They Almost Always Come Home (25 page)

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They Almost Always Come Home

He eyed the filled and frosted long johns. Couldn’t help chuckling. He almost had “filled and frosted” his long johns on the winter camping trip with his boys—then probably ten and eleven—when the wolf pack wandered into their terri- tory, or vice versa. Northern Wisconsin gray wolves lost their endangered species status, huh? Plenty of them. Is that right? How lucky for the Holden family.

The wolves lost interest. Eventually. The boys stuck to Greg like leeches the rest of the weekend. Had he ever admitted that his fear level matched—if not exceeded—theirs? Wild animals. Fascinating, but unpredictable.

“Never underestimate the beauty of predictability.” “What’s that you say?” the bakery woman asked. “Two chocolate frosted long johns, please. Unfilled.” “That it? You want coffee?”

“You have coffee?”

“By the cup or the gallon. We’ll fill your Thermos or can- teen, if you want.”

“Great. That’s new.”

She dropped two portions of bakery heaven into a white waxed paper bag. “New?”

“Free coffee. I’ve stayed here before. Under the old management.”

“Did I say anything about free?” Her mouth puckered and her eyebrows drew up into the folds of her forehead.

He pushed aside the foot in his mouth and said, “Sorry. I—”

“Oh, don’t take life so serious, my friend.” She handed Greg the bag. “Of course it’s free. Help yourself.” She pointed toward a giant pump Thermos near the exit.

He reached into his back right pocket for his wallet. “How much for the long johns?”

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“If you were a Wilsonaire Motel guest last night, you’re enti-

tled to one free bakery item.”

“Okay. Great. And for the second one?”

She leaned over the glass display case, her ampleness resting

just above a harvest of glazed donuts. “It’s complimentary.” “Excuse me?”

“Look, mister, you gonna analyze my marketing methods

or you gonna take the loot and run?”

Greg marveled that a crazy, older-than-she-wants-to-admit

woman could lift his mood a little. The pound of flesh he’d gain from the baked goods would be worth the sacrifice.

By now, he wasn’t the only customer. Courtesy and an

eagerness to head even farther north prevented his sticking around to see how Mrs. Wilsonaire treated them. He rested his overnighter on the floor at his feet and set the white bag on the counter while he grabbed a cup of coffee—just one— and capped it with a plastic lid. He retrieved his two bags and headed out the door.

Mental note: Plan a stop at Wilsonaire Motor Lodge and

Bakery next time through. If there is a next time.

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D
awn sneaks up on a person who is locked into a track on the highway of monotony. Far off to the right of his vehicle, the horizon emerged slowly, as if the sun were suspicious of what the day might hold. The Controller of the universe cranked up the dimmer switch in tiny increments until Greg’s headlights became redundant. Another cloudless day. Swell. No clouds, no rain. No rain, no campfires. Too bad. As much as Greg respected the fire bans and their necessity, he did some of his best thinking near a campfire.

Maybe before the trip was over, the Quetico would get enough rain for the ban to be lifted. Did he dare pray for a convincing deluge? Would it be worth it? He could make a fire in the fireplace at home if he wanted to think.
Home
. The word just didn’t feel right these days.

Greg wondered what Libby would be doing at this moment— the first few minutes of dawn. Still in bed. No question. Was this—? It was. The first time the house was empty for more than a day’s stretch. Libby was alone. Completely. His boys wouldn’t drop in until the new semester started, and probably only then to show pictures of their summer’s adventure and beg their mother to do a hundred loads of laundry.

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God, I don’t know what she’ll need while I’m gone, other than

You.

How arrogant of him! To think that Libby might struggle

in the absence of her husband. As if he’d meant anything sig- nificant to her recently. She’d probably wake a couple of hours from now feeling nothing but relief.

What I am to her right now and what I want to be are polar

opposites, Lord. Any hope of a cosmic miracle while I’m gone? A little
shock-and-awe in the polarization department?

In response to the lack of a direct answer, Greg reached to

turn on the radio. An oldies station responded first to the seek feature. Two words into the song—“Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover”—Greg knew
that
was a mistake.

Seek. Elevator music. Seek. Screaming guitars and angry

drums in simultaneous seizures. Seek. “He’s always been faith- ful to me.” Sara Groves.

Better.

What am I doing? Running? Deception is hardly a desirable char-

acter trait. I should go home and tell Libby the truth.

Greg rubbed his hand over day-old whiskers. “Yeah, I can

picture how that would go.”

“Libby, can we talk?”

“Sure, my beloved. You mean the world to me. If something’s on

your mind, I’m ready to listen.”

Rewind.

“Libby, can we talk?”

“What about?”

“I . . . I need a change.”

“Change? You mean, with us?”

“With me. And us. I’m not happy.”

“You’re
not happy?”

“I know. What right do I have to feel more miserable than you

do?”

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They Almost Always Come Home

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“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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E
ager 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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They Almost Always Come Home

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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They Almost Always Come Home

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 the “back.”