by Vicki Delany
“One day I might come on a trip by myself, to really experience the silence. But not for a few years yet. I don’t have any equipment of my own any more, and I guess I’m a bit afraid of doing it all for myself. So for now, a group like this suits me perfectly.”
“Why don’t you live up here, then?” she asked with an amazing degree of candor. “Why do you live in Toronto, if it’s not where you want to be?”
“Well, I have kids,” I explained, “and children need to be near the city, where everything is, you know?”
To my considerable relief Rachel did not pursue that topic. It made complete sense, to her.
“It’s pretty enough around here, I guess,” she said as she turned away and continued paddling. We hadn’t traveled for long before she laid down her paddle and once again turned to face me.
“You people must think that I am a terrible sport. You all hate me!”
Automatic answer: “Of course not”
“But you do. I know you do. I know that Craig and Dianne do. I’m trying, really I am.” Her eyes filled with tears. “But I’ve never done anything like this before, and I absolutely hate it.”
“I’ll agree, it’s not the vacation for everyone.” Craig noticed that we were stopped. Some of the tension in our voices probably carried across the water if not the words themselves. He slowed down and looked as if he were about to turn and come over to us. Trying to look causal, and not to be noticed by Rachel, I waved him away. He took the meaning and kept his distance.
“I need my things, my bathroom and my hair dryer. Will you look at this hair,” she sobbed. I thought her hair looked great. The red waves were tied back into a thick bundle behind her head. Tendrils had escaped from their band to drift into gentle curls around her forehead and cheeks. Her hair probably looked a hundred times better than it did when, teased and sprayed, she walked out of the hairdresser.
“My clothes are dirty and my nails are broken.” She burst into full-blown sobs. Oh great, I mumbled to myself. Here we are out in the middle of the lake and I am stuck with this crying woman. Unable to touch her, I made soothing gestures with my hands.
Dianne and Barb and Richard and Jeremy were getting fainter and fainter in the distance. Craig and Joe bobbed quietly ahead of us. Craig’s face was etched with concern as he watched one group almost disappear out of sight and another stranded in a sea of emotion.
“I’m almost due to have my period. What will I do then?” She continued to cry.
“You’ll manage. Like women have always managed.” This was enough. I was supposed to be on vacation here. I paid good money for this trip and I don’t run a counseling service. “How do you think women managed for thousands of years before tampons and sanitary bins? Believe it or not, they got on fine.”
A cry caught in her throat and Rachel looked up at me, “I guess you’re right.” She pulled up her T-shirt to wipe at her eyes. “You must hate me.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I don’t hate you at all. Why did you come on this trip anyway? Surely you read up on it before, didn’t you? You must have known what to expect.”
She looked sheepish. “I didn’t know anything about it. Joe told me we’d been invited to go on a vacation with his new partner and his wife. He said the wife is the one who really controls the money and this would be a great opportunity to butter her up.
“At first I thought we were going to their cottage. Joe told me that they have a fabulous cottage on Lake Rosseau. I had a boyfriend when I was in High School whose family had a cottage near there, on Lake Joseph. It was really nice, like a house on the water, you know, not a cottage at all.
“Then Joe told me that we were going on a wilderness trip. So I kinda thought, you know, it would be a fly-in sort of thing. Where you get into a little bush plane to fly into a really nice luxury resort, you know.
“Then we got to that lodge. It was okay, for one night. I thought the next stop would be more luxurious.”
“Listen Rachel,” I said, “the others are waiting for us so we have to move on. But I have a little bit of advice for you. Never, never, accept what someone tells you without checking it out, not if it’s important. Even if it is Joe. Sometimes people don’t mean to deceive you, they just don’t want to tell you the whole truth. Would you have come on this trip if Joe had told you exactly what it would be like?”
She looked at me in amazement. “Of course not.”
“There we are. He didn’t tell you because he knew that you wouldn’t come if he did. So you should have asked. Do you agree?”
