A Note to the Reader Ed, Brenna, and their unlikely companions have been attracting a lot of attention as they travel down the Albany River. Now they’re cooped up in a tiny fisherman’s shack, while Jack heads upriver on a fool’s errand. Or is it?

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Thirty

 
Crazy Dog felt the dank air buffet his face. The roar of the motor deafened him, but he wasn’t so deaf that he didn’t hear the rhythmic crash of the Rupert House canoe’s broad bow as it smashed into the big Albany River waves. He couldn’t see much, however. The river was blanketed by thick fog. But it was still his river, and he didn’t need to see a great deal to know where he was. Every now and then, a bigger wave than most sent bucketsful of icy water splashing over the bows, and each time it happened he laughed out loud. “Crazy Dog” or not, it wasn’t the laugh of a madman. It was an expression of pure joy. He was where he belonged, doing what he did best. And that was enough.

The old man with the long white hair whom he’d agreed to take upriver seemed to understand. Not too many other people did—not even when they’d known him all his life. A few did, though. Father Blair, for one. The Anglican priest understood. Crazy Dog was sure of that. His mother did, too. Neither of them had ever called him by anything but his Christian name: Adam. Adam Beauchamp. But his mother’d been dead for years, and he didn’t have much to do with Father Blair. Crazy Dog hadn’t needed any help finding God for a mighty long time. He found Him every time he went out on the water. Funnily enough, Father Blair seemed to understand that, too.

But to almost everyone else in Fort Albany, Adam was Crazy Dog. When storms drove other men off the water, drove them to find what comfort they could in whiskey and women, Crazy Dog just shrugged his shoulders and went out to haul his nets. Then, when winter stilled the river and locked up the margins of the Bay, Crazy Dog strapped on his snowshoes and pulled a narrow sled along the newly-frozen, serpentine highway. He didn’t keep any dogs and he didn’t have a Ski-Doo, but he seldom missed a meal. And he didn’t have any payments to make, either. He liked that.

Crazy? Well, he admitted to himself, maybe he was. Just a little. There were days when he’d have liked to have a woman waiting for him in a warm house. Days when satellite TV and a cold beer would have looked mighty good. But the water was his true home. Whatever else they said, everybody agreed that he was one of the best boatmen on the Bay. The latest in a long line of Métis watermen. The last, probably.

Now he was taking this old man, this white man from Outside, up the river, on some goddamn wild goose chase, looking for a couple of missing tourists. Of course, the old man wasn’t just anybody. He was Sea Eagle… Read more…

 

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Hooked? A new chapter in our serial adventure novel, Trip of a Lifetime, will appear every Sunday. If you’ve missed a chapter, or if you’re coming aboard for the first time and want to catch up, just use the hot-linked title to go to the archives.

 
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A REMINDER This is a work of fiction. All the characters are figments of the imaginations. It’s NOT a paddling guide. If you’re planning a trip on the Albany River—or any other body of water, come to that—consult the most recent edition of a good guidebook and be sure you’re thoroughly familiar with all applicable regulations. While maps of Ontario show some of the waterways mentioned here, the places depicted in our story exist only in our minds—and in yours.