“Geez! What is this? A test?”
A small house of fire collapses, sending spark-filled smoke up to the stars.
“A challenge. Like I said, this is why we’re here, Aaron.”
“What? You think you’re building up my confidence by constantly whittling it away?”
“Only you can build your self-confidence, Aaron. Nobody can do it for you.”
“Ha!” I say and jump up. I stomp off toward our tent, but then I keep going. I march straight into the night.
I crash through brush and trees and low-hanging branches. The stars are bright but the forest is dark. All I know is that I’m climbing steadily up—up what the map called Wolverine Mountain.
I wonder if there’s a Grizzly Peak around here.
I pull my baseball cap down over my ears and pull up the hood of my hoodie, and walk hunched against a stiff, cold breeze flowing down the mountainside.
I trip. I fall. I get up.
I stumble over tree roots and small boulders and step into holes in the ground and keep going.
Suddenly I laugh for no reason and start to run wildly, uphill. Always uphill.
Before, I was exhausted, but now it’s like I’m flying on a tank of coffee, a ton of sugar. It’s a sugar high of insanity. I love it. I think I’ll never go back.
I’ll show him self-confidence. I’m almost drunk on it!
I jump up and swing from a branch and charge off through the night again. I can hear something crashing through the woods near me.
Probably just deer. But who knows? Maybe a wolverine? A grizzly?
Now I’m way up high above the star-freckled lake and I climb a huge boulder clinging to the steep slope of the mountain, and see the sharp claw of the moon as it plunges into darkness.
This is crazy mad fun, right?
It’s so fun I start to howl. I howl like I did on the lake today. I howl and do a little dance on the top of the boulder and almost fall off, and laugh like a loon, and howl again.
And this time I do hear wolves. I’m sure of it. I heard one on Vancouver Island last year, on our way home from Bella Bella.
And now, here I am, all alone, howling, and the wolves are howling back at me! Sounds like there’s a pack of them, off to the west, not far away. They make my blood sing, and I howl till my voice is as hoarse as a toad’s.
Then I sit down on the boulder top and just listen. All around me the night has grown quiet. The wolves are silent now. Maybe they’re watching me, yellow eyes lost among the trees. Maybe there are wolverines, too, watching, sniffing the night air.
Or grizzlies. Still as boulders, but for their fur, ruffled by the breeze.
I don’t know. But I jump back up and do that little dance again, on the boulder top, and for a moment I am king. I am king of all the wild things, and all the wild things are awed into silence.
And I am awed into silence with them.
It’s another epic moment, and I don’t want it to end.
But then I hear my name being called: “Aaaarrron! Aaaarrron!”
I take a step backward—
—and suddenly I’m falling.
DAY THREE
THE FREEDOM
TO DIE
BAM!
I land with a thud at the foot of the boulder. My shoulder takes the brunt of it, but then my head slams the ground. My mouth is filled with dirt.
And then my lights go out. All of them.
I don’t know for how long.
And then I see stars and open my eyes.
Dad calls my name again. It’s muffled by distance and a million trees. Or maybe there’s something wrong with my ears now.
I climb to my feet and start stumbling back down the mountain, like a drunk bear. It’s pitch-dark and fiercely cold and suddenly I feel all alone in the world. Lost and alone. And I don’t know how I’ll find my way back.
Next thing I know I’m waking up on the ground. My head aches, my shoulder is killing me, and spears of sun pierce my eyes. I roll over.
Where am I?
I’m staring at a dead fire. I’m cold. I’m in my sleeping bag beneath a rainfly covered with dew. How did I get here?
I can’t sit up. My eyes lift to an awesome sight. Mountains. The snow is down to maybe a thousand feet above us. Glacial water streams down in tiny cascades and rivulets. The sky above the peaks is a brilliant blue. There isn’t a cloud anywhere. There isn’t a trace of wind.
What happened last night?
I remember stumbling into trees and climbing a boulder and falling off the mountain and slamming my shoulder and my head. I remember being lost and not caring and laughing and then caring and not caring anymore.
