A Note to the Reader The gang lost their chance to to catch a plane out of Ontario. Now Crazy Dog’s come through for them once again. They hope he’ll help them all get home. But is it a forlorn hope?

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Thirty-Two

 
The outboard roared along at full throttle, running south before a freshening breeze. Ed and Brenna’s Old Town XL Tripper tugged at the tow line, darting back and forth in the Rupert House canoe’s wake. Every few seconds the motor canoe’s bow would slam into a wave, throwing a rooster-tail of salty spray back along its twenty-four-foot length. Crazy Dog shouted to make himself heard above the noise: “We been lucky wit’ the weather so far. But ‘less I miss my guess, that’s gonna change real soon now.”

Ed looked around. An overcast sky mirrored the leaden water of James Bay, the only evidence of land a faint charcoal smudge on the horizon to the right, far beyond the endless expanse of foreshore flats. A rich stench of decay rose from the newly uncovered mud. Ed wanted to say something to Brenna about “the perfume of the flats,” but just then the boat slid over the crest of a big roller. The prop lifted clear of the water, and his words were drowned out by a tortured whine. By the time they were in the trough of the wave, the joke didn’t seem so funny.

They were all traveling light now, their personal gear limited to rucksacks and whatever else they could easily carry. Sergei and Pavel kept their Kalashnikovs. Ed clutched Jack’s sextant, and Brenna still had her portfolio of drawings and paintings, double wrapped against the wet. Of the rest of the gear they’d brought downriver, only the packs of sturgeon roe remained. “Best Albany River beluga,” Sergei had said as he lashed them into the canoe, pausing only long enough to tap the side of his nose and wink. “Better than an American Express card. Don’t go home without it!”

Jack was also scanning the horizon. He looked north, and he didn’t like what he saw.… Read more…

 
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.

 
Send a Comment

 
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.

 
A Note to the Reader Ed, Brenna, Sergei, and Pavel have 700 miles of hard traveling ahead of them. Meanwhile, Jack has his own ideas about the best way to bring them home. Only one thing’s certain—it’s going to be one hell of a trip!

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Thirty-One

 
Black night had followed gray day. Rain fell steadily. A shaft of light spilled from the open door of Singing Wolf’s cabin, a lone beacon in a dark and brooding landscape. The lingering stench of exhaust and raw gasoline mingled with wood smoke and hung heavily along the riverbank.

No one noticed. Crazy Dog cut the ignition. The big outboard’s loud burble stuttered and then stopped dead. Jack didn’t wait. In two strides he had climbed the shore and was throwing his arms around Ed, slapping his back and roaring out a profane greeting: “How the hell are ya?” His deep baritone seemed to dispel all the silence of the Albany River country.

“We’re fine, Jack,” Ed replied. He grinned. “Just fine. But you’re a sight for sore eyes all the same.”

Jack stepped back and looked his friend up and down. Ed was filthy, and the stubble of a new beard covered his face, but he didn’t seem to be missing any important bits. Then Brenna shot out from the shadows and rushed forward to hug Jack, nearly knocking him off his feet in the process.

“Hold hard, there, girl!” Jack bellowed, surprised to feel tears gathering in his eyes. “I’m just a sentimental old fool,” he thought, but all he said to Brenna was “Real good to see ya!” And then he held her at arm’s length and inspected her, too.

“You’re a man of mystery, Jack,” Brenna said, returning his gaze. “How in the name of all that’s holy did you ever find us?”

Jack only laughed and kissed her cheek. “All in good time, girl,” he said. “All in good time.” Then he saw two figures standing quietly in the dark. Sergei and Pavel. He noticed their Kalashnikovs, too. Concern drove joy from his face. He turned back to Ed. “Introduce me to yer friends, will ya?” he asked, in a voice that didn’t sound at all friendly.… Read more…

 
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.

 
Send a Comment

 
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.

 
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…

 
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.

 
Send a Comment

 
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.