Camp Wild (3 page)

“Herbie, buddy, extra rations for you,” I say cheerfully, dropping it on his plate.

“No thanks,” he says glumly, stirring a spoon listlessly in his oatmeal.

Wait a second. What's wrong with this picture? I'm the glum guy; he's always Mr. Happy.

“What's up? Got up on the wrong side of your bunk?” Not technically possible, but hey, I'm being real nice this morning ‘cause in just hours I'll never share a bunk with him again.

“Got toilet-cleaning duty today, and Patrick won't let me trade. What'd you draw?”

“K.P. Want me to snitch some chocolate bars for you?” Getting kitchen patrol is like winning the lottery at Camp Wild. Even though it means scrubbing pots for an hour, it also means potential access to the pantry's box of chocolate bars. Never mind that Cook makes you whistle the whole time you are in the pantry. (That way you can't stuff anything in your mouth.) She also checks
your pockets when you come out. But the best-informed campers know she does not check socks or hats.

Toilet-cleaning duty, on the other hand, is losing the lottery. Poor old Herb. I watch him frown and shake his head.

“Flag time,” Patrick announces in his booming voice as he stands at the front of the room. I silently order the moose antlers on the wall above him to fall on his skull, but they don't cooperate. So I file out behind Herb to where two juniors are proudly unfolding the flag and getting ready to run it up the pole. Did I do stupid stuff like this a few years ago? Do my parents really think I am still a kid? Are their careers really so much more interesting than their own offspring?

I try to regain my cheerfulness by reminding myself that tonight, the minute Herb starts snoring, I'll be turning tail on this poor excuse for a daycare
center. I can paddle down to the rapids by moonlight, hide in the woods till dawn and be into the canyon before tomorrow's bugle blows. I'm figuring on a waterfall portage by sundown tomorrow. After that, I'll set up my hideaway on the lake. I'll get fresh water from the creeks that run into it, and I'll make myself a nifty lean-to. The only classes I'll attend are sleeping in, sunbathing, swimming and fishing. Someone will find me eventually, of course, no matter how well I hide the canoe. But I'll have my fun until they do, and my parents will get the point. For a couple of days, maybe even longer, I'll be an explorer, Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Boone, whatever.

“Patrick has turned mean,” Herb interrupts my daydream as flag time wraps up, and we drift back toward our cabin.

“Patrick, the guy you like so much?” I dig.

“Yeah, he made me spend an hour this morning cleaning up our cabin. Said we need to set a better example for the juniors.”

“How come he didn't haul me in to help?”

“‘Cause you'd snuck off somewhere, as usual. Then Cook caught me swiping a cinnamon bun before breakfast. For punishment, she made me wash dishes.”

“This surprises you?”

“I tried telling her that they don't give us enough food at this camp, and she calls Patrick in. He lectures me in front of all the little kids lined up for breakfast, and they start laughing and calling me fat. What a bunch of brats. They're all Patrick really cares about. It's no fun being the only seniors, is it?”

“You're being very negative about Camp Wild,” I can't resist digging some more.

“And the classes are getting boring.”

What? Is this Herb Green, my insufferable cabin mate, or has his evil double just walked onstage? I shrug and look at him more closely.

“Hey, let's skip out of archery and go skip rocks on the river,” Herb suggests.

I'm shocked, awed, impressed. “Sure.” I'm such a good-hearted guy that, half an hour later, I even let him win a couple of times. Never mind that I'm capable of launching pebbles that hovercraft all the way to the other side of the river.

“I don't want to do toilet cleaning. Why should we have to do chores when we pay for the rotten experience of being stuck here for two weeks? This place sucks.”

Whoa. Boy Scout poster-boy has turned in his badge. I'm amused. “So what was your first clue?”

“Look, I know you don't like me, Wilf, but you know I can canoe. In fact, I've had way more whitewater experience than you, so you need me if you're heading
downriver to get away from this place. Let me go with you.”

My jaw feels like a support piece has just fallen out. “What're you talking about, Herb?”

“The big food stash under the floorboards in our cabin. The little notebook with a list of all the supplies you've been stealing or hiding. And especially the canoe and paddle you've stashed in the bushes downstream of camp.”

