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 hear 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!