Only in hindsight did Jack recall the instant that lasted for an eternity, in which he was swatted out of the canoe by the prickly branches of a teetering spruce, while the canoe ran into a submerged boulder that forced it broadside to the current, swamping it.
In that same instant, he remembered that the canoe was his only lifeline in those rapids, and his only means of escape to a new life. All he could do was react, reach out, grab for some part of the canoe, and hang on. It’s only afterward, if you survive, that you realize what you really should have done. But in that instant, gasping for air, being twisted about, and impelled onward by the unrelenting hydraulic power of the river, Jack clung to what he could and tried to save himself and his canoe.
Jack was fifteen. He weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. As it capsized and rolled and tumbled in the current, his little canoe had the weight and strength of ten men. The canoe fell victim to the current, and Jack fell victim to the canoe. He hung on in desperation. He also knew that, in one of those twists and tumbles, something in his left arm had not been strong enough.
Maybe it was the coldness of the water. Maybe it was the terror of the instant. Maybe it was his own anger and rebellious temper. Whatever it was, Jack felt little or no pain until, at the end of the rapids, the river leveled, and he managed to kick himself and his canoe out of the strength of the current and into the shelter of a backwater. With his right arm, he dragged the canoe slowly up and through the silt of a gravel bar, taking care to let the water drain out slowly as he did so, to prevent any further damage to the canoe. Finally, he slowly rolled it to release the water that was left, beached it, and then collapsed onto the sunny warmth of the bar itself.
A throbbing pain in his left arm roused him. A sharp, biting pain that made Jack wince and brought tears to his eyes. He knew something was broken. His escape had come to an end.
Jack sat up slowly, cradling his left arm, and tried to figure out exactly where the pain was coming from. His fingers tingled. His shoulder was sore and stiff, although he realized the stiffness might be from trying to hold his arm still and motionless, to ease the stabbing of the pain. For how long, he didn’t know. He looked down at the sleeve on his forearm, and wondered how much it might hurt if he were to roll it back. He wondered and feared what he might see.
Nothing! After slowly edging his cuff back to his elbow, all Jack could see, just below his elbow, was the beginning of a bruise. “Maybe,” he thought, “maybe that’s all it is.”
He’d seen the bones of animals maimed in traps. Bones that had snapped and then jutted up through the skin. Jack remembered feeling, or sensing, something snap. Gingerly he touched the bruising. Slowly he tried to rotate his wrist. And instantly he knew that his first fear had been correct.
It was probably late or mid afternoon. The sun was drying his clothes, as he sat on the gravel shore at the edge of the river and tried to think. Jack looked at his canoe and was relieved to see that his oilcloth bundle was still lashed to the center thwart, and that the spare paddle was still lashed beside it. That much, at least, he had managed to do correctly.
Jack also noticed the river. He was surprised to see, from where he sat, that it looked almost calm and benign. Only when he looked upstream could he see the telltale glistening of cresting waves, or stacks, that indicated rapids and a current that was faster than any canoe, whatever its size, or how it was manned.
“I guess I’ll have to stay put for a while,” Jack told himself. He said it out loud just to be sure he understood that it might be a while before some healing in his left arm would let him paddle again, and continue the journey to his new life. He surveyed his surroundings and realized, once again, that nature was in charge.
“But not entirely,” Jack reminded himself. Or maybe it was the message of hunger rumbling up from his stomach. “I’ve still got to look after myself.”
He looked along the shore behind him for a suitable place to hole up. For how long, he didn’t know. But as soon as he moved even a little, he realized he would not be leaving for a few days. Maybe weeks. He tried to remember, if ever he had known, just how long it took for bones to mend. He also knew, when he moved again, that he’d have to do something to keep his arm immobile.
As he continued to sit and look around and take stock, Jack realized that the Athabasca now seemed to be flowing eastward. No matter where he camped on this shore, he’d probably see the sun rise and the sun set.
It was the last thing he remembered with any certainty for a long while, as the pain began to dominate whatever he did, or tried to do.
10
Malcolm Whyte was in a surprisingly good mood, as he maneuvered his big canoe out of the stronger current, and headed for the shore below his house in the Athabasca forest lands, in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. His mood was the result of getting more for his furs than he had anticipated, and the subsequent ability to purchase all the things on his, or Rose’s, long list, as well as a few bonus items. He even anticipated that they might actually celebrate Christmas in the coming winter.
It was with a fair amount of exuberance that Malcolm pulled up, secured his canoe, lifted one special pack out of it, and headed up to the house. He anticipated the competition among the eager hands of his family to carry up the rest, when they realized he was home already. He was even glad they weren’t waiting down by the river, as they had at other times. Or, at least Cyril, acting as a lookout. But he had pushed himself to make it home that day, when sunset already threatened.
What Malcolm had not expected was the cloud of silence when he came through the door. A cloud that could only mean a disaster or tragedy of some sort. He looked from one to the other, trying to imagine what it might be.
“Jack’s gone,” Amelia whispered in response to her father’s questioning look.
“He’s fifteen. He thought it was time,” Cyril added, trying to explain.