She nodded glumly. “I guess so.”
“Don’t be afraid to ask questions. You have to protect yourself, you know.”
“But, Joe loves me.”
Deep inside my chest I screamed and mentally pulled out all my hair, but on the outside I managed a faint smile. “I’m sure he does. But even Joe doesn’t always know what is best for you. No one does. In fact, Joe might be regretting bringing you. Things don’t seem to be going very well right now.”
She returned my smile. “He kinda thinks I blew it with the wife.”
I laughed. “Tell you what. If you want, I’ll help you through this. If you don’t know what to do or you feel uncomfortable with anything, come to me and we’ll work it out. How about it?”
Her smile lit up the already bright sky. “That would be great, Leanne, just great.”
“We’ll make a woods woman out of you yet. But let’s get going. I can’t see Dianne any more and Craig looks like he’s about to lasso us and pull us along behind.”
She lifted her paddle and turned to face forward. “Thanks, Leanne. You’ve been a big help.”
I shrugged. Self-survival really. “By the way, how long have you and Joe been married?”
“Three months next week,” she giggled.
I groaned. No wonder he was happy to have a private tent.
We put in a long day and covered a lot of ground, both water and land. The sun beat relentlessly overhead in a clear blue sky. Jeremy, as pale as the proverbial Englishman in the noonday sun at the beginning of the trip, was turning an alarming pink and Craig spent most of the day reminding him to put on sun block. He hadn’t brought a hat, so at our break Craig demonstrated the art of making of a bandana out of a spare T-shirt and watering it down regularly. The poor boy didn’t even have sunglasses. The glare off the lake was bothering his eyes, so I lent him a spare pair. He looked rather ridiculous with a T-shirt tied over his head and enormous women’s sunglasses perched on his peeling nose, but at least he would be safe from sunstroke.
While Craig and I ministered to him and Dianne lectured us all on the dangers of too much sun, Barb sat with her back to us, ignoring Jeremy as if he had the plague. He kept glancing toward her, but said nothing.
The next day was to be a rest day so Craig was determined to push us on in order to reach a favorite spot of his. He drove us hard but I loved watching the lake slip under the bow of our canoe and the rhythmic movement of my paddle as it ate up the blue water, stroke after hungry stroke. My city weary muscles balked at the unexpected exercise, but soon I found my second wind and we seemed to fairly fly across the sparkling surface of the lake.
Rachel rested a few times more than should be necessary. I pretended not to notice as she lifted her paddle out of the water and barely skimmed it over the surface, or took an extraordinary length of time to refill her water bottle and apply sunscreen. But she was trying.
Our last portage of the day was a long one, well over a mile and tough going. As we progressed further into the park the trails were less used, and nature in all her rough glory struggled to take back even that little bit of ground that humans had arrogantly claimed for their own.
We were all looking pretty haggard and just about out for the count as we collapsed at the end of the portage in a mess of canoes, packs, paddles, life jackets, shoes, daypacks, and water bottles. All except Craig, of course, who bounced down the trail under the last canoe as if he had rece
ntly risen from his warm and comfy bed.
“Oyster mushrooms,” he announced, grinning from one ear to the other as he deposited the canoe carefully back into the lake where it belonged. “A whole mess of them, back a bit. They’ll be great for dinner. Who wants to help me pick them?”
I struggled to my feet. Might as well be adventurous. After all I paid good money to be so.
“How do you know they’re edible?” Joe asked. “There must be all kinds of poisonous mushrooms and toadstools around here.”
“There are,” Craig said. “But I know mushrooms and these ones are good eating.” He headed back up the trail with me tagging along behind.
“We haven’t got anything to carry them in.”
“Improvise.”
The logs weren’t far. Huge old trees, fallen to the forest floor long ago, were decaying slowly back into the earth from where they came, but, proving that nature wastes nothing, before they were completely gone they provided a home for a thriving mushroom farm. Thick, white oyster mushrooms, some as much as six inches long and almost as wide, lined the rotting tree trunks in neat little rows.
