Unfolding by Jonathan Friesen

Author:Jonathan Friesen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blink
Published: 2017-01-11T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

The old man disappeared outside, shutting the door behind him.

“The Hive. So, are we bees now? What does that mean?” Arthur spoke to no one in particular.

“Bees work.” I stood and stared around the room. I’d not planned well for an extended trip.

Outside of my ill-fated sojourn to the Mayo Clinic, this registered as the longest I’d been away from home. Well, aside from April’s Boundary Waters fiasco.

Oddly, the only pleasure trip I’d taken had also sent me north, way north, up through Wisconsin, creeping west to Minnesota, ending a stone’s throw from Canada. There, you find the Boundary Waters, aptly named as they form the watery barrier between us and the Canucks.

I had no will to camp, but Ma looked online and located a Boundary Waters expedition specifically for epileptics. Strange, my warped spine had dominated early teen-hood forming the misshapen trajectory of my life and dominating Ma’s concern. But when Old Rickety moved upstairs, my back and its limitations were often forgotten. Which is the only excuse I can think of for sending me alongside eight able-bodied campers and a doctor for a ten-day canoe trip.

There was little in Oklahoma to compare to the Boundary Waters. Oh, the Ozarks has its share of lakes and streams, but the sheer volume of water, the pristine quality of the Boundary Waters—you could drink straight from the lakes without worry of amoebas—this was unheard of, and I admit, climbing into the canoe, I thought it: who knew Minnesotans and Canadians had a corner on heaven?

Five minutes in, I discovered that heaven carries a steep price. With a sixty-pound Duluth pack strapped to my twisted back, we prepared for the Grand Portage, a mile-long hike through the forest, during which we’d be hauling all we owned. Our goal was to achieve the next lake.

My fellow campers were an odd collection, bound only by the sickness dormant in our minds. Three girls, two of whom displayed a radiant kind of beauty, were among our number, and pride set in, a disastrous visitor for the feeble.

“Yeah, I can carry a pack and a canoe.”

This was the line that did me in. To my credit, I managed for half a mile. Hunched forward, I carried the canoe upside down—an oversize captain’s hat concealing my head—stabilized by shaking hands. Aching shoulders felt the weight of the crossbar, but the unusual hunched position provided a strange relief to my lumbar.

At the midpoint I reached a summit, glanced down at a treacherous path, and met Old Rick. He took me at the top, flinging me forward. I do not recall the tumble, and in fact have but flimsy memories of the next two days. That I fell is certain, as Kylie, the prettiest of our group, snapped a photo of me laying face-first at the bottom of the hill, my body eclipsed by canoe, arms stretched out on either side.

Dr. Medroni forced me to sleep in his tent for the remainder of the trip, like a needy child requiring constant observation.

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