by Vicki Delany
I didn’t look back until we were almost halfway across the lake. Only then, I remembered the rest of our group and checked to see how they were doing. Not terribly well. Craig was with Barb. Jeremy and Richard were turning in ever increasing circles while the guide shouted instructions and demonstrated how to keep the thing in a straight line. Rachel and her partner, (Joe! I finally remembered his name) were at least going straight, although slowly as Rachel delicately dipped the nose of her paddle into the water once a minute or so.
“Perhaps we should wait up for the others.” I rested my paddle across my knees and took a deep drink from my water bottle.
Dianne snorted. “I hope we’re not going to be held up by that bunch for the whole trip. At least you look like you have a vague idea what you are doing.”
I decided to take that as a compliment. “I did quite a bit of canoeing many years ago. But I haven’t been out since I was first married.”
“Well it shows. That Rachel doesn’t look like she’s ever been north of Highway 401 in her entire, short life. What possessed Richard to invite them, I have no idea.”
“Maybe this afternoon we should split up? Put one of the weaker paddlers into this canoe with you. Sort of balance the load?” I suggested hopefully. I didn’t particularly fancy spending the entire trip with Dianne. After her bit of faint praise I would feel myself compelled to try to live up to her standards.
Which Jeremy didn’t appear to be doing, as regards whatever standards Dianne’s husband might have. We were far away but even so it was obvious that Richard was already impatient at the boy’s failure to master the little craft. His face was turning red and puffing out at the cheeks. He finally gave up paddling all together and sat rigidly in the bow, clutching his paddle and staring forward. He threw a comment over his shoulder at the English boy. I couldn’t hear what he said, but Jeremy flushed and his mouth gathered into a taught line.
Eventually, with gentle, persistent coaching from Craig, Jeremy grasped the concept of the “J” stroke (used by the person in the back, called the stern, who has total responsibility for the direction of the little boat, to keep the craft from veering off course) and he managed to keep his canoe in somewhat of a straight line. Richard sighed theatrically and resumed paddling.
Poor Jeremy, it wasn’t a nice way to begin one’s vacation. Richard looked to be quite the snob and if he didn’t keep a lid on it, it wouldn’t be long before he was in everyone’s face.
Joe and Rachel (mostly Joe) plodded on and eventually they all caught up with us.
Craig pointed out the direction we were to take and once again, like horses out of the starting gate, Dianne and I were off. The guide had explained earlier that we would paddle up this long, thin lake, and then portage around the rapids at the end. We reached the portage, recognizable by the bright yellow sign nailed to a tree, long before the others.
The portage, a trail overland joining two bodies of water where the lake or river is impassable, was crowded this close to the Park’s entrance. Five or six canoes in a spectrum of cheerful colors were dragged up onto a scruffy little bit of beach. Piles of packs, life jackets, paddles and other required paraphernalia lay scattered on the rocks.
Dianne guided our canoe onto a spare patch of beach. I stepped out into the warm, shallow water and dragged the nose of the craft onto the sand. The moment we touched dry land, Dianne tossed our stuff out of the canoe and gestured for me to stand with my back to her so she could load me up with a pack. We would return for the canoe once the packs were transported to the far end.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” I said. ”Craig may have his own way of doing this.”
“Not necessary,” she barked. “I know what to do.” And she bent into her pack, picked up a paddle in both hands and set off down the trail. I was only surprised that she didn’t run. Swept up in the force of the woman’s enthusiasm, as helpless to resist as debris in a hurricane, I followed.
Luckily, it was a short portage, less than 100 yards. The trail was wide and well established with wooden risers placed into the side of the hill to aid wet footsteps. Even so, my sandals were damp and fastened too loosely, my feet slipped wildly about and I feared that I would fall. Head down, shoulders braced against the considerable weight of my pack, I forced myself forward.
I passed several groups of people, either returning empty for another load or struggling under canoes and packs on their way out of the park.
