Driftless Review

How had I gotten myself into this?

No friends. No cell phone. And I wore bug repellent like bad perfume.

I trudged after my father up a steep ridge on an island in the middle of Lake Superior, a cloud of mosquitoes circling above my head. This was a trip we’d planned years ago and one I’d thought he’d forgotten about. “A father-daughter canoeing adventure,” he’d said. “The Great Outdoors! A National Park.” And there was more. “There are wolves and moose, and best of all, there’s Ryan Island, the largest island in the largest lake in the largest island in the largest freshwater lake in the world!”

I was not impressed. This was his idea of paradise, not mine, at least not anymore. In fact, I’d recently sworn off large bodies of water. I preferred the Great Indoors, complete with fuzzy slippers, screened windows, and chocolate pecan ice cream. Not mountaineering a bug-infested trail going nowhere.

But Mom had said it would be good for me. She said Dad would be horribly disappointed if I didn’t. And I caved.

With his head invisible under the canoe’s hull, Dad balanced the overturned canoe on his shoulders, looking more like a one man-circus act than anything nature would provide. Ridiculous as he looked, I wasn’t about to crack a joke. Not when my load was so much lighter with life jackets and paddles. Besides, there were plenty of other things to distract me – my pounding heart, my dry mouth. No soda machines, anywhere.  

“How much farther?” I asked, letting the silky contents of my water bottle flow to the depths of my throat.

Dad set the canoe’s tip in the wedge of a tree and pulled out the map from under his hat. “We’re about two-thirds of the way,” he said.  His gray t-shirt was stained under his arms and down his back. Beads of sweat seeped from his forehead. 

“Well that’s a relief,” I sighed. “After all, this is supposed to be a canoe trip.”

“Why don’t we rest a while,” Dad said.  “We’ll still need to go back for our backpacks.”  

“The packs,” I groaned.  Just my luck, we’d be hiking this trail twice more.

We left the canoe and the paddles near the rocky shore, and walked back for the packs. I leaned forward now, digging my toes into the ground to keep from slipping. At least the mosquitoes had disappeared. But tiny gnats had taken their place, and waving my hands at a flying black cloud didn’t seem to make a difference. I opted to cut out ninety percent of my view and pulled my hat down over my face.

“Melanie, look!” Dad called. “An eagle.” 

I looked up and a spasm of pain gripped my neck. “Ah!”

“Majestic, eh?” Dad asked.

This Isle Royale was becoming a Royale pain in my neck. I hoisted my pack higher to balance a week’s worth of supplies and tried not to think about my aching calf muscles as we trekked through mud, negotiated roots and dodged brambles.

By the time we reached the canoe, my heels pulsed with a matching pair of blisters carved out by my new hiking boots, and my foot ached from a small stone that had found its way into the bottom of my right boot.

“Welcome to Duncan Bay.” Dad swigged his water bottle as I emptied the treasure out of my boot. I scanned the quiet birch-lined inlet that rippled from a lone duck paddling to its breakfast of skating water bugs.

“It’s beautiful.” I peered into the shallow water and saw myself ripple in the sun’s reflection. Not all water painted such a tranquil picture and I swallowed hard to contain the memory that threatened to bubble its way into my head.

“Time to get back in the boat,” he said as if he’d read my mind. Had he known I was calculating the time and distance back to trail head?

How hard could this be? It had been three years since the incident with the kayak. And this was a sturdy canoe. I could do this.  Maybe if I focused on something practical, like counting out our forward progress. We loaded the canoe with the packs and put in. My heart fluttered as I cut the surface in exactly eleven, long, butter-smooth strokes. I exhaled a sigh of release and rolled my neck. 

We landed on a small flat, barrier island, a mere steppingstone among landmasses, and walked along its soft dirt path.  I marked out seventeen footsteps before Lake Superior’s vast indigo chasm opened before me.

“You’re looking at Five Finger Bay!” Dad removed his hat and let the wind play in his sandy-grey hair.