Malcolm might have anticipated it, but he had not expected it. Not yet. Not this way. He also knew this was not the petulance and running away of a child, whose adventure would end by the time smoke from the supper cook stove curled up through the chimney.
Without looking up, Malcolm handed Rose the pack he had carried up. “This is for you,” he said. “It wasn’t on the list.” Then, avoiding her eyes, he told them all, “There’s a canoe full of supplies to haul up to the house before it gets too dark. After that, we’ll talk.”
Malcolm Whyte was in charge. But, in that brief exchange, he realized he had never been less in charge. He felt like the commander of an army that had deserted him. Everything that this wilderness homestead was supposed to be had changed. Everything in the canoe, waiting to be unloaded, was diminished.
The sun had set by the time Cyril had helped his dad pull the canoe up into the bush, tied it down, and the last bundle had been brought up to the house. Unpacking and sorting could wait.
Malcolm lit the coal oil lamp and asked, “Where did he go, and why?” Although he knew as soon as he said it, that he should not have asked the second part of that question.
That question triggered the release of all the years of emotion that had been set aside, hidden, or ignored, among all the other priorities of just trying to survive in the wilderness for the last seven years.
“Why?” Rose almost spat out the word, drawing it out like it was the biggest and most formidable in her vocabulary. “Why?”
When she repeated it, Malcolm motioned Cyril and Amelia over to the door.
“No!” Rose yelled, moving to cut off their escape. “They are a part of this, too. They may even have something to say. We’ve all been silent for far too long.”
Cyril and Amelia moved out of the orange glow of the lamp and stood like dim shadows of themselves. Visible, but out of the line of fire. This, like the events of the days before, would be seared into their memories.
“Jack’s got the small canoe,�
� Rose stated. “He’s gone upriver, or down. But if you didn’t see him, then I guess he’s gone downriver.” She breathed deeply, and more quietly added, “He left a note. It didn’t say much.”
Avoiding the formidable question of why, Malcolm looked over into the shadows and asked Cyril, “Do you know where?”
Cyril shook his head.
“Where?” Rose spat out the word. “The Athabasca goes to all the rest of Canada, and everything beyond that! Didn’t you and the Whitecourt boys discover that when you went off to fight in the war?”
Malcolm nodded vaguely. He knew that to say anything more would only make things worse. He needed to think. He needed to retreat. He needed to let the dust and debris of the explosion settle down.
And that was what he said as he opened the door. “I need to think. I’ll be out in the shed.”
Cyril and Amelia had heard their father’s outbursts before. And they had heard the silence. They had not yet figured out which of the two was the most intimidating or alarming.
“Are we all right, Mom?” Cyril asked after a while.
When Amelia continued to whimper and sniffle, Rose replied, “Yes, we’re all right.”
Rose blew out the candle before the three of them went to bed. She knew Malcolm would be watching from somewhere. She also knew that none of them, wherever they were, would get much sleep that night.
11
“I’ll bring him home,” was all Malcolm said, as he opened the door to the house in the morning, and just as quietly shut it again.
With only the light load of Malcolm’s trapping and hunting pack, always at the ready, the big canoe was harder to handle in the wind and currents of the Athabasca and its meandering valley. With the big load coming down from Hinton, it had been stable and steady, and relatively easy for one man to keep in the propelling currents. But without a load, it bounded along and danced in the currents.
Malcolm knew Jack might consider Whitecourt. It was a small village, with a post office and a general store, central to the pioneers who had settled in that area. But then he reasoned that Jack would probably not stay there, since it was the first place downstream and easy to get to. He wondered how angry and rebellious Jack would have to be to keep ahead of him, and how clever, in order not to leave any sign of his traveling downstream.
Malcolm muttered to himself when, late in the afternoon, he came to an island he remembered from years before, and whose features were the inspiration for local legends and tales. The sweeping bend around the island created rapids that only a fool would attempt by himself, and which had swamped even experienced crews in larger canoes.
He looked at the descending sun, and realized he would have to spend a night above the island, and its nearly hidden voyageur channel. He’d have to check the route and then descend in the morning. He found a suitable place to land and camp for the night.
Sitting beside his campfire, sipping his first boil of tea, Malcolm tried to think back to when he had been fifteen. It was not an easy task. Maybe because he had spent too much time trying to forget too many things from his earlier life. It would be another long night.
A strong and early wind the next morning blew the swirling river mists upstream. Malcolm made no morning fire. His work with the canoe would warm him soon enough. He looked for and trimmed off a sturdy sapling to use as a pole in the rapids, should he need it. The pole lay ready and within reach. It would be a brake when necessary.
There was no rush to get through and beyond the island, to where the river would level off for a while to a more manageable speed. Going slowly let him guide the canoe with his pole, while the current provided propulsion. Malcolm stayed in the shallow water close to the island. When he saw the main river again, he dug in hard, and slowly let the canoe slide down to the next level, without getting swept to the outside of the bend with its overhanging trees. Gravel and stones rattled against the bottom of the canoe in the frothy shallows.
