Dad said, “They’re one in a million! Or two.”
So maybe I’m one in a million too. “Well, what about me?” I say now, resting my cup on my thigh. “It’s the same thing. I’m white and I want to write hip-hop songs. You’re white and you wanted to be a jazz musician!”
Dad almost laughs. Then he shakes his head again and looks down. “It’s not the same, Aaron, though I see your point. I took piano lessons starting at age five. My piano instructor told me I had talent. You have talent too, but it’s not writing rap songs. It’s writing poetry and stories. I read a poem you wrote in seventh grade that knocked my socks off. You have a gift for language, Aaron. You just have to learn to develop your craft.”
I’m flattered. He likes my writing! But something in me rises up. “Aren’t you being a hypocrite? You’re just trying to control me, the way your dad did you!”
This time he does laugh, though it sounds almost like a sob. “I think you’ve got me there. But I’m not trying to control you so much as guide you, Aaron. That’s what dads are for, I guess.”
It still sounds like hypocrisy to me, but I don’t say it. I don’t know what to say.
Then Dad says, “Time to hit the hay, Aaron. Tomorrow’s another big day.” He smiles, then gets up and goes to the tent. I sit for a while and watch the flames dancing like ghosts in the fire.
The last thing I hear, when I finally snuggle down into my sleeping bag—over the sound of the falls, over the sound of everything—is Dad’s snoring. I push his elbow and he rolls over and is quiet.
In the morning I wake to the sound of something huge crashing through the underbrush. Right toward our tent.
What now?
DAY FIVE
RACING
BACKWARDS
On all fours I peek out of the opening to our tent. A massive bull moose gallops past us, close enough that I feel a breeze in my hair, and charges straight into McLeary Lake with a great splash.
He snorts his way across the marshy shallows, thrashing his knees. In a matter of minutes, he swims across the deeper middle, chugging like a steam engine, and at the far end he scrambles out, dripping duckweed and moose snot, and rubs his giant rack against a willow. Then charges off into the bush.
All that’s left of the bizarre encounter is the distant roar of the falls.
What could there be out there to scare a huge bull moose like that?
A wolf pack? A grizzly?
I look up at the enormous Cariboo Glacier, glowing in the early morning sunshine. A bald eagle pierces the silence and settles on the upper branches of a tall tree. Just below it, four more bald eagles crouch, watching down at me with hooded eyes.
We’re out on the lake by 9 A.M. No clouds, but we’re in the shadow of the mountains, so it will be awhile till the sun tops the ridge to bless us.
McLeary Lake is small. We paddle in silence, and in no time we’re at the point where the lake flows into the Cariboo River, fed by the great Cariboo Glacier.
Dad breaks a long silence with the warning: “Careful now, Aaron. I read that the Cariboo River can be the most challenging part of the trip.”
What? Harder than the Chute? No way.
I’m in the stern, so it’s my job to control the way we maneuver through whatever’s coming. I’m up to it. And suddenly all my senses sharpen to a point as the river picks up speed. It’s as if I just woke up from a long sleep.
We’re flowing fast between towering mountain peaks. Snowfields and cascading waterfalls glisten above us. The Cariboo River is glacial meltwater, aqua blue, with lots of silt in it and an insanely powerful current.
And it’s getting even faster. And the faster the current the faster we have to paddle. As I learned in river rafting, you have to stay faster than the current. You have to control the direction the kayak takes or the current will control it for you.
After about a mile we come around a bend into a maze of snags and sweepers. I must find the right channel.
NOW!
The current’s forcing us toward the inside curve of the river, and we must fight to get away from the shore. If we hit bottom, we’ll tumble like a log in a flood.
Sure enough, the bottom of our kayak scrapes across a submerged tree and almost tips us in the shallows. We instinctively dig our blades into the silt, our paddles almost vertical. But we’re snagged on the tree and the current is pushing us over.