A woman at least twice my age hummed cheerfully as she passed me, loaded down with paddles, lifejackets, daypacks and fishing rods. I returned her nod. Seeing her gave me some much-needed confidence, and I continued on my way, feeling a bit better.
Dianne was waiting impatiently when I finally reached the end of the trail.
“What took you so long?” She eased the heavy pack off my shoulders. I sighed with relief.
“There are a lot of people here. We have to be careful to keep our equipment separate from theirs, particularly as some of this gear looks quite a bit alike. I’ve put our packs over here, on the left. Keep them together.” She tossed my pack on top of hers and we went back for our canoe.
The rest of our group was disembarking when we returned to the little beach. Joe leapt out of his canoe and slogged through water and sand to haul the bow of the craft onto dry land, presumably so Rachel could step out without getting her little feet wet.
“Barb, Jeremy and Rachel, you each take a pack and whatever else you can carry, paddles or daypacks or whatnot. Joe and Richard take a canoe,” Craig said.
“I don’t think so,” Rachel mumbled underneath her breath. I was the only one close enough to hear. Dianne was already gripping the back of our canoe and calling for me to come and take the front end.
“To your knees. One, two, three,” she shouted. Fortunately I remembered at the last minute what that meant and hoisted my end of the canoe to knee level. On her next command we flipped the canoe over and rested it onto our shoulders. A shower of muddy water cascaded through my hair and down my neck.
Up the stairs and down the trail at Dianne’s frantic pace. If she started to run, I would let her carry the blasted thing herself. Blinking water out of my eyes, I almost collided with one tree, but otherwise we reached the end of the portage without mishap.
We placed our canoe carefully back into clear blue water and reloaded the packs. “You can rest now, if you want,” Dianne informed me. “I’ll go back and help the others.” I was sorely tempted to sink onto a nice soft rock and do just that, but I wasn’t about to let Dianne show me up. I never could resist a challenge. So I set off down the trail one more time.
We passed Barb and Jeremy laboring under their burdens, and Rachel sauntering along swinging her own daypack. Craig carried a canoe by himself as if it were a part of his body. Joe and Richard struggled under the weight of their canoe, manfully but vainly trying to disguise how difficult they were finding the unaccustomed load. Dianne and I scooped up daypacks and lifejackets.
On the way back I took the opportunity to sneak into the woods. Seeking privacy, I scrambled over moss covered rocks and pushed aside branches. The forest floor crackled under my feet, hard and brittle and dry. It hadn’t rained for so long that the papers were calling it drought conditions.
I was settling into a nice spot and wiggling down my shorts when my breath caught in my throat and my heart started racing. Lying almost at my feet, half-buried in a pile of rotting leaves, lay a little brown rabbit, eyes open wide staring at nothing, tiny stomach torn open, red entrails spilling out.
Task forgotten, swallowing furiously, I scurried out of the clearing toward the sound of voices, pulling up my shorts as I went.
“Look Rachel, we really need your help with all of this stuff.” Craig’s voice sounded calm and reasonable as I burst out of the woods.
I was breathing heavily, and no doubt was ashen faced, but no one paid the slightest bit of attention to me.
“It really isn’t as hard as it looks,
” the guide said. Everyone has to pitch in to make it a fun trip for us all. You’d agree with that wouldn’t you?”
Rachel pouted prettily. “Joe will carry my share, right sweetie?”
Joe had the grace to flush. “I’m happy to, honey, you know that, but I think that Craig feels that it isn’t fair on the others if you…” Catching sight of Dianne and I listening, he broke off in mid-sentence, shrugged and turned on his heels. Craig raised his eyebrows to us as he passed in Joe’s wake.
Rachel dug into her daypack and produced a tiny compact. Flipping it open she touched up her lipstick and applied a dab of powder to her nose. I thought I heard a bear standing beside me, but it was only Dianne. She glared at Rachel then waded back into the water to resume her position in the stern of our canoe.