The bay stretched out like a hand, long U-shaped channels studded with small islands. The fresh scent of pine mixed with stale fish made my stomach reel.

“Mel?”

Breathe. I can do this, I told myself as my stomach tied itself into knots.

“Care for one of my PB and honey creations?” He held out a wrapped sandwich.

I shook my head. How could I eat? I couldn’t move. I hardly noticed when Dad slipped the backpack off my shoulder and handed me a canoe paddle.

I felt my fingers grip the wooden throat of my paddle as I watched the water caress the tips of my boots with its frothy fingers. A chill ran clear through me even as the heat of the July sun dribbled down my back.

“Look at those whitecaps!” Dad called above the wind. “Superior doesn’t disappoint.” He stood facing into the wind, breathing it in. The wind lifted the waves into peaks until their tops folded over into white foam. Sky melted into lake creating an illusion of endless blue.  His eyes were transfixed, like he would walk straight into the water without another word.   

“But Dad –” I looked up and down the rocky shoreline. “Have you noticed this is not at all like Duncan Bay?”

“Duncan Bay was just a warm-up. A puddle among lakes.”  He loaded my pack into the canoe. “Nature has a plan. Start slow. Finish big.”

Goosebumps spread along my arms. I squinted into the sun-drenched watery landscape, shielding my eyes with my hand and squeaked my question. “Do you have a plan?” 

“Sure I do.” Dad handed me his binoculars. His white shirt billowed like gills under his life jacket. “Take a look at our future.”

My hands trembled as I focused through the double lenses of his crystal ball.

“See the island in the distance?” he asked. “First stop on our five-day paddle.” Hues of blue spread out to infinity. Small mounds on the horizon rose up like blisters. “What do you think? Is it everything I promised it would be?”

My gaze shifted lower toward the lifting waves as they peaked and folded over themselves. Fear lodged in my throat. How could he be so excited?

I swallowed, handing him back his viewfinder. “Dad, can we ‘start slow’ somewhere else?” I gathered the collar of my jacket to my neck.

He placed a steady hand on my shoulder. “You can do this,” he said. “Besides, you don’t really want to carry all of this back to Rock Harbor, do you?”

I glanced at the fifty pounds of camp gear secure in its seaweed green, water resistant Duluth Packs and tried not to think about all the wet, drenching reasons we packed our socks, underwear, extra clothes, and toilet paper in their own plastic zip lock bags. “Yes. Yes I do.” 

“Mel, each challenge has a reward waiting at the end. I’ve got your back.” He winked then turned his gaze back to the Great Lake.

I should have gone to ballet camp like I’d planned. I could handle Swan Lake.

Dad crouched down to brush the lake with his fingers. I shuddered again, sensing the chill of the cold-blooded water that never went above fifty degrees Fahrenheit.  So much water and I couldn’t swim in it. I couldn’t even drink from it unless I filtered every drop, thanks to the tapeworms and a microscopic bug called Crypto-spor-i-di-um, one of those words that just rolls off the tongue.  The little microbe was as common here as a moose’s behind, since that is where it came from. I’d looked it up.

“Look here! Greenstone!” He called, marveling at something in his hand. “I used to collect these when I was a kid. They’re found only on the island.”  He stretched his arm out to me. “This mosaic pattern’s called turtleback.” 

I stepped closer. A green and black-speckled pebble perched in his palm.

“It’s like green gold. Here, take it.” He held out the stone like a peace offering. Child-like eyes looked up to me. “Take it.”

I took it and slipped it in my front right pocket because I didn’t know what else to do. Was it supposed to bring me luck? Stop my racing heart? Maybe I’d need it as I launched myself in a canoe over the same water that sunk the Edmond Fitzgerald.

We carried the canoe to the water and I stepped into its silver belly, dry-booted, and took my seat at the bow. Dad waded in before he shoved us off.  Within seconds, the wind was tossing waves against the front of the canoe. We bobbed like driftwood.