I need to lighten the load, so I leave my paddle in my cockpit and swing my legs over the side, one by one—the spray skirt still around my waist—and step into the thigh-high water. The kayak rises off the submerged log and almost pulls free from my grasp. If Dad jumps out too, and we lose our grip, we could lose our kayak. I’ve got to try to push us out into the main current and jump back in before the kayak capsizes—or runs wild, without me in it. Stooped over, bracing my feet against the tricky bottom, I push the stern with all my might, and yell, “Dad! Paddle!”
Dad paddles furiously, which makes it even more challenging for me to jump back into the kayak without tipping it over. But if I can’t get back in Dad’ll be heading solo down the river, paddling in the front with no real control. He’ll flip for sure.
Just before the boat takes off without me, I fling myself over the hull just behind my seat and try to pull myself into the cockpit on my belly. I grab my paddle with one hand while holding on to the rim of my cockpit with the other, and jab my paddle blade into the river bottom to push us away from shore.
At one point I’m headfirst inside the cockpit, my head where my feet should be! The cockpit’s filling with water and I’m drowning in it! I’m gagging and spluttering and kicking wildly, trying to back out and sit up at the same time.
If you saw this on YouTube you’d laugh like crazy, but I’m not laughing.
As soon as I get myself turned around and seated, we’re pushed into a sweeper and a branch almost takes my head off. But I slip my paddle into the leg space and use both my hands to pull us back along the branch until an eddy grabs the tail of the kayak and spins us free.
But the rudder’s up and I haven’t yet retrieved my paddle, and before I know it we’re racing backwards down the river, tail first! Like riding a roller coaster backwards. I try to drop the rudder in and grab my paddle at the same time, but the tail is swinging wildly, dangerously, and before I can release the rudder I can feel our kayak rolling over. I know it.
We’re going to capsize!
DAY FIVE
THE END OF OUR
TRIP AS WE KNOW IT
We’re capsizing and Dad’s yelling and I’m trying to get my paddle out and use it to pivot us around.
In a blind act of desperation I do just that. I decide to leave the rudder up and grab my paddle and dig it in. The kayak spins just enough for Dad to back-paddle and swing us counterclockwise until we’re nose first again—just in time to swerve past a logjam . . .
. . . and into smoother, slower water.
Whew!
Dad says something over his shoulder, but I am too busy letting out a whoop of joy. I’m still trembling, but we’re safe now, and I know what I did was awesome. I wouldn’t mind hearing it from my dad, though.
Then Dad says something over his shoulder again. It sounds like, “Well done!” But that can’t be right.
“What?”
“That was amazing, Aaron. You did well!”
Yes!
We glide for a couple of miles, barely paddling, until the Cariboo empties into Lanezi Lake. Even then, we’re still wet and shaken. But speaking just for myself: It was fun! A scary kind of fun. A total adrenaline rush, fighting-for-your-life type of fun.
And now we’re floating on this knockout gorgeous lake, with the mountains rising almost right up out of the water. Birds and mountains are reflected in the lake and I feel like we’re flying through the sky.
All of a sudden I’m hungry. I’m starving! “Dad!” I say. “Let’s pull over and eat!”
Dad keeps paddling, like he doesn’t even hea
r me. “Dad!”
“I’m thinking!” he says, without easing his stroke.
We slide by creeks shooting into the lake, white with glacial meltwater, and past skinny waterfalls crashing straight down, losing themselves in plumes of mist.
I have no choice but to get back into the rhythm of paddling. Geez, we survived some comical mishaps that could’ve turned tragic at any moment, and Dad says, “Well done!” But then nothing.
Not a word.
I guess I just can’t get enough praise.
And once again I get lost in the maze of my thoughts.
We paddle two-thirds the length of the long lake, my stomach gnawing on itself, and then Dad almost floors me.
“Okay, Aaron. How ’bout we call it a day and do some fishin’?”
“Sweet! Awesome! Let’s do it!” We haven’t fished once on the whole trip. There’s been no time. We’ve been eating freeze-dried or out of cans, and struggling with the elements, and just trying to stay alive.