A crow laughs from a branch. At least it sounds like laughter. Another crow cackles back from another tree. Caw caw caw!
Do the crows think I’m dead?
Am I dead but dreaming that I’m alive? Dreaming that I’m alive and awake?
I roll over and pain sears through my right shoulder like a blade of fire.
This is no dream! This is as real as it gets.
I remember a pain like this when I tried to land an ollie on my skateboard one time and slammed my shoulder into the sidewalk. Mom put ice on it.
Mom’s a thousand miles away today.
But there is a freezing cold lake twenty feet away. I’m parched. And maybe it will help my aching head.
I sit up slowly and crawl over to the low bank. I lie on my belly and wiggle forward until I’m dangling above my reflection. Then I plunge my head into my reflection and shatter it.
Aaaaaargh! It’s like shards of ice piercing my brain.
I gulp some freezing water and lift my head just as Dad comes running out of the tent. Water streams down my head and my face is probably turning blue.
Dad’s mouth drops open. Then he starts to laugh, but holds it in and says, “You look like a drowned muskrat.”
“I feel like a drowned muskrat . . . with a smashed shoulder.” I almost laugh, too, but I hurt too much. Dad hands me a water bottle and I start glugging.
“Did you take a fall? You looked pretty banged up when you came staggering into camp last night. What happened?”
“Don’t ask.” I put down the bottle and pull off my hoodie. “I think I need ice for my shoulder.”
“I think you need your head examined!” He squats down and looks at my bruised shoulder. “Ice would’ve helped last night. Too late now. And we have to get moving. Gotta get across this lake before the wind picks up. I read that Isaac Lake’s notorious for its winds and sudden squalls.”
“How can I paddle with this shoulder, Dad?”
“You should’ve thought of that when you went running off into the dark last night. Moving it might actually help. Loosen it up. Get the circulation flowing.”
I groan, pull off my T-shirt, then dip my shoulder into the icy cold water.
It doesn’t help.
Dad turns on his heels and goes back to the tent, then returns and throws a small towel at my head. “Dry off. Get dressed. Let’s get this show on the road!” Dad’s no longer on the verge of laughter, and neither am I.
I don’t feel like moving, but if I just lie here I’ll freeze my butt off. And my stomach’s growling with hunger.
And no, I don’t want to stay here and become dinner for a hungry grizzly.
“Or dinner for you, ya hear me, Mr. Crow?” I actually yell at the crow, which almost makes me laugh again.
I towel off and start crawling toward my sleeping bag, but it hurts too much to crawl. I wobble to my feet and look down.
Crap! Where are my shoes?
Eventually, I find my river sandals in our tent. Turns out Dad had pulled them off me early this morning.
Now, out on the long narrow lake, it’s so calm that the water seems part of the sky. We glide through it like a swan.
I’m up in front, in the fore cockpit as Dad calls it, and this time I like it. I don’t get to steer but I do get to set the pace. Dad has to s
ynchronize his strokes to match mine. I started out paddling slow and ragged but now I’m going smoother and faster.
Don’t tell Dad, but he was right. My shoulder hurt like hell when we started out, but now it’s a dull ache lost in the immensity of this lake.
And I can rest if I want to while Dad paddles.
And I do. I scout the boulder-strewn shore for moose and bears, and spot a rare caribou.
Just a glimpse, frozen in place. Listening.
Then it gallops off into the tangle of woods.
I don’t tell Dad. This is just for me.
I start paddling again and hear a high-pitched screech. I look up. A bald eagle soars above us. Its shadow slides over me. I speed up. It’s a race.
We’re soaring across the sky-lake when we hit a wall.
It’s the wind. Dark clouds have been building up and now the squall hits the lake, turning the mirror surface into a cauldron of broken glass. We chop through the waves and soon my shoulder starts killing me again.
We’re in the middle of the lake, far from shore. If we stop paddling, even for a moment, we’ll drift backwards. So we keep paddling.