I rub my chin, struggling to come up with a clever response. Sadly, I produce nothing but silence and sweat.

“You hate the place, and you've been planning an escape for days. I'm not as dumb as you think, Wilf. I can report this to Patrick and Claire, or you can take me with you. Choose wisely, cabin mate.” He turns and studies me, evil eyes unblinking.

“I don't have enough food for two.” I say. I feel panic start to set in.

“You're on K.P. today. That'll make it easy, Wilf. Anyway, between us, we'll have plenty by tomorrow. And from what Claire said, no one would dare follow us downstream. They'll probably drive to that lake and paddle across it, hoping to catch us there. We can be hiding in the woods by then. I suggest leaving tomorrow night.”

A turkey vulture's squawk from a branch above startles me. Is it laughing at me or signaling that someone may be eavesdropping nearby? I survey the woods around us and satisfy myself that we're otherwise alone. I feel like a cornered animal, but I'm working it all out fast. He can canoe. I have K.P. today. Tomorrow night is only one day past a full moon. Most importantly, I can ditch him after we've escaped. To do that, though, I'll need to persuade him to paddle his own canoe. I nod slowly, extend a hand to Herb. We shake hands. He follows me to a shed near the canoe house.

“Last year, the camp bought a bunch of new double canoes,” I tell him. “To make room for them in the boathouse, they dumped a couple of the oldest solos in this shed. It's locked, but there's a hole in the back wall we can fit through. The hole's big enough to get the canoes out too. That's how I got the canoe I've hidden. It'll take them longer to notice two stolen singles from here than a double from the boathouse. Are you okay with that?”

“Sure, I like paddling solo,” Herb says.

“Don't forget to grab a wetsuit, helmet and two paddles,” I say as we climb through the hole. “A spare paddle is important.”

“Charlie, you're coming out of the eddy at nine o'clock. I said eleven o'clock, or you won't get across the river without getting swept down.”

I'm referring, of course, not to the time, but the angle of his kayak bow as it crosses the upstream/downstream line of current just off shore. Luckily, he's a smart kid (not just a smart-ass kid). He
adjusts his eddy exit technique and works his little biceps on the sweep stroke till he's sitting pretty on the far side of the river.

“Nice going, buddy,” Claire calls out approvingly. “See, everyone? That was a perfect example of a ferry. Who's next?”

Herb and I glance at our watches. We're being model campers and class helpers today, and why wouldn't we be, with only five hours to go before departure time?

“Charlie,” I direct as he strokes the water impatiently across the river, waiting for another turn. “See that big flat rock in the middle of the river? I'm going to purposely brush its upstream side on the way over to you. I want you to watch how I lean hard downstream onto it to prevent my canoe from getting stuck against it or tipping. Remember, kids, how we talked about that safety maneuver? Charlie, try it after me to show the others how it works
in a kayak, okay? We're all right here if you have problems.”

That lights up his little face. The second I've finished my demonstration, he shoots out of his eddy like a torpedo. Of course, he leans downstream too early and flips over. But like a battery-operated toy, he rolls and pops back up almost faster than the water can get his face wet. His boat washes neatly around the rock. The kid is hot in a kayak, even if he can be really irritating.

“Good stuff, Charlie,” Claire says. “Okay, kids. It's five o'clock. Quitting time.” As the other juniors pump to shore, I watch Charlie work his way back upstream and attack the rock again. He gets it right this time. He's a determined little cuss.

As soon as Claire, Herb and I have made sure all the equipment is back on its racks, Claire turns and blocks our way out of the boathouse door.

“Guys, you've been a real help with the kids. The other instructor is back tomorrow, so you can go back to being just campers. But I really hope you decide to do the junior counselor thing next summer. You're both naturals.”

“Thanks,” Herb replies, blinking big-time.

“You never know,” I say, unable to meet those hazel eyes and long lashes. “It's been real, anyway.” Like,
real tempting to ask you out and real humiliating being a camper
.

Five hours later, Herb and I pull on our wetsuits and pack the stuff we've filched from supper into a waterproof bag. I sling it over my shoulder as we slink out the cabin door. Everything's dark and quiet, save for where the moon shines. And the moon doesn't shine on the route we pick to our hidden canoes. Nor does the turkey vulture call out as
two canoes slip silently into the inky water. With one last glance behind us, we whisper good riddance to the kiddie kingdom in the woods. Here we come, real adventure.