Dad points toward a campsite on a flat of land next to a small, rushing creek. The sun’s still high. There’s not a cloud in the sky.
First we eat some pepperoni sticks, and peanut butter on dry buns, as we set up camp. Dad says the sun’s too hot yet for fishing, we should wait till it dips behind the peaks. I lean against a boulder near the water, open my spiral-bound notebook, and work on my journal.
This morning, a massive bull moose galloped past us. . . .
I write so fast that my handwriting looks like Arabic. A lot’s happened since yesterday. I’m surprised by how much I want to write. How good it feels to put it all on the page.
The sun’s like a warm hand on my back. The water is still. A few birds twitter. And for the first time on this trip I realize I don’t miss hip-hop. I don’t miss my cell phone or my iPod or even my skateboard. And I don’t feel angry, or frustrated, or trapped. I feel strong and peaceful. When I see a beaver gliding by, maybe fifty yards out, I raise two fingers and shout, “Peace out!”
I know this peace can’t last, but I try to enjoy it while it does.
After an hour or two of writing, I feel a shadow slide over me. The sun’s sunk behind an imposing peak. I think it’s Ishpa Mountain. I’ll have to look at the map.
I shut my notebook and set it down beside me. There’s an almost physical sense of satisfaction after writing well for a long period of time. It’s like flexing new muscles. It feels a little like a good paddle through rough water, followed by a smooth stretch of river.
Dad’s fiddling with his fishing gear in front of the tent. “Hey, Dad, can you hook me up with a fishing rod?” I chuckle at my unintended pun, but it flies right over Dad’s head.
“Look at this,” he says. He points at a large, overturned rock. Then he points at a set of deep claw marks about ten feet up the trunk of a nearby tree. “Bear sign,” he says.
“Awesome!” I want to see a bear again, especially a grizzly. I just don’t want to see it like right in my face, or right behind me, coming for me.
Dad gives me a look. Then he says, “Here.” He hands me a rod still broken down into three parts. “You can rig it, right? Or do you want me to do it for you?”
“I’m good.” I take the rod and he hands over his tackle box. I go back and lean against my boulder. Okay, I think. I can do this.
It takes some fumbling but I get my rod all rigged out, with a shiny spoon lure that has a medium-sized hook.
We cross the powerful little creek, stepping carefully on mossy stones, and look for a good place to fish. I’ve got my rod in one hand and a fishing net in the other. Dad’s carrying his rod and the orange plastic tackle box.
We cast our lines just past the riffle at the mouth of a larger creek, among the reeds in the blue-green lake, and reel in slowly, trying not to get snagged. We spread farther apart when our lines almost cross.
The snowy peaks above us, the tall cedars, the quiet mountain lake—it’s all right out of National Geographic.
I won’t mention the giant deerflies flying off with giant chunks of our flesh.
“Dad,” I say, flicking away a fly.
“Mmm?” He’s in quiet mode, or fishing mode, not speaking.
“Uhh, well, I’ve been wondering,” I say anyway. “Remember how I’m supposed to write, like, a story based on this trip, right? For some reason a name for it came to me like, BOOM! when Ms. Dunn gave me my assignment. GRIZZLY PEAK. Crazy! But a good title, right? Anyway, I’ve been wondering if there is a mountain called Grizzly Peak around here anywhere. I mean with all the grizzlies that live in these mountains, you’d think one would be called Grizzly Peak. Anyway, if there is—or if there’s one on the way home and we have time—well, I’d really like to see if we could climb it! I mean, all the way to the top. How awesome would that be? It would be like the perfect ending to my story, right? And—”
Dad interrupts me. “We’ll see, Aaron. We’ll see.” Like he’s not really listening. “Now it’s time to catch a fish, and you’ve got to be quiet to catch a fish.”
Right. Quiet. But I don’t say it. I wouldn’t want to scare away some fish that’s listening in, now would I?
Time ticks by but nobody’s counting the seconds. We toss out our lines, slap our arms, and reel in slowly. A couple of fish strike our lures but glance off. Maybe our hooks are too big.