Barb walked behind me, and Jeremy followed close on her heels. Craig showed us how to gently lift the mushroom from its log and shake it in order to release the spoors so as to provide for the next crop. Barb brought a plastic bag but Craig and I lifted the edges of our T-shirts to use for baskets to hold the delicate white fungi.
As we worked Craig described in mouth-watering detail how he would prepare the little treat over the campfire as an accompaniment to our dinner.
When we’d finally gathered all that would fit into one plastic bag and two T-shirts we returned to the others, poured our harvest into the empty lunch bucket, loaded up the canoes, and set sail once again.
We had worked hard to get here, but our destination was worth it: a good-sized camping spot facing directly west to catch the last rays of the setting sun. I found a large rock with a perfect curve to serve as a backrest and settled down beside the lake with my book. Barb and Jeremy went swimming. He was quite the sight with his shrunken, lily-white chest and cheerfully pink arms, neck, and legs. But fortunately for him, the pink was still pink and not too red. They splashed each other playfully and Barb squealed and pretended to fall over. Typical mating behavior. Jeremy beamed broadly, the happiest I had seen him since I met the fellow. I hoped Barb knew what she was doing, but I doubted it.
As usual Dianne disappeared for a nap as soon as camp had been set up. Richard poked aimlessly at a pile of small rocks lining the shore with a long stick. Joe and Rachel came down to the water. This time Rachel swam far out with long, firm, graceful strokes, Joe watching her every movement. Behind me Craig started the fire, heated up water, and sliced vegetables to make dinner.
“Would you like me to take a picture of you sitting there, Leanne?” Rachel had climbed out of the water and stood on the rocks straightening out her long red hair with her hands.
I smiled up at her and handed over my camera. When she gave it back she knelt down and whispered in my ear, “Would you show me how to wash my panties, please? I don’t mind ringing out my T-shirt in the lake too much, but I want to wash my panties. Is that possible?”
With regret I once again abandoned the intriguing world of Victorian society; my characters had left the mysterious fog-shrouded city and were spending the weekend at a grouse hunting party at the great country estate of Lord and Lady So-and-so. I hoped they would still be there when I got back.
We filched a cooking pot from Craig, and I showed Rachel how to fill it with water and carry it well back from the lake. Not so hard, really. You just have to know what to do. We walked into the woods and I swept a little area clear of brush. Rachel produced a tiny packet of powered soap and I left her scrubbing happily away.
It was not too long before a line of frilly lace and satin underpants in a shade of the most delicate peach, accompanied by a matching push up, fasten-at-the-front bra, were fluttering gaily on our clothesline. The men threw furtive glances in that direction all evening.
I reclaimed my piece of rock and my novel as the huge sun made its final descent towards its nightly bath. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The light danced across the water as the dying sun cast ripples of apricot and gold across the lake in a straight line pointing directly towards my rock. I delighted in the feeling that the sun was putting on this show for me and me alone. I remembered my sons and hoped to get the sun to perform for them one day. Before they’re too old, before they’re too “cool” to enjoy it. Then I clambered up the rocks towards the sound of dinner being served.
The mushrooms were wonderful, coated in a dressing of cooking oil with a touch of soy sauce and roasted on the grill. We ate them as an appetizer. For dinner Craig had prepared a casserole of lentils and sweet potatoes topped with mashed potatoes and a thick layer of cheddar cheese.
Without cooling equipment there would be no meat for the remainder of the trip. Joe and Richard regarded their plates with a bit of trepidation. Middle-aged Canadian men that they were, they had probably never eaten a lentil in their lives. But they cleaned their plates and both asked for more.
We were all tired and the camp settled down right after dinner. Fortunately there were no more matrimonial disagreements, and I fell asleep almost immediately.
Chapter 8
Day 5: Morning.
