What I’d give for my iPhone!
I noticed a beat-up steel-string guitar hanging from one of the tipi poles and felt a twitch in my fingers. A few bars of a Villa-Lobos étude crept into my head, then blew away when my father’s voice crashed in.
It’s not good enough, Indio!
The silence was insane, broken only by the flapping tipi door and vicious pounding and screaming from the van.
I stared at a blackened fire pit in the middle of the tipi floor, thinking about one thing. How to jump that fence and get back online.
We sat there for, like, half an hour. I ground my shoes into the gravel. My mind flopped around like a fish out of water.
Nobody talked.
Nothing happened.
Until I heard the van door slam.
Alyssa shuffled in, looking all screamed out. The cheerleader had her arm around her.
I was working up a good scream myself, when an old guy ducked though the tipi door and marched into the center of the circle. He carried a curved stick with feathers hanging off one end and colored beads off the other. Looked like some kook from a homeless shelter.
He was pencil-thin with a hawk’s nose, icy blue eyes, and a long grungy beard. His bare legs were covered in scars. He wore a faded blue T-shirt, showing a guy clawing up a cliff with a crocodile snapping at his heels, a tiger drooling above him, and the words, KNOW PAIN, KNOW GAIN.
He snapped his fingers and in popped a beautiful black and white Husky. He snapped again and the dog flopped down at his feet.
My bowels burned the instant this man opened his mouth and out came a faint Scottish accent. My father with a ratty beard and hiking boots. Everything about him reeked dictator.
“Welcome to Camp Lifeboat,” he said, eyeing each of us. “Before I let you introduce yourselves, let me have a go at it. If I’m not mistaken, you are the kids from Hell. You lie and cheat and steal. You have a serious addiction problem. You’re flunking out of school. You’re in self-destruct mode, and what’s left of your life is out of control.”
He raised one bushy eyebrow. “Did I miss anything?”
I kicked a pebble into the fire pit. The Native guy looked at me with his goofy grin.
“In clinical terms, you’re all in a state of global breakdown. All systems failing. Your health, your relationships, your confidence, your purpose. Your future, basically. You don’t have one. And if you don’t get serious about changing your ways, you’ll never get your life back.”
He studied the stick and stroked its feathers with his long bony fingers. “How am I doing?”
You could cut the air with a knife.
“The good news is your parents sent you here to get fixed. Whoever they are—doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, or drug addicts—right now, they’re sitting in their living rooms, thinking you’re going to come back home all nice and everything. Right? You’d think so, for all the money they spent to get you here.”
“Four hundred bucks a day, eh, Woody?” the Native guy said.
The old guy nodded. “That’s right, William. You certainly want to get your money’s worth out of us. But I hate to break it to you, folks. Nobody here can fix you. Not me. Not anyone who works for me. Not anyone but you. The fixing part’s your job. Setting all that up for you, that’s ours. We’re a team now, like it or not.”
“How about not,” I said.
“Go, team!” shouted the lady in the tracksuit.
“Thanks, Carrie. That’s the magic word around here. Team. Just ask Togo, leader of my dog-team for ten years.” He snapped his fingers and the dog leapt up and licked his hand. “Togo’s pulled me over many mountains in some of the world’s toughest dog-sled races. One year, he led us to first place in the Yukon Quest, bringing home fifty thousand dollars, which I used as seed money to build this place.”
Woody scratched the dog under its chin.
To me, this guy didn’t deserve such a sweet dog.
“None of us would be here if it weren’t for you, eh, Togo?” he said through puckered lips.
The tall guy pulled his hood even tighter. “Fuckin’ thanks, mutt.”
Woody looked at him. “Like you, every dog has different strengths and weaknesses. Whether you’re pulling a sled or paddling a canoe, if you’re not supporting the team, you are the weak link.”
Woody said this like we’d already let him down. Did I ever know that feeling! Like when Dad would sit in Magno’s chair, yelling at me for screwing up my music.
Never good enough.
Woody gripped Togo under his chin. “Keep a loose tugline and we all lose the trail. Pull your weight, stick with the program, and I promise you’ll get your life back.”