“Come on, Leanne. We don’t have all day!”
Dutifully I scrambled for my paddle, guided us off the rock, and jumped in. Actually, we did have all day.
We couldn’t get too far, Craig hadn’t yet told us which way to go. So we drifted in lazy circles off shore while the others finished the portage, loaded their canoes and pushed off.
“I’m rather surprised that Rachel has come on this trip,” I said once we were underway again. “She doesn’t quite seem the type.”
Dianne growled her bear imitation again. “Useless creature. Almost as stupid as the fool who brought her.” She fell silent and we watched the trees and the water drift by.
I wondered if the “fool” she referred to was Joe, or her own husband, Richard, who presumably had suggested the trip to the other couple. It seemed a bit strange to me, to invite people one barely knew on a trip that has this sort of intensity. Not quite like a visit to Club Med, in some exotic locale, where you could go for long walks along the beach or hide in your room all day to avoid certain people if you didn’t want the pleasure of their company. And what Rachel herself, as out of her element as a fish on the surface of the moon, was doing here, I was dying to know.
I’d come on this trip to be alone, to enjoy the wilderness in solitude and hopefully regain some sense of my own place in the universe. All that life-affirming, good stuff. But I wasn’t adverse to a nice bit of tasty gossip, either.
It was a short distance to the second portage where, Craig had told us, we would have lunch. Then only a quick trip along the shores of the next lake to find a campsite for the night.
I was dreaming happily of a hearty lunch and a chance for a nice rest when Dianne spoke up, so softly that if it weren’t for the calm peace of the lake and the direction of the winds I would have missed it. “If that woman expects all of us to wait on her hand and foot, I might put her out of her misery myself.”
Chapter 4
Day 2: afternoon
As soon as I saw the site I knew that it would be perfect. Once you get into the backwoods areas of Algonquin Park the campsites are well spaced out, maybe a good ten minutes paddle from one to the next. They’re marked with an orange sign nailed to a tree prominently placed looking out over the water and come with absolutely no amenities. The way I like it. A clearing in the trees, a bit of a fire pit, with maybe some logs arranged around it for seating, and an outhouse set far back. Further into the park, the outhouses are gone, replaced with a wooden box with a lid and a hole in the seat. The "Treasure Chest” we called it when I was young.
Dianne and I drifted off shore waiting for the others to catch up before pulling our canoes up onto the rocks and exploring the site. Dianne pronounced it “perfect” and I agreed. The fire pit was large and nicely arranged. The previous inhabitants had kindly left us an ample supply of neatly stacked firewood. Three good-sized logs formed an open-ended square with the pit located in the gap. Thick stands of pine, mostly red and jack, towered overhead. A small beaten path led up the hill to the outhouse, where it ended. Otherwise, like all the best camping places, no access was in or out through the dense woods.
The shore was rocky, but got deep very quickly: good for swimming. I have a phobia of stepping on grass or seaweed or anything else in the way of vegetation when I’m in the water. My father always reminded me that there is nothing cleaner, and I know that’s true, but I still refuse to venture in if anything growing is likely to wrap itself around my feet underwater.
Dianne set to unpacking the tents the instant we arrived. I was hoping for a swim first, but once again, caught up in the woman’s enthusiasm and afraid of looking incompetent, I pitched in to help.
We had three tents with us. Other than Craig, only Dianne, Joe and I seemed to have any idea of how to put them up. Jeremy, Barb and Richard at least tried, fumbling about with much noise and argument.
While we worked, Craig unpacked the cooking equipment and set up a little kitchen by the fire pit. Rachel sat on a log, admiring her nails.
It wasn’t long before Barb, she of the amazing blonde hair and the equally amazing snore, abandoned us tent-architects and bustled over to help Craig with the cooking things.
Finally we were done, with much rushing about by Dianne to check that all the pegs were hammered in completely and the lines were all snug and tight.
