“Nothing, Libby. I know you’re unhappy. So am I. ” She’d pause, cross her arms, then ask, “You want out?” “Yes.” The word soft but unmistakably clear. “You want to leave me?” she’d ask.
“Leave? I would never leave you.”
“Then what?”
“I want to leave my job.”
No. Telling her the truth would only add to her pain. And his.
Greg shifted in the driver’s seat and focused on the highway ahead of him. First things first. The trip, then the truth. First he had to know if he could live with photography. Then he’d know if he could live with himself.
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Eager for a chance to stretch his legs, grab a snack, and use indoor plumbing one last time, Greg pulled into the gravel parking lot of The Last Chance Convenience Store.
The men’s room boasted nothing special except hot and
cold running water and a flush toilet.
“It’s all about perspective,” he said to his reflection in the
mirror. “Good-bye, porcelain. Good-bye flush handle. See you in a week and a half or so.”
Nothing would move Libby to give up indoor plumbing in the
name of adventure. Nothing about this trip would appeal to her. How many times have the words “Why don’t you come with me?” died on my lips?
Greg used an extra squirt of liquid soap when washing
his hands and snatched two paper towels from the dispenser. Then a third for good measure.
One last glance in the mirror. The awkward stage. Patrick
Dempsey could pull off a day’s growth of beard and make it look sophisticated. On Greg, it lay like steel wool shavings stuck to the business side of masking tape. He needed a few more days of beard production.
And a reason to go home at the end of the trip.
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But he’d settle for an icy diet cola. On his way past the car air fresheners, windshield washer fluids, outrageously priced canned soup, and limited assortment of first-aid products, Greg paused and reached for a bag on the snack display.
********
His canoe slid into the water the way a foot finds familiar toe-shaped curves and depressions in a well-worn shoe. Greg sat for a moment, not paddling, letting the momentum of his push-off from shore carry his vessel out into the lake, away from his land link to reality.
His spirit floated just above the surface of the water and ran parallel with the canoe’s hull. It drifted above small waves and left a wake of little note.
“And so it begins,” he said to the lethargic breeze. “I’m here. Work your magic.”
One deep breath. Another. Dead in the water now. He’d have to start paddling if he hoped to get anywhere.
His initial stroke felt like the first dip of the knife in a fresh jar of peanut butter, satisfying for reasons unexplainable. Within minutes, the rhythm returned from where it had hibernated since his last trip. With an efficient J-stroke he could paddle a straight path through the water without switching sides. A half hour or more. Greg Holden—Master Voyageur. Water pioneer. Inadequate in every other way.
Each switch of his paddle from one side to the other—in- frequent as they were—left a dribble of cool lake water that crossed in front of him. He’d make a few changes in the way he packed the canoe after the first portage. The nose was a little high in the air, creating a drag he didn’t need when solo paddling. He’d shift more of the cargo toward the front to
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balance things out, and he’d position under his dribble pattern an item that could bear getting wet.
His maps—both standard and topographical—hung from
the canoe thwart in front of him, their ink marks holding a different attraction than they had on other trips he’d taken. He needed to know where he was going, yes, but this time weed beds and underwater drop-offs and fish habitats mattered far less than marked pictographs on cliff faces, rapids, waterfalls, and the ever-present portages.
Protected by a waterproof sleeve and a clear viewing win-
dow, the maps led the way like a guide dog would lead the sight impaired through a busy intersection. He’d be lost with- out them.
Maybe it hadn’t been the smartest move to choose unfamil-
iar territory for his first solo trip. He pushed the thought aside with his next paddle stroke and conquered another few feet of water.
Is it okay, Lord, if I don’t think about Libby for a few days? Don’t
think about her pain and my inability to fix it? Or am I a world- class moron for asking?
Greg straightened his posture and scanned the scenery for
something worth photographing.
His digital camera hung from a lanyard around his neck.
Not the world’s most expensive camera, but it would do for now. Tucked into the waterproof carrying case were two extra memory cards. He wouldn’t have to worry about preserving enough film to last until the final days of his trip. He planned to use his evenings in the tent to scan the shots he’d taken each day and delete the imperfect.
That’d be a nice feature for life, if You’re looking for something
new, Lord. Delete the imperfect shots, imperfect words, imperfect decisions. “Oh, that didn’t turn out like I’d hoped. Delete.”
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Thoughtful and pathologically pensive share some common DNA.
Two portages and a dozen pensive thoughts later, Greg real- ized he hadn’t taken a single photograph yet. Not that volume was his goal. But he still acted like a grocer on vacation rather than an adventurer seeking a cover shot for Boundary Waters magazine. He’d hoped to get a shot of a campfire at twilight, the hot flames silhouetted against the blue-black sky. The fire ban doused that idea. Even a camp stove could threaten dry tinder. He’d have to exercise extreme caution. All he needed was to create trouble and give Libby more reason to berate him for not taking a satellite phone for emergencies.
