own somewhere where you can be alone, and test it out, see if it feels right. Do you remember the second time you visited and we all went camping? I think that’s what you should do. It’s the cliché Indian sort of thing you wanted me tell you to do, so—who knows?—there’s probably something to it.”
“But Grandpa, it’s November.”
“I’ve got lots of old gear in the garage I can lend you, and the weather’s still mild. You’ll be fine. And when you come back, all this nonsense will be out of your head and you can get back to your life.”
“Yeah,” said Stefan. “Good idea. Thanks.”
~
Stefan shopped at the general store where he’d arranged to pick up a canoe. He couldn’t help himself once he started buying things. He bought snacks and sweets, bread, a dozen eggs, tinned kiddie spaghetti, and—the ultimate indulgence—a whole package of bacon to eat all by himself. The canoe fit very badly on the roof of his car, the front hanging like a giant beak, dangerously obscuring his vision. The wind moved it slightly as he drove, and Stefan worried that it might scrape the paint, despite the foam wedges the shop-keeper put between the canoe and the roof when lashing it there.
Reaching the lake, Stefan wrestled the canoe off the roof, doing everything he could to make sure the two didn’t come into contact. He danced with it over his head for a moment before tipping backwards, then threw it to keep from falling down. It landed with a sound like a drum and gritted against the powdery gravel landing that led to the lake. Stefan winced. How much does a canoe cost? he wondered.
Stefan took the supplies from the car and locked it, looking around for a moment before deciding that it was unlikely anyone would pass within ten miles of here before he got back.
When am I coming back? He hadn’t told anyone. I should have told someone.
He loaded the mound of goods into the canoe and covered them with an oily old tarpaulin. Then he pushed the boat—with great difficulty—toward the put-in point. He clenched his teeth at the grinding sound of the fibreglass against the ground. The boat moved easily once it reached the water, then threatened to float away before he could get in. He jumped into the back of the canoe, making it dip dangerously. Stefan crawled up to and over the flat seat, tucked his legs under as he sat, then picked up the paddle.
He paddled slowly. It was coming back to him from camp all those years ago, the proper way to move the paddle, dipping and turning. After a while, he felt a blister forming where his thumb rubbed against the varnished wood, and put on his grandfather’s large gloves.
He clunked the paddle against the canoe, and corrected by adjusting his weight on the flat seat, refolding his legs. The canoe wobbled and Stefan froze. He had too much gear, he knew it.
The landscape conformed to the map of the lakes he’d been given at the store, and he found the spot they’d circled for him, the one matching his request for someplace where he wouldn’t be disturbed by other people.
Portage, the most dreaded French word of his childhood, came back to him when he reached his destination island. He’d had a vague sense of why it was a bad idea to bring so much food and gear, and now he remembered: he had to carry it all over land to get to his campsite. Three trips got everything to a halfway point, where the ground was uneven, rocky, and covered in undergrowth. But, strangely for an island, there was a picnic table there. Perfect, thought Stefan, I’m staying here .
~
“Ow,” said Stefan, looking at his thumb. The blister burst in the time it took him to make kindling out of leafy twigs and branches using an impractical folding saw (after sending an axe-head deep into the bushes, where he couldn’t find it). He lay the kindling down, then built a classic log cabin from the firewood he’d brought in an orange mesh bag. He surrounded it all with rocks. His Cub Scout
“But Grandpa, it’s November.”
“I’ve got lots of old gear in the garage I can lend you, and the weather’s still mild. You’ll be fine. And when you come back, all this nonsense will be out of your head and you can get back to your life.”
“Yeah,” said Stefan. “Good idea. Thanks.”
~
Stefan shopped at the general store where he’d arranged to pick up a canoe. He couldn’t help himself once he started buying things. He bought snacks and sweets, bread, a dozen eggs, tinned kiddie spaghetti, and—the ultimate indulgence—a whole package of bacon to eat all by himself. The canoe fit very badly on the roof of his car, the front hanging like a giant beak, dangerously obscuring his vision. The wind moved it slightly as he drove, and Stefan worried that it might scrape the paint, despite the foam wedges the shop-keeper put between the canoe and the roof when lashing it there.
Reaching the lake, Stefan wrestled the canoe off the roof, doing everything he could to make sure the two didn’t come into contact. He danced with it over his head for a moment before tipping backwards, then threw it to keep from falling down. It landed with a sound like a drum and gritted against the powdery gravel landing that led to the lake. Stefan winced. How much does a canoe cost? he wondered.
Stefan took the supplies from the car and locked it, looking around for a moment before deciding that it was unlikely anyone would pass within ten miles of here before he got back.
When am I coming back? He hadn’t told anyone. I should have told someone.
He loaded the mound of goods into the canoe and covered them with an oily old tarpaulin. Then he pushed the boat—with great difficulty—toward the put-in point. He clenched his teeth at the grinding sound of the fibreglass against the ground. The boat moved easily once it reached the water, then threatened to float away before he could get in. He jumped into the back of the canoe, making it dip dangerously. Stefan crawled up to and over the flat seat, tucked his legs under as he sat, then picked up the paddle.
He paddled slowly. It was coming back to him from camp all those years ago, the proper way to move the paddle, dipping and turning. After a while, he felt a blister forming where his thumb rubbed against the varnished wood, and put on his grandfather’s large gloves.
He clunked the paddle against the canoe, and corrected by adjusting his weight on the flat seat, refolding his legs. The canoe wobbled and Stefan froze. He had too much gear, he knew it.
The landscape conformed to the map of the lakes he’d been given at the store, and he found the spot they’d circled for him, the one matching his request for someplace where he wouldn’t be disturbed by other people.
Portage, the most dreaded French word of his childhood, came back to him when he reached his destination island. He’d had a vague sense of why it was a bad idea to bring so much food and gear, and now he remembered: he had to carry it all over land to get to his campsite. Three trips got everything to a halfway point, where the ground was uneven, rocky, and covered in undergrowth. But, strangely for an island, there was a picnic table there. Perfect, thought Stefan, I’m staying here .
~
“Ow,” said Stefan, looking at his thumb. The blister burst in the time it took him to make kindling out of leafy twigs and branches using an impractical folding saw (after sending an axe-head deep into the bushes, where he couldn’t find it). He lay the kindling down, then built a classic log cabin from the firewood he’d brought in an orange mesh bag. He surrounded it all with rocks. His Cub Scout
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