Now this is work.
And soon it feels like more than work.
It feels like survival. The sky’s been steadily darkening and if rain joins this squall, we could be in trouble. On a lake this big—over twenty miles long—waves can get big, too. Like in the sea
And now I can smell rain on the wind.
If we get swamped out here by a standing wave, or capsized by the wind, there’s nobody here to help us. And with my shoulder, swimming to shore would be a life or death matter.
We’re on our own. Our lives are in our own hands.
I love it and hate it at the same time.
I hate it because it hurts. But I love it because if feels like freedom!
Though it could be the freedom to die!
And now I see the rain coming. It’s like a swiftly moving doomsday shadow, a slanted wall of water.
And it’s coming right for us.
DAY THREE
THE BEAST
FOR REAL
When the wall of water hits us we’re instantly soaked to the skin. There’s no time to put on ponchos. We do have our spray skirts attached, which keep our lower bodies dry, but that’s all.
The wind whips our kayak from side to side, but Dad holds the nose into the waves. If we get broadsided, that’s it. We go over. In the middle of the lake.
A big lake. And we’re far from shore.
The rain’s so dense I can barely see the bow of the boat. It’s like being inside an inferno of water. Dad’s trying to yell over the roar. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I think he’s yelling, “Paddle! Paddle!”
What does he think I’m doing?
The bow rises and plunges and waves crash over us. Our paddles are “feathered” so the blades cut horizontally into the wind, but the paddle shudders in my hands and is almost ripped loose.
There’s only one thing to do, and that is to hunker down into the wind and paddle like demons.
Miraculously, the squall passes as suddenly as it struck. It’s as if the rain gods have turned off a celestial spigot.
Thanks be to the rain gods!
The wind dies along with the squall. We rest our paddles across the hull and just float for a while. We’re both breathing hard. We’ve earned a rest.
But a minute later Dad’s back to being the king, the captain. “Okay, Aaron. If we’re gonna make this whole lake while there’s light, we’ve got to get paddling again.”
“How about a lunch break, Dad?”
“Good idea.” He tosses me a bag of gorp. It lofts over my shoulder and lands in my lap. “Chow down,” he says. “You got two minutes.”
I’m really getting ticked off, but somehow it doesn’t touch me. The squall was like a cleansing. A trial by water. We’ve passed through it and we’re as good as gold. The waves are flattening and I watch the sun dance silver dimes on the lake’s surface, as I munch my gorp.
“Two minutes, Aaron!”
“Aye aye, sir!” I straighten up and salute my dad from the back of my head.
And I laugh to myself, thinking of Lisa again. Geez, if she were here now, we’d have the whole wilderness to ourselves! I’d bust a few rhymes for her, and maybe we’d dance to the stars, and watch the moon growing fat, like a piñata filled with candy.
Daydreaming like this, I paddle steadily and try to forget the pain in my shoulder. After a while I paddle on automatic, like the blades of a windmill. I churn through the water and I’m surprised Dad can keep up. He may be skinny and getting old, but it seems like he’s getting tougher in his old age.
We keep up the furious pace and slide into one of the last campsites on the lake—after a whole day of paddling—just as the sun sinks behind the peaks.
“We did it, Aaron!” Dad crows. It’s about as close to praise as I’ve gotten from him in a long time. It adds to the bubble of pride I feel rising to my heart, making it swell.
The bubble bursts while we’re setting up camp. Every chore is murder. My right shoulder hurts again and I ache all over. But this time Dad filters the lake water while I build the fire. I make the best fires. And tonight we have an epic bonfire to celebrate today’s legendary voyage. The flames leap up like crazy dancers at a late night concert.
And after dinner, for the first time, we do roast marshmallows and drink hot cocoa!
We’re almost like a normal father and son enjoying a fun family vacation.
But I know it can’t last.
And I’m right.
I make the mistake of mentioning Lisa. “So, I’ve been thinking, Dad. Maybe we can swing by Roger and Lisa’s on our way home?”
