accident. There’s no such thing as any Slewfoot.”
“Sorry, sir,” André said. “Just poking a little fun.”
“Go poke away at that fire and get it going again. And no more of that talk, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you kids,” the old ranger said, “how about a round of hot chocolate before tucking in?”
“YES!” the Owls said at once.
“We’ve just been telling Mr. Munro and Mr. Dillinger here what we know from the radio. No sighting. No signals. No one’s seen anything, apart from this young man here, who may or may not have seen the plane pass over.”
“It was a flying saucer,” whispered Sam.
“What’s that?” asked the old ranger, turning.
“Nothing,” said Sam, giggling.
“Any other questions, then?” the older ranger asked before heading back to the campfire and the hot chocolate.
Nish raised his hand.
Travis rolled his eyes. They were hardly in class.
“Yes, son?” the ranger asked.
“Do you happen to know if fish can fart?”
9
“BREAK CAMP!”
The call came from Mr. Dillinger, his makeshift birchbark megaphone raised to his mouth.
Muck had already spoken to the Owls about the necessity of moving on. They still had the Crow River to navigate, and Muck had booked another campsite on the next large lake in the interior, one that would require a portage of more than a mile – a trek that Nish had been whining about ever since Muck and Mr. Dillinger had first laid out the park map and Muck’s big, callused forefinger had traced the route they’d be taking.
“Do they have caddies?” Nish had asked.
Mr. Dillinger had looked up, eyes blinking and moustache sputtering: “What do you mean?”
“A caddy,” Nish grinned. “You know – someone to carry my bag.”
“We’re going canoe tripping, not golfing,” Mr. Dillinger had said, shaking his head, and turned again to the map and the long route Muck had mapped out.
So far the Owls had done one long portage, carrying canoes and equipment up a steep hill to the next lake, and one shorter one around some dangerous rapids. Travis actually liked the challenge. He loved the way Muck could simply reach down and swing one of the canoes up onto his shoulders – “Hey, Mr. Canoe Head!” Nish had screamed out – and still be able to carry the food pack at the same time.
Travis marvelled at how Muck and Mr. Dillinger had organized the trip, how everything was done with such order. Each of the Owls had his or her own backpack, with clothes and sleeping bag and groundsheet. Some carried special supplies – Travis, for example, had a first-aid kit, others had light tents, tarpaulins, compact tools, or fishing equipment – and then there were also larger packs holding the plastic food barrels and Mr. Dillinger’s cooking equipment.
It was all arranged so that, if everyone worked together, no one would have to go more than twice over any portage trail.
They broke camp quickly, loaded up the canoes, and set out, the kids staring back at the rangers’ tents, which now seemed so lonely standing on the large campsite. The four men had set out in their canoes at first light to resume their search.
“Good luck!” Fahd shouted towards the empty tents.
“Good luck finding them!” Sarah called.
“Good luck!” several of the rest of the Owls called out.
“Good grief!” Nish muttered at Travis. “How’s a tent gonna find anyone?”
They paddled easily down the river. Muck said he had never seen the water in the Crow so high. There were even stretches of whitewater: sudden narrowings in the river where the water seemed to squeeze and then jump, the rivulets and currents twisting and turning ahead of them as the Owls rode, laughing and screaming, down each quickwater section.
Travis was paddling stern, with Nish in the bow and Fahd sitting low in the packs trying to switch from side to side with his paddle.
Nish had already given up. He was merely letting the current take them along, his paddle on his knees and his head hunched down towards his lap. He was also looking a little green, Travis thought, though it was hard to believe anyone could get seasick on a little river.
Then Travis grinned to himself – perhaps Nish was turning into an alien!
They floated easily, at times effortlessly, in the current. For long stretches Travis found himself getting lost in the scenery. They came across an osprey diving for trout. They passed by a bull moose standing shoulder-deep in the river as he dined nonchalantly on a fresh salad of river weed. They startled great blue herons as the huge birds stalked frogs. The herons squawked once in outrage before rising in such a leisurely and effortless way it seemed they were moving in slow motion, the only sound the wind as it sighed through their broad wing feathers.
Up ahead, Muck was s
ignalling them all into shore.
“What’s up?” Travis asked.