Alyssa slapped her legs. “What if I don’t want it back?”
“Don’t worry, Alyssa,” Woody said. “There’s a new life waiting for you here. As long as you support the team.”
Carrie stepped forward and Woody passed her the feathered stick. “Now, I’m not sure how much they told you about our program,” she said.
“They?” I say.
“The men who delivered you to the airport.”
“The kidnappers.”
“Escorts,” Woody snapped.
“Like, zero,” I said.
“And you others?” Carrie asked.
“Fuck all,” said the tall guy.
The round guy shrugged.
Alyssa turned to stone.
“Okay,” Carrie said. “Our days in camp are simple. One-quarter recreation, one-quarter therapy—”
“Seen enough shrinks, thanks,” I said.
“We call it rehab. I’m sure you—”
“Been there, done that.”
“Ah, but this is wilderness-based rehab,” Carrie said. “The idea is to turn challenges in the wild into growth experiences that help you have a healthier, happier life. We guide and protect you, while nature teaches you about yourself, heals you, and, yes, throws her curve balls at you. We’re all trained in outdoor survival and fully licensed as wilderness therapists.”
“The-rapists,” said the tall guy.
William laughed. “Never heard that one!”
Carrie smiled sweetly.
I was trying real hard not to like her, but it wasn’t easy.
“So that leaves half of each day for wilderness training,” she said. “This includes camping, fire-starting, edible plants, first aid, climbing, and whitewater paddling. Twenty-one days in camp to get you ready for our fifty-day canoe trip!”
The tall guy yanked down his hood revealing long blonde hair and a stubby beard. “What the fuck? Nobody ever told me I’d have to … You said fifty days?”
“I did, Wade. And if you can manage fifty days in the wilderness, learn to deal with whatever comes up, then no matter what waits for you at home, you’ll be able to handle it.”
“So, like, what if I can’t handle it?” I said.
Woody snatched the feathered stick from Carrie. “It’s basically your choice, Indio. Sink or swim.”
“It’s Ian,” I said.
Woody nodded. “As you like … Ian.”
Wade pointed a finger at Woody, like he was holding a pistol. “You mean, you’re gonna beat the shit out of us till we fly straight?’
“No, no. This is not a boot camp. This is life under a microscope, and nature is the laboratory. We give you skills to deal with difficult situations in the wild. You decide how to take them.”
“And that big fence,” I said, “what’s up with that?”
“Merely a safety precaution. Keeps the bears out.”
Yeah, right.
“We just finished electrifying it.”
“It’s a fuckin’ jail!” shouted Wade.
“So we get fried if we touch it?” I asked.
“Good Lord, no,” Woody said, like I was an idiot. “Simply triggers an alarm. When we first installed it, every perching bird would set it off. Drove us crazy. But we’ve since adjusted the voltage to keep you both safe and sane.”
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Long silence.
Wade dropped his head and scrunched his shoulders up around his ears. Alyssa scratched her arms till I thought they’d bleed. The round guy’s eyes rolled behind his thick glasses.
I was shitting over what waited for us beyond the fence. Blood-thirsty bears, endless forests, raging rivers. “What’s the deal with this canoe trip? Like, I grew up in … I mean, I got zero experience in the wilderness.”
Woody looked down at his dog and rubbed its belly with his boot. “Yes, Ian, we know about your … unusual history. But I’ve seen this in hundreds of wounded kids.”
Kids? Wounded?
“My belief,” he said in a slow, preachy voice, “is that we grow most beyond our comfort zone. In risking the unknown, we learn our strengths, our true selves.”
Alyssa looked up for the first time. She had the eyes of a Husky dog, one hazel, one blue. “That’s bullshit!” she shouted.
Except for her eyes, she could’ve been William’s cousin. Maybe even mine.
I noticed her bare legs were scarred up like Woody’s but in a different way. His scars were probably from rocks and axes. Hers were straight and tidy from a blitz of razor blades and knives. She caught me staring at her legs and threw me the finger.
“We’ll see about that, Alyssa,” Woody said. “Always remember, it’s your choice. Sink or swim.” Woody stepped back, like he was winding up for another blast of hot air, and accidentally trampled on Togo’s tail.