“Watch the rocks to your right up ahead,” he called.

I leaned forward and saw only black ripples. “What rocks?”

“To the right.” The sound of scraping metal grated under my feet.

I couldn’t see them to count them.

The dark surface jumped and swirled in tiny cyclones around invisible barricades buried below. Another rock hit the bow and screeched along the bottom. Why did he bring me here? What was he thinking?

“Paddle, Mel. Short strokes. Watch the keel! We don’t want to get stuck out here!” The edge in his voice grated harder than the rocks. I remembered “stuck” from the last trip.

“I’m trying!” The canoe bucked and jerked from side to side as we reared up again and again. The motion threw me off balance. We tipped ninety degrees to the right as the canoe lodged up on a jagged rock.

“Whoa!” I dropped the paddle in the canoe in back of me and braced myself against the gunwale, arms stiff to keep from falling forward.

“Easy!” Dad called. “We’re broaching. Push off.”

“I can’t!” My jaw locked. Tears blurred my vision. Memories flooded back, three years ago in the kayak, flipped over, looking at the rocky bottom. Bubbles floated from my mouth carrying my call for help in perfect spheres toward the surface. Would they break open and be heard or be carried away with the current?

“Grab your paddle, Mel.”

I held my breath, ready for the smack of water that would swell up, flip me, and hold me in a place where time slowed down to molecules of hydrogen and oxygen.

The shrill cry of a seagull pierced the air. I scrambled for the paddle near my foot. The paddle shifted and jammed my thumb. By feel, I grabbed the small end and swung it out.

“Good! Now push off,” he ordered.

“You didn’t warn me about this!” I leaned into the paddle, pushing at the water that rushed in from all sides.  The wind picked up the top of a wave and slapped it onto my face. I gasped. The fresh water spray mixed with my salt water tears.

Twisting my body, I pushed my paddle using both hands with a force that welled up from deep inside. We couldn’t tip. I kept hearing the ranger’s words in my head. He’d warned us to stay close to shore and cross open water quickly.  If we capsized, we could freeze to death. No one would find us for days. Mom wouldn’t even know we’d gone down.

Suddenly, the canoe flopped back into the water. We’d cleared the rocks. But the waves reached up higher now and we bobbed on the water, the bow of the canoe hitting the surface in small slaps. I paddled hard with short strokes, felt the muscles in my neck and arms grip with each pull as I pulled toward dry land.  How many strokes would pull me past the memories that floated just below the surface?

“Keep paddling!” Dad called. “Eddy right, eddy right!”

Eddy what? My arms burned with spasms. I tried to ignore my hands, frozen from the icy water, and think of something else, anything else. But the water had finally pushed its way past the locks of my mind and I was back at Green Lake, hanging upside down in my kayak, listening to the drumming in my ribs as I pushed against a force that slowed my arms and numbed my mind. So calm was the water, so reassuring. No sound, no pain, only a silky hand opening my mouth, flowing into my lungs, dampening my senses. Then a sudden gasp of blue sky had come into focus next to the blue of Dad’s eyes looking into mine.

A seagull’s cry brought me back to the island and dad. We’d come midway across Five Finger Bay, counting halfway to nowhere, on a lake that called itself Superior.

A gust of wind brought Dad’s voice to me. He was singing. “Dip, dip and swing and back.”  Words I’d heard the first time he’d taught me to canoe. “Flashing like silver.”  Crazy as it was, I felt my muscles loosen. “Swift as the wild goose flies.” J- stroke to the rhythm. “Dip, dip and swing.”  He sang it over and over.

I looked up from the flashing silver tip of our canoe. The waves had melted with the wind. So had my breathing and the drumming in my ribs. The sun’s rays touched me through my jacket as I rested my paddle still across my lap. The smell of kelp drifted in the air and I closed my eyes.

“Nice work. You got us through. And those were some fierce winds. I’m proud of you,” he said.