Finally, I get a strike and it holds. “Got something, Dad!” There’s a sharp tug, a white splash, and a living rainbow flashes and dances two feet above the surface! My rod bends and bounces in my hands. I loosen the drag, and let the fighting fish play itself out.
When it stops tiptoeing across the water, I start reeling quickly, wading in up to my shins. And when I can see the sheen of color breaking the surface, I reach in and scoop it up with my net.
“Dad! A rainbow trout!” I do a little dance.
“Dinner!” Dad grins.
The trout, still flapping and flopping, is about a foot long.
“Yeah,” I say. “Dinner for me! You catch your own!”
After about an hour Dad finally catches two, about ten inches apiece. He lets me carry the stringer of trout back to our camp. And he “lets” me clean them too. But I don’t mind because this evening we eat a mess of rainbows grilled over an open fire, and it’s the best meal I’ve had since the fresh-caught salmon off Bella Bella.
Okay, the skin’s a little burnt. Black, actually. But the flesh is tender and juicy. It flakes off like rose petals and melts in your mouth.
We eat and talk about fishing, and Dad for the first time says, “I wish your mother was here. And Sean too.”
We lick our fingers and act as if nothing bad has happened between us over the last few months, before and after my getting kicked out of school.
The twilight is so soft, the hour still so early, we decide to take “a little spin”—as Dad calls it—out on the lake, and watch the stars come out one by one. We paddle, we float, then paddle some more. When we notice the moon making its appearance, growing plump and content in the sky, we head back.
As we pull into camp, we see a huge shadow hunched over the dying coals of our fire.
And it’s the end of our trip as we know it!
DAY FIVE
MOON BEAR
Chaos.
There’s a grizzly bear devouring our food! Based on its enormous size, I’d guess it’s a male. Without thinking—as with the bull moose—I paddle toward the grizzly, Dad paddles away. But about ten feet offshore, I stop paddling and we both start yelling and slashing our paddles, hoping to scare the grizzly away.
“GO AWAY, BEAR!” I yell.
“SCRAM!” shouts Dad. “SHOO!”
The grizzly slowly stands up to check us out, and in the moonlight we can make out an unusual white patch, round like a full moon, on his hairy chest. He chuffs and a puff of steam floats from his mouth.
Then he drops back down to all fours, lowers his great head, and with a loud roar charges into the lake. Right at us. Crashing acros
s the shallows.
We’re back-paddling like crazy, yelling, pure panic, but I’m in the back and I’ve got to steer.
I plunge my paddle vertically and pivot us around so we can forward paddle. I don’t have to tell Dad. We start paddling for our lives and we don’t look back.
But I can hear the grizzly huffing and splashing behind us, maybe five feet away.
Then, just as suddenly, I don’t hear him.
We coast in a big loop in the growing moonlight and look back. Griz is on his way back toward our camp.
We float there a moment, catching our breath, not saying anything.
Then Dad says, “We better head back—not too close—and hope we can scare him off. We left our food out. . . .” He trails off.
We paddle back and watch the big bear bumble out of the lake and up the low bank—and sure enough, he heads right for our food. He snatches up our biggest wet bag in his massive jaws and lazily ambles away.
“Our food!” I yell. What’s left of it, anyway.
But the grizzly crashes through the brush and is gone.
We almost tip the kayak in our rush to get ashore. We splash through the shallows and race up the low bank. The grill’s been toppled over, the fire scattered. Embers pulse with fire glow, charred wood still smokes, coal-blackened stones have been knocked five feet from the ring.
Not a scrap of food is left behind.
Dad swears but he’s not swearing at me. He blames himself for wanting to “take a spin” in the kayak before securing the camp from bears.
He checks to see that the tent’s okay, and our clothes bags. Then finds my daypack near the boulder where I left it. He picks it up. It dangles from his fingers in shreds. All that’s left of the gorp is gone. Even my secret stash of candy is gone. Snickers bars, English toffee. The plastic container of peanut butter is missing.
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