“I don’t know,” said Fahd.
“Unnnnnnnnnn …,” said Nish. He did not sound well at all.
The canoes all squeezed into a small natural cove formed by a twist in the river and a small pine-needle-covered point with several large Jack pine hanging out over the flowing water. There was a sand bottom and they grounded softly, the kids leaping out as the canoes struck shore and hauling the boats up onto the beach.
A yellow sign was nailed onto a cedar just behind where Mr. Dillinger stood. It had a picture of a canoe being carried: another portage.
Muck waited until they had all settled down.
“This is usually a portage,” Muck said, “especially this time of year. The river gets roughest along here – there’s a small rapids just up ahead – and if you tried to make it in shallow water you’d smash.
“The water’s deep this summer, though. Deep as it usually is in spring, and I’ve done the run several times at that time of year.” Muck stopped, smiled to himself. “And believe me, you go over in April, you feel it!”
The Owls all laughed at the image of Muck tipping in a canoe. It was hard to imagine.
“I think we can chance it,” Muck said. “But if anyone wants to take the portage, don’t be shy. It’s not that long. Maybe half a mile. And we’ll all gather at the end and continue on together.”
“I’m walkin’,” a voice squeaked from behind Travis. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was: Nish, the little green man from Tamarack.
“I’ll walk with you,” Fahd said.
Travis knew how nervous Fahd was in a canoe. He understood. “We’ll walk,” Travis said.
“We’ll come with you,” Sarah said, stepping over beside Travis.
“You don’t have to,” Travis said, but secretly he was pleased.
“Sam and I and Rachel need to stretch our legs anyway,” said Sarah.
Travis nodded, worrying that he was blushing. He had hoped it wouldn’t just be Sarah. That her whole canoe – Rachel included – would be coming along the portage.
“Anyone else?” Muck asked.
“Rapids!” Gordie Griffith shouted out with enthusiasm. Gordie was probably the best canoeist of the Owls, and he’d been hoping for some excitement.
“Yes! Rapids!” shouted Simon Milliken, the least likely of the daredevils.
“Rapids!” called out Jesse and several other of the Owls.
Muck looked at Mr. Dillinger, who nodded. They seemed to have a plan.
“You six kids will have to take your packs, okay?” said Muck. “Just stick to the trail and there’s no problem. Mr. Dillinger and I will come back for your canoes.”
“That’s hardly fair,” said Travis. “You shouldn’t have to carry them for us.”
Muck grinned and winked. “Who said anything about carrying?”
Travis smiled. Of course. Muck would like nothing better than a chance to run the rapids on his own.
Mr. Dillinger would be another matter; he was red-faced, swallowing hard, and scratching the three-day growth on his neck.
No, Travis wasn’t so sure about Mr. Dillinger at all – but Muck would take care of him, that was a certainty.
10
Travis didn’t really mind missing the whitewater. The sun was now high, and it was much cooler in the woods than it had been on the water. The trail was well marked, and he could handle his own pack easily.
Nish was trudging along behind, struggling with his pack as if they had forced him to strap a minivan to his back. Travis could hear his friend grunting and moaning and complaining with every step.
Rachel, even with a large pack, moved with perfect ease through the woods. Travis had noticed it before. It was as if Rachel somehow fit the bush. Nish might look like … well… an alien from outer space out here in the bush, and Travis himself might move well enough, but there was a difference. Travis knew he moved best, not even bothering to think about his steps, whenever he was in a school corridor or on a hockey rink or along any of the streets in Tamarack. In the bush, he sometimes stumbled, sometimes kicked off roots or stones or forgot to duck for branches. Not Rachel. She moved like a fish through water when going along the trail, never a wasted movement, never a wrong move.
Rachel and Travis walked together and were soon deep in conversation. They had been catching up on each other’s lives at every opportunity since Rachel had shown up that morning for the bus ride up and into the park, and it seemed to Travis now that he knew more about Rachel than practically anyone else he knew – Nish excepted, of course.
They walked easily together, pausing every so often to make sure Nish was still coming along behind.
“Here – let’s pick it up,” said Rachel after a while. “Fahd and the girls are well ahead.”