At last, Malcolm felt his canoe settle into a backwater at the bottom end of the island. He looked over to where the standing waves of the Gooseneck rapids marked the bottom end of that dangerous obstacle. He was past and beyond. He switched back to his paddle, as he looked around at the power of the river. And he looked for any signs that his son had passed through there. Although, if he had seen anything, it would indicate the worst possible outcome. For that reason, Malcolm was relieved, as he pulled for the current to resume his descent on the Athabasca in search of his canoe, and his son.
Or not. He had hardly rejoined the stream, when he noticed the shape of a canoe on the shaded, southern shore of the river. It was rolled over onto its side, but not very far up. Hardly a desirable campsite.
It didn’t take Malcolm long to realize that he had caught up with Jack. He also knew something must be wrong. The only positive sign was a huddled form near the canoe, sitting sort of upright.
12
Jack had noticed the canoe in the river. He’d noticed and recognized it. Oddly, his thoughts went to winter, and scenes of animals caught in traps. Caught, but not killed. Caught, and not knowing what to expect next. Caught, and not knowing anything except that there was no escape.
“How long have you been here?” Malcolm asked with uncustomary quiet control.
“A few days, I think.”
“Why?”
“My arm broke.” Jack said it with certainty and finality. He was ashen and cold.
The sun was finally high enough to bring sunshine and warmth to the shore where Jack was sitting. He had been waiting for that. Waiting and knowing that when the sun warmed him enough, he might test his arm again and try to do something. Maybe figure out a way to keep it still and ease the pain.
Malcolm did not wait. He brought his canvas pack, set it near the smaller canoe, and set about building a fire on the downwind side of the boy.
Within a half-hour, Malcolm had boiled up some tea, poured some into an old enameled cup, sweetened it with the thick Eagle Brand condensed milk from one of several small tins he usually carried with him, and held it out to the boy.
“Drink it, son.” It was the first compassionate thing he’d said since landing. It was not a tone with which Jack was familiar.
Jack looked up, wondering if he’d heard right. Maybe it was the numbness of another long night, the cold, and the pain. He hadn’t ever broken anything before. He didn’t know how it would affect him. He wondered about all of that, as his right hand received the cup. It was shaking. He feared he might spill the tea.
The sweetness and warmth of the tea was medicinal in its affect. Jack sipped its heat, and then he drank it down as it became cool enough. Then he watched, as the man who had called him “son” set some fresh water in the edge of the fire, and began cutting into it the carrots and the two small potatoes still in his oilcloth pack. It took on the qualities of a stew or soup when he cut up some fire-dried meat, or jerky, into it.
Jack just sat and watched. He tried to think, as the warmth of the sun and the tea seeped through him. He also began to wonder what would happen next. He wondered if he should feel captured or rescued. Or, more to the point, he wondered how his dad would eventually react to all of this. What had his dad expected to find, anyway? Had he even expected to catch up to him, or just to go as far as Whitecourt, to find out where he might have gone? Would he even have gone as far as Whitecourt?
Malcolm had gathered more firewood. Probably to keep busy and to do something. He’d also checked on the soupy stew bubbling by the fire.
After a while, he took the enameled cup from Jack, rinsed it in the river, and dipped it into the tin. The aroma made Jack realize he was very hungry.
“We’ll have to look at that arm,” Malcolm said, after Jack had blown over the soup to cool it and tested its contents. “That arm will let us know what we can do next.”
Jack nodded. He hadn’t looked at it since tha
t first time. He’d been afraid of what he might see. He knew it would hurt. He was still afraid, because he knew it would dictate any decisions he might still be able to make. He also watched his dad, who had found a piece of cedar and, with some deft strokes of his big knife, whittled a spoon to dig into what was left in the cooking tin. Jack knew his dad never carried a spoon with him. Complained that utensils got lost. “But,” Jack remembered him saying, “there’s always wood to carve into whatever you need.” He never explained how he always managed to hang onto his knife.
The fire was reduced to coals. The heat of the sun was more than enough for warmth. Malcolm rinsed out the cooking tin and set it, half full, in the coals for more tea.
“We need to use what’s left in that little tin of milk,” he said by way of explanation. Or maybe he said it to fill the void between them.
“The soup was good,” Jack said. “Moose?” he asked, wondering about the meat, or jerky.
Malcolm nodded vaguely. Then after a while, he said, “When you’re ready,” looking at Jack’s arm.
“All right,” Jack said, and winced as he turned toward his dad. He realized the tea that was just starting to simmer was intended to alleviate whatever might come next. He hoped it would be strong, and that there was still a lot of that sweet, thick milk to add to it.
“You know that it’s broken?” Malcolm asked, as Jack slowly pulled the sleeve of his shirt back.
Jack nodded, clenched his teeth, and wheezed, “I felt something snap.”
There was a large, bluish-gray area on his forearm. From his elbow down, his arm and wrist felt numb.
Jack grimaced when he tried to move his fingers. The color vanished from his features.
Jack’s look and reaction were not unfamiliar to Malcolm. He’d been through a war twenty years before. There had been guns and armaments, and many reasons for men to be hurt or killed. There had been shouts of men trying to bring order out of that chaos. All of that, and the cries of indescribable pain.
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