The other night Theo requested that I tell him a story rather than read a story to him at bedtime. I do not like this request. I have trouble coming up with a story and it usually ends up rather dumb. But then he told me to tell him a story from my real life. That's easier. I told him a tale that got him giggling and I thought I better record this one before it slips out of memory and is gone forever. I hope that old Andrew Robbins can corroborate the truth of this tale.
Back in the summer of 1992 I was one year out of college. I had spent the previous 8 summers working in some fashion at Camp St. Croix. Most of those summers found me out on 'trail'- leading groups of girls on canoe trips down the Nam, the Chippewa, the Flambeau, and of course, the Croix. But the summer of 1991 found me tied to a desk out at camp, serving as the program coordinator. I didn't like it. I promised myself that the next summer I would find more time to be outside, in the woods.
So here we are in May 1992. Somehow I've found myself signed on to a crew who are going to rent a van and head to the Yukon. The Yukon. Why not the rockies?? First sign of trouble. The group existed of all St. Croix alumni- all male, except me. Four of us piled into the van in early June and headed North. Our final member couldn't join us until early July- we were going to pick him up from a ferry in Haines, Alaska after we had completed a loop our two out in the mountains.
To tell the tale of this whole trip would take forever. There are endless memories- creek crossings where the sound of boulders clunking downstream in the turbulent current could be heard far far away; sitting at dinner for hours, the sun still high in the sky, not getting up until every last noodle was eaten; seeing the footprints of grizzlies in the mud; singing songs to scare away said bears- Rockin' Robin can get stuck in one's head for days. But here are three so-called highlights that gave Theo the chuckles.
1. We needed to pick up John O in Haines. We were to meet his ferry mid-afternoon. We spent the morning hiking up a small mountain and sitting in the sun overlooking the bay and the ocean beyond, watching bald eagles in the throes of their mating ritual- flying high in the air, clasping talons with a hopeful mate-to-be and then spiraling downward in a death-defying stunt, then releasing and soaring upward again. After this Mutual of Omaha morning, the four of us (Andrew, Andy, Steve, and I) found a local pizza joint and settled in for some non-campfire food. Only Steve never made it into the restaurant. He was out in the parking lot tearing apart our van, looking for lost traveller's checks. Andy, Andrew and I munched away, casting glances outside, keeping tabs on the van destruction. After finishing we went out to find Steve in a state of high anxiety. This was similar to his normal state, but we could tell that the agitation was more severe...he couldn't find them...we needed them...the only way to get them was to go to the bank....in the next town....there were no roads to this town....one had to go by boat or plane....he had chartered a small plane....was leaving in a half hour..... The three of us eyed each other, realized there was no way to talk him down, packed up the van and brought him to the airfield. It was then that we realized we had a little time before John's ferry arrived. Andrew convinced us that John would do something to embarass us as he got off the ferry, we had to beat him to the punch. So Andy suggested we dress as mimes. And that we shouldn't come out of character until Steve returned, whenever that may be. So we tooled around Haines, the cutest little port town I've seen, looking for white face paint. It was not easy to find and I can't remember where we finally procured it. But we did. We painted our faces and dug out the darkest clothes we had along. Andy then tried to teach Andrew and I some popping moves- he was quite the accomplished breakdancer. It was 1992. Andrew and I were pathetic. We decided to stick to the old mime standby- the box. We were good at that. So- we went and parked at the ferry dock and took up our place in the small crowd awaiting the arrival of the boat. Andy was in breakdancing heaven. Andrew and I made small boxes. People pretended we weren't there.
Then the boat arrives. We gear up for the grand performance. We are good. John finally comes down the gangplank, saunters up, looks us over like he is considering throwing us a coin. Then he reaches under his shirt and pulls a few ripcords. He has smuggled off not one, but two, inflatable life vests and has them under his clothes. Upon ripcord pullage, he inflates mightily. We break character to chortle, but only for a minute. It is then that John realizes that Steve is not with us. He asks, for the first of many many times, where he is. We shrug and make like we are flying. We do that all the way to the campground, through dinner prep, and nearly to bedtime. It is then that Steve shuffles into the campsite, new checks in hand. We say hi to John. The next morning, as we are packing up for our next loop, Steve finds the old checks tucked into a pocket of his backpack.
2. When backpacking the rule is to leave most stuff behind. We were not the crew to break our toothbrushes in half to save a few ounces, but we tried to be minimalistic. Only Andrew and John O were not to be trusted. The stuff they had in the van was endless and silly. One could never be sure what would find its way into a backpack. One of these things was a large battlion of those little red and black plastic army guys. I quickly learned that if I was sharing a tent with either of these guys it was never wise to fall asleep first. If you did- you undoubtedly would wake up with a battle recreated on your sleeping bag, your arms, your face.
3. Another little thing they just could not leave behind was the head of a ventriliquist dummy, named Benny. Benny had started the trip whole, with a flimsly little body. But somewhere on the Al-Can highway Benny had been swinging in a campground swing, next to some innocent little 5 year old on a trip with his family. Andrew pushed him too hard and Benny launched from the swing, flew magistically through the air, and somehow became detached from his body. His head landed with a thud that probably still echoes in that 5 year old's dreams. Anyway, that suited Andrew and John fine, Benny's head was much more packable than his whole body. So one day, round about day 5 of an 8 day loop, we come to a creek. It is not easy to cross and Steve slips off a rock or a log or something and gets a quick dousing. Loses his favorite walking stick. This does not make him happy. We get to the other side and he stops to check the map. He checks the compass. Map. Compass. Map. Then he whips them both angrily to the ground and stomps around. Apparently we are lost. The rest of us sheepishly pick up the cast off materials, give it a look and agree. Lost. Steve stomps. Swears. Asks us what we should do. John has been waiting for this. He slips off his pack, grabs out Benny, places the head on a long stick and slowly, carefully raises Benny to the sky. He then turns Benny left, right, left again. He lowers Benny to ear level, has a whispered conversation and says, "Benny says this way!" He points into the the trees and sets off. Andrew, Andy, and I follow, trying desperately to keep our chuckles under cover. Steve stays, still steaming. If he could get his hands on Benny, Benny would be gone, chucked into the creek full force. But he can't get Benny, Benny is up ahead, still on the stick, back up in the air, looking left, looking right.
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