That morning we were all slow and lazy; it was our rest day and we were determined to take full advantage of it. Craig went out fishing while it was still dark, long before the rest of us were up. He caught three perfect trout and had them gutted and cleaned and sizzling over the fire in no time. I awoke to the incomparable smell of an open fire, fresh brewed coffee, and frying fish.
The flaky white flesh fairly fell off the bones and melted in the mouth. They were fabulous and although they didn’t go too well with the muslix that constituted the rest of our breakfast, no one seemed to mind. Our only complaint was that half a trout just wasn’t enough.
“Next time you should plan to pick the mushrooms and catch the fish at the same time, Craig.” Rachel teased him gently. “That would make quite a meal.”
We all laughed and Craig grinned at the complement.
“There’s a raspberry patch along the shore a bit,” he announced once all the plates were scraped clean. “Plenty of raspberries on the bushes. Anyone want to come picking with me?”
Barb got to her feet in a flash. “I’d love to. I love raspberries. Me mum always goes raspberry picking in the spring. She makes the best jam.”
“Well, let’s go then. Though I don’t promise you any jam. Anyone else?”
We shook our heads.
Jeremy was nowhere to be seen - gone to visit the “treasure chest” most likely. He returned as Barb and Craig’s canoe rounded the headland and disappeared from sight.
“Where’s that lot off to then?” he mumbled to no one in particular.
“A bit of berry picking,” I said brightly. “There’s a good sized raspberry patch along the shore a bit. It’s not far.” It could have been on the dark side of the moon for all I knew. “So they’ll be back soon.”
It was my turn to wash the dishes; I was kept busy carrying pots of water up from the lake, heating them over the fire, and scrubbing dishes and pans. The only part of a camping trip I really hate. Too bad no one has yet invented a portable, environmentally friendly dishwasher.
Richard and Joe pulled out a heavy binder and sat over it, well out of hearing range, poring over graphs and figures and jotting down the occasional notation. Dianne produced her little sketchbook and box of colored pencils and settled down, with her back resting against a huge old white pine, facing out over the water. She worked with total concentration, her strokes fast and determined. I strolled casually by and glanced over her shoulder. With just a few swipes of color she’d managed to capture the joyous, sparking waters of the lake, and the mysterious dark breadth of the forest beyond.
Rachel slip
ped into a bikini, laid her towel out on the rocks in the sun, slathered herself with sunscreen and stretched out to catch the rays. Joe glanced up once from his notes and from then on paid her no attention at all. All morning Rachel tossed and turned and snorted and fidgeted. The Precambrian rocks of Northern Ontario are not noted for being particularly soft and comfortable.
Jeremy paced up and down along the lakefront, throwing the occasional pebble into the water. The scowl was back with a vengeance.
Deep male laughter and bright giggles announced the return of the berry-pickers long before their canoe pulled into sight. Jeremy wandered back up to camp, a failed attempt to appear casual and nonchalant. But instead of pulling onto our little beach the canoe kept on going and crossed the lake towards the far shore, swampy and thick with lake grasses. Once there, Craig pulled out his fishing rod and showed Barb the basics. He didn’t touch her, simply demonstrated the proper technique of casting and reeling in the hook before passing the rod over. She was having a great time, which was far more than can be said for Jeremy. His scowl had turned into a thundercloud, and too much sun couldn’t account for the redness of his face.
Eventually the fishing fleet pulled up their rod and returned to camp, empty handed. Jeremy was turning green before my very eyes.
No one else paid him any attention. Rachel was asleep, but as the sun had moved and a clump of birch trees were now casting enough shade on her recumbent body there was no need to wake her. Richard and Joe continued to talk intently amongst themselves as they consulted the binder propped up on Richard’s knees. Dianne filled up her sketchpad.
Jeremy met Barb and Craig as they pulled their canoe up onto the rocks. The woman carried a plastic jar filled to the brim with bright red raspberries and held them up for his approval with a huge grin.
“Took you bloody long enough,” Jeremy shouted, ignoring the berries, hands on hips, and legs spread far apart.