The dog jumped up with a yelp. He tripped over my legs and lifted his muzzle to my face.
What I saw made me want to puke.
Alyssa screamed and ran out of the tipi.
Where the Husky’s bright eyes should have been were two empty sockets grown over with fur. I looked up at Woody, my jaw to the floor.
“We’re all damaged goods here at Camp Lifeboat,” he said, snapping his fingers at the dog. “But look at my lovely Togo, my champion, robbed of both eyes by a serious disease and still running with the team!”
I straightened up, trying to sound calm. “Excuse me, but there must be some mistake. I don’t belong here.”
Woody chuckled into his beard. “Funny how they all say that.”
“No, really. Like, I’m not an addict. I don’t do drugs.”
Woody tightened his grip around the dog’s neck. If Togo had eyes, they would have bulged out. The dog curled its lips, flashing yellow teeth at me. “I’ve studied your file, Indio … or rather, Ian. What you do is PIDs.”
“What? Is that like LSD? I’m telling you, I DON'T DO DRUGS!”
“PIDs,” Woody said. “Personal isolation devices. Addiction to cell phones, smartphones, Xboxes, iPhones, iPads, iThis’s, iThat’s. I, I, I! Or addiction to alcohol, crack, meth. Simply different poisons, same dead end. All robbing you of your full potential. We’re here to help you deal with your junk, to help you get high off other things, like rushing rivers and howling wolves.”
The guy was revving up like a TV evangelist. His cheeks flushed red above his rat’s-nest beard.
“You signed up for this program and we’ll do all we can to—”
“I never fuckin’ signed up for this shit,” Wade said.
“We have the forms, Wade, with your signature on them.”
Wade jumped to his full height. He must’ve been six foot six. “No fuckin’ way!” he yelled. “This was my dad’s idea. He must’ve—”
Woody slowly raised a hand. “You’re here for the long haul, Wade. I promise you’ll hate it at first. You’re going to be hot, cold, hungry, dirty, tired, sore most of the time, especially on our canoe trip. But once you get past all that, you’re gold.”
“Fuck your gold.”
Well said, Wade. We might’ve got along if I was staying.
“Your body can do it,” Woody said. “The challenge is mental.”
“You’re fuckin’ mental,” Wade said and he stomped toward the tipi door.
“Try and run and we’ll come looking for you.” Woody tapped his chest. Togo sprang up to him on two legs. “I tell you, Togo may be blind, but he has a miraculous nose.” Woody started dancing with his dog. “Don’t you, boy? We’ll drag you back here till you’ve learned what the mountains can teach you.”
I heard a frantic rattle coming from the gate. Alyssa started screaming again.
Jesucristo! Caged again.
MISTAKEN IDENTITY
LIFEBOAT JOURNAL, DAY 2
My blogging days are over. My therapy has officially begun. It’s my second day here and already they’ve started shrinking my head. Carrie’s got us all journaling. She says it’s a “safe” way to dig out my junk. We’re supposed to find a quiet spot—in this zoo?? —and just start writing. Don’t think things up, just write things down. Feelings, thoughts, memories, whatever. Even fake letters or conversations with anybody or anything. Maybe I’ll sit down and have a conversation with Loba or write a letter to Segovia. Maybe interview my guitar. Or write a poem to my dad called: “You Asshole.” I can see how this might get interesting. But it’s still just homework. Carrie says we have to write at least three paragraphs a day or else no supper. Is she kidding? Writing with a pen and paper is really weird, like, I mean, Stone Age. There. One paragraph.
After Alyssa’s third meltdown—or was it her tenth?—Carrie managed to haul her back into the tipi, cursing and kicking, and it was our turn to talk. Enough of Woody’s sermons. Not that anybody said much. The intros took, like, two minutes. I learned that Alyssa is from up here someplace and has been in rehab forever. Wade’s never done it, wasn’t about to start, and told Woody to fuck off. All I learned about the round guy was his name. Obie.
