Alone at 90 Foot

Praise for Katherine Holubitsky's first novel,
A
LONE AT
N
INETY
F
OOT
“Holubitsky has successfully caught the nuances of
adolescent life with its mercurial highs and lows.”
Canadian Annual Book Review
“...readers will find themselves relating to and
caring about the realistically drawn characters...
a good choice for reluctant readers.”
VOYA
“
...deals with complex issues with great honesty...
a wonderful book.”
The Observer
“Holubitsky shows real talent for writing about the world
of teens and the slow road to emotional healing.”
KLIATT
“This finely crafted storyline is interwoven with themes of
death, suicide, mean-spirited peers, survivor guilt and
relationships without being preachy or heavy-handed.”
ABA Pick of the Lists
“An impressive life-like portrait...authentic
and insightful.”
Publishers Weekly
“...a novel to watch come awards time.”
The Georgia Straight
“...a Salinger-like ear for adolescent speech.”
Quill & Quire

ALONE AT NINETY FOOT

KATHERINE HOLUBITSKY

Copyright © 2001 Katherine Holubitsky
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any
information storage or retrieval system now known or to be
invented without permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
Holubitsky, Katherine, 1955 –
Alone at Ninety Foot
ISBN 1-55143-204-8
I. Title.
PS8565.O645A73 2001 jC813'.54 C2001–910543–6
PZ.H74278A1 2001
First Published in 1999.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:
98-83008
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for
our publishing programs provided by the following agencies:
The Government of Canada through the Book Publishing
Industry Development Program (BPIDP), The Canada Council
for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.
Cover design by Christine Toller
Cover illustration by Ljuba Levstek
Printed and bound in Canada

IN CANADA:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4

IN THE UNITED STATES:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468

01 00 99   5 4 3 2 1

For Jeff,
with love
and especially for Max and Paul

May 25th

My name is Pamela Mary Collins. I am fourteen years old and I am lying on the white rock, suntanning, down by Ninety Foot. I should be in English class but Mr. Bartell was picking on me again and I didn't want to see his face. Besides, I just need to be alone.

I am lying very still with my eyes closed against the sun. I feel like I am melting in my gym shorts, turning liquid, blending, baking into the surface of the granite, becoming part of it. And in time, if I lie here long enough, the mountain junipers will crack
me open and work their way through me. They will bring the soil from out of me and root themselves, right here, next to Ninety Foot.

Ninety Foot is this natural pool in Lynn Creek, which runs through Lynn Canyon. It is called that because of the sheer rock walls that rise ninety feet high on either side of it. Down here where I am, at the bottom of the gorge, the water is clear and green and it is cold. So cold, it is painful. It also moves amazingly fast because just before Ninety Foot the canyon narrows. Massive volumes of surging water have to squeeze through a slim gap in the rocks.

Lynn Creek begins as snowmelt high up in the mountains north of Vancouver. It mixes with rainfall and tumbles down the mountain. It crashes through the rainforest. It thunders into this canyon. It pounds against the polished granite, exploding from pool to pool. And if you're not used to it, I mean the rushing and the thundering and the violence of it all, it can be frightening.

But I am used to it. I have been coming to Lynn Canyon Park all my life. I can't see it from where I am, but the suspension bridge crosses the gorge about a quarter-mile down the canyon. And a long way past that is a smaller wooden bridge that crosses the creek just above the water. It's a bit out of the way, but when I want to get to the other side of the gorge, that's the route I take.

I used to cross the suspension bridge. When I was young and we were on it alone, my mom and I would stop in the middle. Lynn Creek was a thousand miles below us, cutting its way through the rock as it has for a zillion or whatever years. I used to feel sort of invincible swaying in the air above it. Like I was capable of anything. Like I could even fly up there with the peregrine falcons. Sometimes I scared myself by thinking that I might try. Right away, my knees would go weak and I'd grip tighter to the cable railing. Once, I told my mom what I was feeling. She said I shouldn't worry. It was just my flight of fancy testing my common sense. My common sense would always win out.

It is a dangerous place though. And many people have died here. People have jumped from the bridge. One girl was killed while suntanning. Much like I'm doing right now. Out of the blue, a giant boulder bounced down the cliff and crushed her. Drunken teenagers have hopped the chain-link fence and fallen into the gorge. People have drowned, held beneath the surface by powerful currents. Right here in Ninety Foot pool. Murdered bodies have been found rotting alongside the fallen cedars, tangled in ferns and vines. Then there were some who just walked up the mountain and were never seen again.

But I like it here. When I was in grade seven, we studied the art of Emily Carr. We went to see her
paintings at the Vancouver Art Gallery. Back then I didn't think they looked very real. They were all so, like, dark and haunting. The earth heaved up and the skies hung down. And the trees swelled like purple waves. They were not straight lines and triangles like I thought trees in the forest should be.

I have sat here for many hours since then and I think I understand why she did them like that. She was giving them life by painting them as if they were moving. The forest, the sky, the water — even the rocks seemed to move.