Barb wandered over to have a good look at our handiwork and gasped in dismay. “But, it’s so small. Isn’t there another tent? It’s too small for…” she did the arithmetic in her head, “…three people.”
“No,” Dianne assured her. “It’s actually a four person tent. So we’ll all have lots of room. I’ve slept with five people in a tent that size, no problem.”
“So who goes where?” Barb asked, the big blue eyes shining at Craig.
“Well, I’m certainly not sleeping with any of you.” Rachel rose from her rock and brushed off the seat of her shorts. “Joe and I will have that one.” She pointed to the tent farthest from the others, and closest to the outhouse, although she probably didn’t realize that yet. She picked up her daypack and marched into her new home. Clearly, there would be no discussion on the matter.
A sheepish Joe followed.
The rest of us eyed each other. As long as I wasn’t in with Barb, the snorer, I didn’t mind where I went. All I planned on doing in my tent was sleeping.
“Leanne can come in with us,” Dianne announced. “No point in having a girl’s tent and a boy’s tent.”
Barb smiled brightly at Craig. “I suppose that leaves us,” she said.
He returned the smile tightly. “Sure. Jeremy can go in the middle. Is that okay with you, Jeremy?”
“Yes. It certainly is.” He tossed a smile full of tiny teeth and red gums at Barb. She didn’t return it.
I shooed Richard out of our tent and changed into my bathing suit. Full of anticipation, I danced through the campsite and slipped gratefully into the clear, fresh water. A few delicate steps over the rocks and I launched myself onto my belly and started swimming. It had been a remarkably hot summer - the water was warm and seductively inviting. The only swimming I really do is in a lake. My mother has a fabulous pool in her condo and she is always inviting me to come over, but I hate swimming in a pool. What’s the point? Up and down, up and down in the same little patch of chlorinated water. No thanks.
I haven’t swum in the ocean much, there not being anything in the line of a sea close to Toronto. I’ve vacationed in seaside resorts, but I didn’t swim much. I’m too afraid of finding creepy little things in the water, or, even worse, creepy big things like sharks. Although everyone assures me that the water is perfectly safe, I find that I spend the whole time carefully placing one shaking foot in front of the other and swimming in tiny circles so as not to churn up the ocean bottom.
There are some things that we grew up with and will accept no substitute for. And for me it is the lakes and rivers of Northern Ontario.
I fell into a steady crawl, and as I felt the smooth water moving under my arms and legs, all the strains of the last year leached out of my body to drift away on the gentle waves. After several hundred yards of steady swimming, I flipped onto my back and floated lazily in the so
ft, warm water. The sky overhead was a perfect, clear blue, with not a cloud to be seen. The sun moved lower in the west and, as I watched, a tiny speck of an airplane flew soundlessly overhead, drawing a long white line against the blue sky to mark its passing, like a child sneaking a chance to make her mark on the classroom blackboard. I imagined the people in the plane, looking down at the green darkness of the forest and the bright blue patches of water, and I felt sorry for them. Hurrying from one busy airport to another, crammed into their seats like sardines in the tin.
I felt the delicious coolness of the water through my fingers and toes. Only one thing could make this moment any better, if my children were with me. But they were a bit young still. I hoped I would be able to bring them here someday, maybe next year.
All good things must come to an end, and I swam languorously back to the campsite. Jeremy and Barb were playing in the water, laughing and splashing each other. Barb called to Craig to join them, but he shook his head and held up a kitchen knife to indicate that he was preparing dinner.
Joe passed me on his way to the middle of the lake, doing a pretty fair breaststroke. Rachel sat on a log, her feet dangling in the water, dressed in an eye-catching red bikini, red baseball cap and heavy sunglasses.
I climbed over the rocks and up out of the water to pause in front of Rachel. “Going for a swim?”
“No.” She almost shivered. “That water doesn’t look very clean.”
“Cleaner water than most,” I told her, shaking some of the stuff out of my ear and toweling myself down. “No sewage systems, no motorboats, no shipping lanes.”