A cackle rang out from above. I looked up. The seagull still followed, the sun shining translucent through its wings, like a white kite giving into the wind.

“It’s your call, Mel. Should we turn around and head back home to Wisconsin early or on to Pickerel Cove, our first campsite?”

A pair of loons crossed the bay with their puffball babies by their sides. A mama merganser paddled past giving her babies a ride on her back. Two blue herons flew overhead.

And there was Dad and me. Floating on this moving stage. The next act was up to me. 

I thought about the blisters on my heels, the taunting seagull, and that small greenstone, safe in my pocket.

“I don’t suppose we can call for helicopter pick up,” I said, recalling the killer mountain portage.

He shook his head. “No cell phone.”

I wrapped my fingers around the paddle’s throat, the curve of the wood fitting snugly into the palm of my hand. “I’m not going to bail on you now, Dad. We haven’t seen any wolves, or moose yet, or that Ryan Island.” “Besides, what about nature’s plan? Start slow, finish big?”

Dad smiled wide and I saw myself smiling back in the reflection of his sunglasses. He looked skyward. “Speaking of big –” Charcoal, flat-bottomed cloud-mountains blew overhead out of nowhere. “Storm’s coming. Keep your eyes open for a place to land.” 

The wind shifted. A streak of light opened the sky. White caps chased past us across the lake, rising higher on the gunwale. The spray from my paddle wet my jeans. I tried not to look down at the white tipped fingers reaching up to grab me. The heavy air smelled moist. But the small isthmus lay not too far off, straight ahead. I gathered my frayed nerves and wrung them out.

“Dad, over by the rocks, we can land there.” A patch of pink Lady Slippers stood out like safety flags against the rocky background of the shore. I pulled the water hard against the back of the paddle, forgetting to count.  Dad’s motions matched mine, and we shot forward toward land.

How had I gotten myself into this?

No friends. No cell phone. And I wore bug repellent like bad perfume.

I trudged after my father up a steep ridge on an island in the middle of Lake Superior, a cloud of mosquitoes circling above my head. This was a trip we’d planned years ago and one I’d thought he’d forgotten about. “A father-daughter canoeing adventure,” he’d said. “The Great Outdoors! A National Park.” And there was more. “There are wolves and moose, and best of all, there’s Ryan Island, the largest island in the largest lake in the largest island in the largest freshwater lake in the world!”

I was not impressed. This was his idea of paradise, not mine, at least not anymore. In fact, I’d recently sworn off large bodies of water. I preferred the Great Indoors, complete with fuzzy slippers, screened windows, and chocolate pecan ice cream. Not mountaineering a bug-infested trail going nowhere.

But Mom had said it would be good for me. She said Dad would be horribly disappointed if I didn’t. And I caved.

With his head invisible under the canoe’s hull, Dad balanced the overturned canoe on his shoulders, looking more like a one man-circus act than anything nature would provide. Ridiculous as he looked, I wasn’t about to crack a joke. Not when my load was so much lighter with life jackets and paddles. Besides, there were plenty of other things to distract me – my pounding heart, my dry mouth. No soda machines, anywhere.  

“How much farther?” I asked, letting the silky contents of my water bottle flow to the depths of my throat.

Dad set the canoe’s tip in the wedge of a tree and pulled out the map from under his hat. “We’re about two-thirds of the way,” he said.  His gray t-shirt was stained under his arms and down his back. Beads of sweat seeped from his forehead. 

“Well that’s a relief,” I sighed. “After all, this is supposed to be a canoe trip.”

“Why don’t we rest a while,” Dad said.  “We’ll still need to go back for our backpacks.”  

“The packs,” I groaned.  Just my luck, we’d be hiking this trail twice more.

We left the canoe and the paddles near the rocky shore, and walked back for the packs. I leaned forward now, digging my toes into the ground to keep from slipping. At least the mosquitoes had disappeared. But tiny gnats had taken their place, and waving my hands at a flying black cloud didn’t seem to make a difference. I opted to cut out ninety percent of my view and pulled my hat down over my face.