But what I remember more than her paintings was something our teacher read from her journals. About how when you sit in a forest everything appears still. But it isn't really. If you listen and watch closely, life is happening everywhere around you. It's only that the growth happens so slowly that you can't see it. Like seeds popping open and leaves unfurling and insects burrowing under the soil. In silence, life keeps raging on.

I guess that's why I like to come here. I never feel lonely. I've tried to get the same feeling sitting quietly in my room. But nothing ever grows in there. Except, as my dad would say, the pile of laundry in the corner and the dust bunnies under my bed.

“They could hold their own against a pack of grayhounds,” he says.

My friends — and believe me, I don't have many
— think I'm a hermit coming to sit down here by myself. I've tried to explain how nice it can be just to sit in the quiet of the forest. They look at me like I've grown a beard or something, so I don't mention it anymore.

Like I said, I don't have many friends. But then, that's nothing new. I never have. When I was little, my mom was my best friend. I'm an only child. I did have a sister once — for eight months when I was nine. Her name was April. I don't remember very much about her except that she was always wet. They used to tell me how much she looked like me when I was a baby. I didn't see the resemblance. I have one picture with us together. I am squinting into the sun, holding her on the swing in our backyard. She is hidden behind giant sunglasses. I remember when that picture was taken. I was ticked off because she was wet, and even though Mom knew it, she was forcing me to sit there while she took the picture. She thought it was the most adorable thing she'd ever seen. Yeah, right. A pee-soaked lap is truly adorable. Then two days later April died of sudden infant death syndrome. It's called SIDS for short and it's when a baby just stops breathing.

When I was very little, before April, Mom used to take me for walks on the far side of the
canyon. We'd cross the suspension bridge and follow the old logging trails partway up the mountain, picking salmon- and huckleberries along the way. We both wore silver bells to scare away the black bears. We never actually saw any, but we stepped over plenty of droppings full of seeds. So we knew they were there. Of course, I imagined I saw them. Or at least their shadows darting with the light among the Douglas fir. But then, I imagined I saw a lot of things. I imagined I saw ghostly creatures rising from the fallen cedars. And I imagined evil beasts crouching in the hollows, waiting to pounce on little girls.

Mom would break off root licorice from the moss that grows on the vine maples and peel it for me to try. I didn't think it tasted much like licorice. But then, I also didn't think the yellow skunk cabbage smelt like a skunk. In fact, I thought it was quite a beautiful plant and didn't think it deserved such an offensive name. Almost every time, Mom would make a new discovery. Once she found a tiny sprig of wild holly and you'd think she'd won a billion dollars.

Mom taught me how to make wreathes and ornamental trees with the pine cones we collected. She also taught me how to bead. When I was six, I heard the bell for school when I was still half a block away. I don't know why, I guess because I've
always been shy and I didn't want everyone looking at me when I walked in late, but I turned around and ran home. Mom didn't even get mad. When the school called, she told them I had stomach cramps. I would be there after lunch. Then she taught me how to bead a simple bracelet. We didn't talk about it, but it was like we were partners or something that morning.

I got pretty good at beading. I do fairly intricate patterns now. I've made a lot of jewelry and belts and some purses. Not too long ago, I beaded the neckline of a plain white blouse.

I have another hobby too. Whenever I go anywhere, I like to bring back a living piece of the place I've been. So I collect water or, where there is none, unusual stones, flowers or even soil. I keep them in April's baby-food jars. It's quite amazing how many mushy peas and carrots a kid can eat in just eight months. But the jars are just the right size.

I have water from The Lost Sea, this cool lake deep in the caves outside Knoxville, Tennessee, where my uncle lives. I have a jar of the Atlantic Ocean, which tastes the same as the Pacific. I have white sand from Sanibel Island, which is off the coast of Florida. We went there three years ago for Christmas holidays. I have red earth from Red Rock Park near Medicine Hat. And I have lots of local ones too, like a crumbled sand dollar from
Cates Park and an arbutus leaf from Lighthouse Park. But those aren't nearly so exotic. Those were the first I collected.

I like these scraps of nature. More than pictures. Pictures are flat and dead and become dated so you get bored looking at them. It is the smells and the tastes and the feel of a place that makes it a part of you.

I stayed with my aunt and uncle for two weeks after April died. Mom was in the hospital and Dad was forever working. He's an accountant. When he was at home, he was visiting Mom.

After she came home, it was a long time before we walked in Lynn Canyon again. When we did, Mom wasn't nearly as much fun as she was before April. She didn't look around, but walked straight ahead, with her eyes on the path. Dad said she had trouble concentrating and was depressed about April. But so was I.

Emily Carr says, “Nothing is dead. Not even a corpse. It moves into the elements when the spirit has left.”

I told this to Mom, thinking it might make her feel better about April. But she just kept on peeling carrots. I'm not even sure she heard me.