After the intros and a weird ceremony when William burned some stinky grass and waved it in our faces, they led us one by one to the infirmary behind the kitchen. Berna, the camp nurse, took too much blood and asked too many questions. Of course, when it came to stuff about drugs and booze, I had nothing to tell, and she seemed a little surprised I was even there. duh! Put that in your report, Berna: a case of mistaken identity. Then came the physical. With all her poking and prodding, it felt more like a strip-search. Looking for knives, drugs, whatever. Embarrassing! Made me hand over my watch, empty my pockets (some gum, twenty bucks, a couple guitar picks) and dump everything in a plastic box with my name on it. Do you believe it? She knew all about my concussion, but I still had to wrestle her for my sunglasses. So much for summer camp.
God, this is hard. I suck at writing on paper. Good only for ass-wiping or starting fires. So different from keyboarding, like a totally new language. I’d rather compose a guitar étude than this shit. Wait. That’s four paragraphs. So Carrie, if you’re reading this, do I get an extra dessert?
COLD TURKEY
LIFEBOAT JOURNAL, DAY 4
Today’s assignment: withdrawal. What’s it feel like physically? Emotionally? How will you cope? But don’t you get it, Carrie? I’m not a druggie. Look at Wade. He’s been following Berna all over the place and got caught twice trying to bust into her infirmary for drugs. He’s got tracks up and down both arms. Talk to him about withdrawal. Or Alyssa. She’s gone hoarse from shouting at the sky, and both her arms are bandaged from scratching herself. All I want from the nurse is some earplugs cause of Alyssa’s nightly screaming binges. During the day she’s like the walking dead. Werewolf by night, zombie by day. I don’t know how Obie’s doing. Never see him except in our evening sharing circle. He seems to be getting quieter, if that’s possible.
So, okay, I’m missing my toys. I really felt it at the gate in the Calgary airport. I never used to chew my nails, especially my right ones. Pretty dumb idea when you’re supposedly a guitar god. There was this diaper brat in a high chair across from me, watching Teletubbies on his mother’s iPad. She had her nose so deep in her smartphone that I seriously thought of swiping the kid’s device. Probably would have if it hadn’t been for the goons—sorry, “escorts” —sitting on each side of me.
Another serious ache hit
me on the plane to Whitehorse. Got all twitchy and my body started shaking like right after my concussion. Had to grip the armrests real hard. Somehow they’d put me beside an emergency exit, and I kept looking up at the red handle, wanting to pull it, to get sucked into the sky and fall and fall and never land. I actually caught my hand reaching up once. I might’ve done it, really done it, if the pilot hadn’t come on with his blah-blah welcome aboard thing. Then it hit me that his cockpit must be stuffed with digital doodads connected to the Internet. I could check my email. Fire off a blog post from thirty-thousand feet up. Make a quick video of me flying the plane. I was rehearsing lines in my head to convince the pilot of my urgent need to reconnect with my online friends—I was sure he’d understand—when the plane started descending into Whitehorse.
In rehab-speak, I was totally “delusional.” But it felt good just sitting there fantasizing. At least I stopped shaking.
SOLO
Since when did I talk to myself? Correction, talk to creeks? I’d been glaring at it since the sun came up, which was, like, 2:00 AM. Land of the midnight sun and all. Couldn’t say exactly what time it rose, since they stole my watch.
I could hear Carrie’s advice. I should be journaling out in the meadow or skinny dipping in the pond, or making a nice pancake and eggs breakfast over the fire. But my head was too screwed up to write and the water was too cold to swim. After blowing my only pack of matches, I couldn’t get the damn fire going, anyway.
Worst of all, that creek was driving me nuts.
It had started soon after William dumped me there, “within screaming distance of camp,” he’d said. I’d watched him disappear into the woods, feeling suddenly alone like never before.
It wasn’t like being locked in my practice room in Xela, crying over my guitar. Or hiding in my Calgary dungeon. Or staring stupidly out the hospital window, waiting for my brain to rewire.
This was a new kind of loneliness.
I felt like my cyberworld had been spinning so fast, it spat me out and I’d landed here on yet another planet.
Just me and the creepy wilderness.
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