“Melanie, look!” Dad called. “An eagle.” 

I looked up and a spasm of pain gripped my neck. “Ah!”

“Majestic, eh?” Dad asked.

This Isle Royale was becoming a Royale pain in my neck. I hoisted my pack higher to balance a week’s worth of supplies and tried not to think about my aching calf muscles as we trekked through mud, negotiated roots and dodged brambles.

By the time we reached the canoe, my heels pulsed with a matching pair of blisters carved out by my new hiking boots, and my foot ached from a small stone that had found its way into the bottom of my right boot.

“Welcome to Duncan Bay.” Dad swigged his water bottle as I emptied the treasure out of my boot. I scanned the quiet birch-lined inlet that rippled from a lone duck paddling to its breakfast of skating water bugs.

“It’s beautiful.” I peered into the shallow water and saw myself ripple in the sun’s reflection. Not all water painted such a tranquil picture and I swallowed hard to contain the memory that threatened to bubble its way into my head.

“Time to get back in the boat,” he said as if he’d read my mind. Had he known I was calculating the time and distance back to trail head?

How hard could this be? It had been three years since the incident with the kayak. And this was a sturdy canoe. I could do this.  Maybe if I focused on something practical, like counting out our forward progress. We loaded the canoe with the packs and put in. My heart fluttered as I cut the surface in exactly eleven, long, butter-smooth strokes. I exhaled a sigh of release and rolled my neck. 

We landed on a small flat, barrier island, a mere steppingstone among landmasses, and walked along its soft dirt path.  I marked out seventeen footsteps before Lake Superior’s vast indigo chasm opened before me.

“You’re looking at Five Finger Bay!” Dad removed his hat and let the wind play in his sandy-grey hair.

The bay stretched out like a hand, long U-shaped channels studded with small islands. The fresh scent of pine mixed with stale fish made my stomach reel.

“Mel?”

Breathe. I can do this, I told myself as my stomach tied itself into knots.

“Care for one of my PB and honey creations?” He held out a wrapped sandwich.

I shook my head. How could I eat? I couldn’t move. I hardly noticed when Dad slipped the backpack off my shoulder and handed me a canoe paddle.

I felt my fingers grip the wooden throat of my paddle as I watched the water caress the tips of my boots with its frothy fingers. A chill ran clear through me even as the heat of the July sun dribbled down my back.

“Look at those whitecaps!” Dad called above the wind. “Superior doesn’t disappoint.” He stood facing into the wind, breathing it in. The wind lifted the waves into peaks until their tops folded over into white foam. Sky melted into lake creating an illusion of endless blue.  His eyes were transfixed, like he would walk straight into the water without another word.   

“But Dad –” I looked up and down the rocky shoreline. “Have you noticed this is not at all like Duncan Bay?”

“Duncan Bay was just a warm-up. A puddle among lakes.”  He loaded my pack into the canoe. “Nature has a plan. Start slow. Finish big.”

Goosebumps spread along my arms. I squinted into the sun-drenched watery landscape, shielding my eyes with my hand and squeaked my question. “Do you have a plan?” 

“Sure I do.” Dad handed me his binoculars. His white shirt billowed like gills under his life jacket. “Take a look at our future.”

My hands trembled as I focused through the double lenses of his crystal ball.

“See the island in the distance?” he asked. “First stop on our five-day paddle.” Hues of blue spread out to infinity. Small mounds on the horizon rose up like blisters. “What do you think? Is it everything I promised it would be?”

My gaze shifted lower toward the lifting waves as they peaked and folded over themselves. Fear lodged in my throat. How could he be so excited?

I swallowed, handing him back his viewfinder. “Dad, can we ‘start slow’ somewhere else?” I gathered the collar of my jacket to my neck.