“Ever paddle by moonlight before?” Herb whispers fifteen minutes later, as we draw up beside one another in the gentle current.

“Nope. Have you?” I ask, one eye on the black water ahead.

“Yes, when my parents and I were late getting to our takeout point one day. It's fun when there are no rapids, at least until the moon goes behind a cloud.”

I study the big white eye in the sky and notice how mottled its luminescent surface is. A cloud scuttles across its lower face, hiding what seems for a second like a smirk.

“You canoe a lot with your parents?”

“Since I was too young to remember,” Herb replies. “But they never let me do
any big whitewater. They're total control freaks and still treat me like I'm a kid.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Your parents are overprotective?”

“No, the opposite. They're always finding ways to get rid of me so they can fit in a few more hours of work. They haven't figured out that I've grown up while they've been busy being workaholics.”

“So that's why you hate Camp Wild? ‘Cause they dump you here?”

“Something like that.”

“How often have you canoed river rapids?”

“Spent two intense weeks in a whitewater canoeing course my parents signed me up for. I can handle the canyon coming up, if that's what you're asking.”
I hope, anyway.

We both jump as a splash sounds nearby. Herb flicks his flashlight on just in time to see a tail disappear.

“River otter,” he observes. “Listen.”

My ears perk up. I can hear fast moving water. I can feel the canoe picking up speed. I reach out, draw a wide sweep stroke and begin pumping for shore. Herb is several strokes ahead of me. Everything happens fast after that. A cloud blots out the moon. I hear Herb leap into the water and haul his boat up to shore with a giant heave. Then, just as I realize I've missed the last easy eddy to catch, I hear a splash and feel my canoe being hauled to safety by Herb's shadowy figure.

Okay, I take it back. He's not geeky and lumpy and useless. Well, he is, but not when there's a canoe in the vicinity. As we hide the canoes and bed down in the dark forest, I secretly decide not to ditch him till we're through the whitewater.

“Wilf?” he says as I'm drifting off to sleep.

“Yeah?”

“This is fun. I'm glad you decided to run away.”

“Uh huh. Good night, Herb.” Thankfully, no bunk bed shakes as he turns over and starts snoring.

“Herb, wake up.” The dew is so heavy on his sleeping bag that my hand gets wet shaking him. He sits upright. His sleepy eyes take in the dawn. Mickey Mouse confirms that it's nearly six AM.

“Got to get into the canyon before anyone figures out we're gone,” I urge. “I don't think they'll follow us past the canyon entrance.”

“I agree,” he says groggily.

We munch on some chocolate bars and drink heavily from our water bottles. We pack up our gear and stow it, carefully balanced, in our canoes. We've divided the food supplies between us in case one of us tips and loses his boat. I shiver in the weak morning light as I don my wetsuit and scout the first rapid. No big deal. Just a little maneuvering, I decide.

I lash the extra paddle in place and mutely apologize to Camp Wild for taking off with all this equipment. But hey, it'll all be back on the racks soon. Anyway, I'm a paying customer at the camp, just on a sort of “independent study program” at the moment.

Herb is coiling his rescue rope into its special bag and placing it within easy reach. I wanted to do this trip alone, but for the moment, I'm vaguely glad of his presence.

We push off and suddenly, I'm too busy to think of anything but how to keep my canoe upright and undented. River boulders start coming at us like a horizontal meteor shower. J-stroke, sweep, crossbow. Sweep, draw, breathe. For half an hour, we slalom through the rock gardens, too distracted to enjoy their beauty. There's an occasional bang or scrape in shallow stretches, but no one is getting stuck or tipped or panicked, yet. The rescue ropes lie unused. My confidence is building. This is the life, I decide, pitting oneself against nature. I watch the sun rise over three-storey trees. Down the shore, startled deer raise their antlered heads and bound away. A silver arch flashes ahead, a fish longer than my arm. Cool. An eagle's white plumage catches my eye as it tilts overhead like a small plane signaling hello.