Greg decided to hug the shoreline for the next leg of his journey, hoping it would prove the scenic route for photo ops. He also wondered if a person could find a cheap satellite phone on eBay.
His paddle felt good in his hands. It would get a workout this trip. “B minus, my foot,” he said, slapping it hard on the water. The sound echoed off the wall of pines on the far hori- zon. “Beaver tail,” he lied to the stillness, instantly conscious that you can’t fool the Creator of beaver tails.
At the end of the next portage, Greg laid the last of his equipment in his canoe, straightened to his full height, and gave his puffed chest one fist pound. “I am man, hear me roar!” he said to his pine tree companions and the waterway that stretched before him. He turned back to survey the route over which he’d hauled his canoe and equipment. Alone. All the effort, his. All the decisions, his to make. He considered punctuating his accomplishment with an über-manly grunt, but feared unintentionally mimicking the mating call of some- thing furry and large. With claws.
He drank in a long draft of virgin air. No diesel bus fumes. No car emissions. No mingled grease smells from the kitchen
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exhaust fans of competing fast-food restaurants. No evidence of other humans and their habits.
No reason to hurry.
Getting settled into camp for the night—a worthy goal—
held no deadline but the one imposed by darkness. This far north, light lingered as late as eight-thirty or nine in August. Nothing pressed him to hustle but his eagerness to sample all that the wilderness promised.
His test run on Lake DuBay at home taught him how to
use a canoe-built-for-two as a solo unit. He climbed into what normally served as the front seat—the bow seat—and turned to paddle the canoe with its stern now forward. The weight of his supplies rested far ahead of him in the canoe to counter- balance his own bulk in t
he “back.”
The lone exception was his camera case. It stayed close at
hand, like a faithful golden retriever waiting for instructions.
Greg pushed off into navigable water, but laid his paddle
across his lap before venturing farther.
Lord, he began, dropping his chin to his chest as if the
weight of his thoughts was too heavy for his neck muscles, I need to meet You here. Audible voice would be nice. Handwriting on the cliff faces. Bolt from heaven. Anything.
With an exhale and an “amen” echo, Greg gripped his
paddle and slid it into the waiting water. Yesterday’s page of the flip calendar on his desk claimed, “Faith is expecting an answer from God when you can’t even define the problem.” He didn’t recall memorizing that entry, but there it was, imprinted on his mind.
Like a photograph.
He dug deep into the water, propelling his canoe forward.
His muscles stretched and yawned, then expressed their gratitude for the opportunity to get back in the game. His shop-class paddle’s sleek handle belied the rough ridge on the
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blade beneath the water’s surface. How many strokes, how many water miles would this imperfect paddle measure if pad- dles came equipped with odometers? How many adventures? How many fish had he cleaned on the blade over the years? A tandem canoe converted to solo use lacks grace. Greg’s path through the water wouldn’t win him any style awards, but as the northwoods breeze evaporated the perspiration on his face, he moved farther into unfamiliar territory, leaving a small, untidy wake.
Unfamiliar territory. The thought returned. Was that wise? Would it have been smarter to choose a familiar trip route? Probably. Smarter. Safer. And routine.
“Fie on routine!” he said, leaning into his next stroke. As he pulled the paddle through the water, he envisioned pushing all remnants of normal life behind him. Time clocks. Lunch boxes. Mindless meetings. Memos. Negotiations. Paper- work.
In his wilderness world, he’d push no papers. Except for the maps. And his trip journal. No alarm clocks. No busi- ness suits. No pasted-on smiles for the church family that still thought he and Libby had bounced back better than ever after their loss.
Maybe that’s where they slipped off the rails. Was keeping their pain private a mistake? What could the church have done for them? Pray more?
Directly ahead lay a turtleback island no larger than a Volkswagen Beetle, a single pine tree—long dead—its only inhabitant. The tree leaned awkwardly toward the water, as if it lacked the strength to stand upright.
Greg stopped paddling and removed his camera from its case. The interruption in nature’s symmetry caught his photog- rapher attention. The other trees in the background stretched
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vertically, held tall by invisible strings connecting them to heaven. This one sagged.
He lined up the shot, grateful for a good interplay of light
and shadows and the relative calm of the water.
He slid the camera back into its case, zipped it shut, and
fought off the sensation that he didn’t deserve to make a living doing something from which he derived joy. Fantasies were for teenage boys and the unmarried.
Responsibility kept many a prospective dragon-slayer’s
sword sheathed. It might well keep Greg’s camera locked within the dark coffin of its case.
********
Like an addict drawn to the feel of the cigarette in his hands
as well as the nicotine hit, Greg turned again and again to his camera. Scenes begged him to capture them. The otter with obsessive-compulsive disorder, cleaning his catch-of-the-day at the water’s edge. Black trees against the sunset sky. The shimmering dawn. A twisted branch. A jay feather lodged between two rocks.
For ten sweet days he focused the lens of his life on what-
ever beauty he could capture. He ate and slept at will. Paddled when necessary. Floated when he could. Explored. Lingered. Napped without working around anyone else’s schedule.