He placed a steady hand on my shoulder. “You can do this,” he said. “Besides, you don’t really want to carry all of this back to Rock Harbor, do you?”

I glanced at the fifty pounds of camp gear secure in its seaweed green, water resistant Duluth Packs and tried not to think about all the wet, drenching reasons we packed our socks, underwear, extra clothes, and toilet paper in their own plastic zip lock bags. “Yes. Yes I do.” 

“Mel, each challenge has a reward waiting at the end. I’ve got your back.” He winked then turned his gaze back to the Great Lake.

I should have gone to ballet camp like I’d planned. I could handle Swan Lake.

Dad crouched down to brush the lake with his fingers. I shuddered again, sensing the chill of the cold-blooded water that never went above fifty degrees Fahrenheit.  So much water and I couldn’t swim in it. I couldn’t even drink from it unless I filtered every drop, thanks to the tapeworms and a microscopic bug called Crypto-spor-i-di-um, one of those words that just rolls off the tongue.  The little microbe was as common here as a moose’s behind, since that is where it came from. I’d looked it up.

“Look here! Greenstone!” He called, marveling at something in his hand. “I used to collect these when I was a kid. They’re found only on the island.”  He stretched his arm out to me. “This mosaic pattern’s called turtleback.” 

I stepped closer. A green and black-speckled pebble perched in his palm.

“It’s like green gold. Here, take it.” He held out the stone like a peace offering. Child-like eyes looked up to me. “Take it.”

I took it and slipped it in my front right pocket because I didn’t know what else to do. Was it supposed to bring me luck? Stop my racing heart? Maybe I’d need it as I launched myself in a canoe over the same water that sunk the Edmond Fitzgerald.

We carried the canoe to the water and I stepped into its silver belly, dry-booted, and took my seat at the bow. Dad waded in before he shoved us off.  Within seconds, the wind was tossing waves against the front of the canoe. We bobbed like driftwood.

“Watch the rocks to your right up ahead,” he called.

I leaned forward and saw only black ripples. “What rocks?”

“To the right.” The sound of scraping metal grated under my feet.

I couldn’t see them to count them.

The dark surface jumped and swirled in tiny cyclones around invisible barricades buried below. Another rock hit the bow and screeched along the bottom. Why did he bring me here? What was he thinking?

“Paddle, Mel. Short strokes. Watch the keel! We don’t want to get stuck out here!” The edge in his voice grated harder than the rocks. I remembered “stuck” from the last trip.

“I’m trying!” The canoe bucked and jerked from side to side as we reared up again and again. The motion threw me off balance. We tipped ninety degrees to the right as the canoe lodged up on a jagged rock.

“Whoa!” I dropped the paddle in the canoe in back of me and braced myself against the gunwale, arms stiff to keep from falling forward.

“Easy!” Dad called. “We’re broaching. Push off.”

“I can’t!” My jaw locked. Tears blurred my vision. Memories flooded back, three years ago in the kayak, flipped over, looking at the rocky bottom. Bubbles floated from my mouth carrying my call for help in perfect spheres toward the surface. Would they break open and be heard or be carried away with the current?

“Grab your paddle, Mel.”

I held my breath, ready for the smack of water that would swell up, flip me, and hold me in a place where time slowed down to molecules of hydrogen and oxygen.

The shrill cry of a seagull pierced the air. I scrambled for the paddle near my foot. The paddle shifted and jammed my thumb. By feel, I grabbed the small end and swung it out.

“Good! Now push off,” he ordered.

“You didn’t warn me about this!” I leaned into the paddle, pushing at the water that rushed in from all sides.  The wind picked up the top of a wave and slapped it onto my face. I gasped. The fresh water spray mixed with my salt water tears.

Twisting my body, I pushed my paddle using both hands with a force that welled up from deep inside. We couldn’t tip. I kept hearing the ranger’s words in my head. He’d warned us to stay close to shore and cross open water quickly.  If we capsized, we could freeze to death. No one would find us for days. Mom wouldn’t even know we’d gone down.