They turned and stared down the path. Nish was struggling as if he were carrying the last stone they would use to complete the pyramids. He was soaking with sweat and had attracted a swirl of mosquitoes and horseflies that he kept absent-mindedly swatting at as he dragged himself along.
“C’mon, Nish – hurry up!” Travis called. “We’d better catch up to the rest.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Nish called back. “I want to go by canoe.”
“Too late,” Rachel shouted. “They’ve already left.”
Nish made a face that could have crushed a walnut, hiked up his big pack and trudged on past them, heading up the trail.
Sam was coming back towards them without her pack. “The trail splits ahead!” she called as she came through the trees.
“Huh?” was all Travis could say.
“It splits, goes two different ways, and we can’t tell which is the right one.”
“Muck said the path is clearly marked.”
“It is clearly marked – it’s just that there are two paths. It looks like there might have been a sign to tell you which branch to take, but it’s been broken off and we can’t find it.”
Nish looked worried. “What’ll we do?”
“We can all go back and wait for Muck – and waste everyone’s day – or we can figure it out,” said Sam.
“Let’s have a look,” said Rachel.
Nish, Travis, Sam, and Rachel picked up their pace and soon reached the spot where Fahd and Sarah were waiting. Fahd was lying on his back with his Walkman out and his earphones in. He had his eyes closed.
“Any news?” Nish shouted when he saw Fahd. Fahd didn’t hear him.
Sarah shook her head, disappointed. “Nothing good – the radio says this region’s in for a bad storm tonight or tomorrow.”
“Great!” snarled Nish. “Just what we need is more water for Muck’s stupid river!”
No one paid him any attention.
Sarah pointed out the two trails, both obvious, each going off in a different direction.
“It’s got to be this one,” Sarah said.
“That makes sense,” Rachel said. “It’s the one going back towards the river.”
“How can you tell?” demanded Nish.
“How can you not tell? We got out on the east side of the river, didn’t we? And we’ve been walking straight east and we haven’t crossed over the river or anything. And this trail heads east while that one’s going northwest. How can this one not be the right one?”
“Look,” Nish snapped. “I didn’t come here to do a geography exam – I don’t even know what I came here for. Just make sure you take the right turn, okay?”
“Now there’s a happy camper,” shot Sam.
Nish just turned and spat into the dirt: end of discussion.
They set out on the trail Sarah and Rachel had picked out. Travis felt immediately calmed by this unexpected twist. The trail was well travelled, and it seemed to be headed in the right direction.
They passed by a third trail, heading off to the left, but it was narrower and less beaten down. They ignored it.
They climbed a long hill, a
nd then another, and then came to a bluff they had to get around, which they did by picking out a tall tree and heading for it.
They got there all right – but now the trail was gone.
“It’s just trickled away,” said Sarah. “One minute it was a perfectly good trail, the next minute nothing.”
“What’ll we do?” whined Nish.
“Go back,” said Sam matter-of-factly.
Nish groaned as if he were dying.
“We’ll just go back to where the trail first split,” said Sarah. “It’s obvious. We just took the wrong path.”
They headed back, the girls singing an old camp song, Nish still whining and sulking and moaning and complaining with every step. No one paid him the slightest heed. They came back to where the narrower trail headed off, now to the right.
“This is the little trail,” remarked Sam.
“Take it!” shouted Nish from behind.
“We should go all the way back,” said Travis.
“Think about it, dumb one,” Nish shouted with scorn. “It’s pretty obvious we’re not the first to get suckered up this wrong trail. This is the path people have been using to get back onto the right one.”
“Makes sense to me,” said Sarah.
“Sure would save us time,” said Sam.
“We shouldn’t,” said Travis.
“You’re such an old woman!” Nish hissed from behind. “Are you going to go through life never taking a chance?”
Nish’s words stung. They hurt because, in a terrible way, they were kind of true. Travis didn’t like risk. He liked certainty. He liked things you could count on.
“Nish is likely right,” said Rachel. “It goes in the right direction. And it would save us close to an hour, I bet.”
“I say we go down it a bit, and if it’s not working out, then we come back this way and turn … right,” said Sarah, relieved that she had her bearings.
Nish didn’t wait. He started down the trail happily, now whistling like one of the seven dwarfs off to work in the diamond mines.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 5 Page 4