“I don’t think so, Aaron.” Dad slowly spins his sharpened stick and dips his marshmallow closer to the flames. “It’s way out of our way. It’s my responsibility to get you back to school by the end of May. And it’s your responsibility to get with the schedule. You’re supposed to be keeping a journal and writing a story. You have to keep up your end of the deal, kiddo.”
“Like I’m not? I’ve been writing in my journal after you go to sleep. I’ve only missed one day! Cut me some slack.”
“You’ve been getting too much slack, Aaron. That’s the problem.”
“Geez, Dad, it’s too close not to make a little side trip to see them! Why do you have to be like this?”
Sometimes I feel like he’s not really my father. That I’m adopted. That there’s no way we share the same genes.
Suddenly, his marshmallow bursts into flame and he throws it and the stick it’s on into the fire. “Sorry to spoil the party, Aaron, but tomorrow we do the Chute and the Roller Coaster. It’s the only real white water of the trip, and from what I’ve read, it can be a boat graveyard for newbie paddlers.”
He stands up and starts off toward our tent, then stops and turns around. “Don’t forget to scrub the dishes and stash the food and garbage into the bear locker.”
He sounds angry. Why does he sound angry?
He stares, then shakes his head. “I’m bushed, Aaron. I’m calling it a night.” He starts off again, but can’t resist calling over his shoulder, “Don’t forget! The bear locker!”
Just at that moment my marshmallow bursts into flame. But that’s how I like it. I wave it like a torch in the night, then blow it out. I let it cool for a moment, then stick my teeth into the blackened crust and gooey white center.
Perfect.
I stay up late and roast and eat all the marshmallows in the bag. All of them! I eat until my teeth ache and my head aches and my belly’s ready to burst.
My mouth and cheeks and hands get all sticky. I feel like shouting: Forget the dishes. Forget the food. I’M the captain. I’M the King! Let the bears come! Let the grizzlies party!
LET THE WILD RUMPUS BEGIN!
But I don’t. I’m too responsible, even if my dad doesn’t know it.
When I fina
lly climb into our tent, next to my sleeping dad, I actually write LET THE WILD RUMPUS BEGIN! in my journal.
Then my pen slips from my fingers, and my eyes close.
It’s nighttime but there’s an otherworldly light shining and I’m skating down Wolverine Mountain—or is it Grizzly Peak?—my board rattling over stone. There’s something big and hairy and scary right behind me, chasing me. A grizzly? But I don’t care.
I’m swerving through trees, kick-flipping over logs, doing ollies over boulders, and catching a sky-full of air—and I’m free.
I’m free!
Snow glitters all around me and the cold bites my face but I’m flying. I am the wind and nothing can catch me.
But now I smell death. I smell the breath of the beast behind me—
And I jolt awake. I’m in the smelly tent. With Dad snoring and farting beside me.
There’s a noise. Is that what woke me? A scratching. A chuffing. The sound of a beast digging, scraping . . . and it’s right beside my ear!
My heart’s crashing around again. I clutch myself in terror. Utter terror! I want to yell, to scream, but I have no voice. Not even a squeak.
Something nuzzles the door to the tent. There’s an inward pressure pushing, pushing—until the whole tent begins to wobble.
Then a huge furry head bursts through!
THE BEAST ITSELF!
A GRIZZLY!
All fangs and claws. A massive explosion of violent gnashing.
Its great slobbering jaws open. . . .
I wake up. Again. There is no room for my heart. It is pounding like it will jump out of my chest. There is certainly no more room for bad dreams.
I gasp for breath. I force myself to breathe slowly. To breathe in and out. In and out.
My palms are wet. My mouth is dry. I’m shaking all over. I try to focus on the sound of my dad snoring. Always annoying, now comforting.
But there is something out there. For real! I can hear it. It’s banging on the bear locker. Claws raking across metal. The earth beneath our tent reverberates with the thump of padded paws.
Grizzly Peak Page 4