Suddenly, the canoe flopped back into the water. We’d cleared the rocks. But the waves reached up higher now and we bobbed on the water, the bow of the canoe hitting the surface in small slaps. I paddled hard with short strokes, felt the muscles in my neck and arms grip with each pull as I pulled toward dry land.  How many strokes would pull me past the memories that floated just below the surface?

“Keep paddling!” Dad called. “Eddy right, eddy right!”

Eddy what? My arms burned with spasms. I tried to ignore my hands, frozen from the icy water, and think of something else, anything else. But the water had finally pushed its way past the locks of my mind and I was back at Green Lake, hanging upside down in my kayak, listening to the drumming in my ribs as I pushed against a force that slowed my arms and numbed my mind. So calm was the water, so reassuring. No sound, no pain, only a silky hand opening my mouth, flowing into my lungs, dampening my senses. Then a sudden gasp of blue sky had come into focus next to the blue of Dad’s eyes looking into mine.

A seagull’s cry brought me back to the island and dad. We’d come midway across Five Finger Bay, counting halfway to nowhere, on a lake that called itself Superior.

A gust of wind brought Dad’s voice to me. He was singing. “Dip, dip and swing and back.”  Words I’d heard the first time he’d taught me to canoe. “Flashing like silver.”  Crazy as it was, I felt my muscles loosen. “Swift as the wild goose flies.” J- stroke to the rhythm. “Dip, dip and swing.”  He sang it over and over.

I looked up from the flashing silver tip of our canoe. The waves had melted with the wind. So had my breathing and the drumming in my ribs. The sun’s rays touched me through my jacket as I rested my paddle still across my lap. The smell of kelp drifted in the air and I closed my eyes.

“Nice work. You got us through. And those were some fierce winds. I’m proud of you,” he said.

A cackle rang out from above. I looked up. The seagull still followed, the sun shining translucent through its wings, like a white kite giving into the wind.

“It’s your call, Mel. Should we turn around and head back home to Wisconsin early or on to Pickerel Cove, our first campsite?”

A pair of loons crossed the bay with their puffball babies by their sides. A mama merganser paddled past giving her babies a ride on her back. Two blue herons flew overhead.

And there was Dad and me. Floating on this moving stage. The next act was up to me. 

I thought about the blisters on my heels, the taunting seagull, and that small greenstone, safe in my pocket.

“I don’t suppose we can call for helicopter pick up,” I said, recalling the killer mountain portage.

He shook his head. “No cell phone.”

I wrapped my fingers around the paddle’s throat, the curve of the wood fitting snugly into the palm of my hand. “I’m not going to bail on you now, Dad. We haven’t seen any wolves, or moose yet, or that Ryan Island.” “Besides, what about nature’s plan? Start slow, finish big?”

Dad smiled wide and I saw myself smiling back in the reflection of his sunglasses. He looked skyward. “Speaking of big –” Charcoal, flat-bottomed cloud-mountains blew overhead out of nowhere. “Storm’s coming. Keep your eyes open for a place to land.” 

The wind shifted. A streak of light opened the sky. White caps chased past us across the lake, rising higher on the gunwale. The spray from my paddle wet my jeans. I tried not to look down at the white tipped fingers reaching up to grab me. The heavy air smelled moist. But the small isthmus lay not too far off, straight ahead. I gathered my frayed nerves and wrung them out.

“Dad, over by the rocks, we can land there.” A patch of pink Lady Slippers stood out like safety flags against the rocky background of the shore. I pulled the water hard against the back of the paddle, forgetting to count.  Dad’s motions matched mine, and we shot forward toward land.

BIOGRAPHY:

Rosanne Lindsay is a writer of children’s fiction, a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI), and an environmentalist, working to protect fragile wetlands near her home in Fitchburg, Wisconsin. She and her husband recently introduced their three children to the beauty of Isle Royale National Park to experience nature on nature’s terms.