Low water levels turned creeks into mud holes and stretched
access points farther out into the lakes he traversed. He faced the portages with a viewfinder, stopping often to take pictures of scenes he would have walked past if fishing were his goal, if conquering distance mattered.
As his smooth strokes pulled his canoe around a point of
land, a marshy shallow bay came into view. A brown mass near the shore caught his attention. In slow motion, Greg laid his
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paddle across his lap and unzipped the camera case. Was it—? Yes. A cow moose. She raised her regal yet decidedly bulbous head from drinking at the water’s edge. Her ears twitched. Greg floated closer, hesitant to make sudden moves or noises that might frighten her away.
The cow bent to take one more quick drink, an overflow of water pouring off her chin when she jerked her head back up and turned in Greg’s direction.
Greg pulled off his best imitation of driftwood as his canoe drew closer. As slow as a turtle on Valium, he raised his cam- era to line up the shot. Thumbing the telephoto toggle brought Greg’s perception of her so close he could tell she wasn’t wear- ing false eyelashes. They were real.
As he framed the picture and poised his finger over the but- ton to capture the shot, the moose pounded through the water toward Greg’s canoe.
“What in the name of—?”
The low water level kept her from having to swim to pursue him. The lumbering animal charged through the weeds and water.
Half a ton of angry hurtled toward him. What could he do but paddle backwards? He knew she held every advantage over him—size, speed, power. But a person does not sit and let a moose bully him into paralysis.
Greg’s heart mimicked a machine gun in his chest. With every panicked stroke, he willed his trusty canoe to sprout wings, or a motor.
But just as suddenly as she’d waged war against him, the moose pulled back. Greg continued to retreat, but she gave up the pursuit.
“Can a moose contract rabies?” Greg wondered as he slowed his departure. “That thing’s crazy. Fascinating, but crazy.”
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With the cow a safe distance away from him now, Greg
plied his paddle on the other side of his canoe to turn it so he could move forward out into the main body of water. He’d get a photo of a moose another day. As he turned, he heard another splash-dance coming from the other side of the bay. A moose calf.
He watched as the calf loped through the shallow water
toward his mother. No wonder she was upset with Greg. His canoe had drifted between her and her calf, unintentionally, but the results were the same. First rule of nature: never come between a mother and her baby.
He’d failed that test at home too.
********
Midday Tuesday he ducked his canoe into a sheltered cove.
He’d come as far as he dared if he planned to make it home by Friday night, or Saturday at the latest. The threat of a deadline crept back into his vocabulary. If he started back on Thursday at dawn and pushed hard, he could make it home in time for a few hours’ sleep before church Sunday morning.
He hadn’t gained what he’d hoped. Insight still eluded him.
He’d lost a few things, though. Somewhere along the way he’d dropped his pocket knife. Maybe when he’d reached for his handkerchief to mop up the blood from the gluttonous mos- quito he’d swatted a pint too late.
And his paddle. Poor, sad thing. As faithful as it had been
all these years, it couldn’t bear the weight of a misplaced foot. The boulder underneath it served as a splitting wedge when Greg lost his footing and landed on it when he was heading back down the portage trail for another load. He shouldn’t have laid the paddle against the rock. Should have tucked i
t
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into the canoe. Splintered, it was useless. He probably should have flung it into the woods. Or burned it. His life was full of “should haves.”
As he set up his tent in the idyllic cove, Greg worked to push aside the debris of regret. He’d found no answers. The joy of catching nature in candid poses underscored the uselessness of a photo with no audience. If a tree falls in the woods—? If a snapshot’s never seen—?
Only fifteen more years until he could retire. At the earliest. Fifteen years of purchase orders and haggling on the phone and crunching numbers and sitting through business meet- ings. Maybe then he could think of his camera as a companion rather than a tourist’s accessory.
Who was he kidding? Responsibility trumps dreams every time.
If it weren’t for the fire ban, the night would be a good one for poking at embers.
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Clouds. The morning sky sported clots of white and gray clouds.
A false alarm, no doubt—teasers. The earth cried out for
rain, but every cloud Greg had seen the entire trip flirted but refused to give in.
He fried up the heel of the summer sausage and a package
of hash browns. Not the Tremendous Twelve special break- fast from Perkins, but it would do. He’d have to be careful on the way home. Meals might be a little skimpy. Usually at this point in his wilderness adventures, he started craving home- cooked meals and fresh vegetables. But the thought of vegeta- bles reminded him of the produce department at Greene’s and nothing with the word “home” attached to it brought comfort.
One good thing about the return trip: the food pack weighed
decidedly less than at the start.
If anything, his heart weighed more.
No one had to tell him he was dragging his feet around
camp. Starting home seemed so final. Terminal.
He toyed with the idea of taking another day to explore.
He’d face the wrath of Stenner if he didn’t show up on Monday morning for work, but if he drove straight through and got
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home late Sunday night, he could manage it, sleep or no sleep.
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