A Note to the Reader When Trip of a Lifetime was originally published serially on Paddling.net in 2003, the final chapter was intended to be the end of the novel. So many readers wondered what happened to Ed, Brenna, and the rest of the gang that their story simply had to be brought to closure.. Read on.

 
Our story continues…

 
Epilogue

 
Brenna sat down at the desk. The computer monitor’s cold glow cast the only light in the room. Outside, Scapegoat Mountain towered over the wooded valley. In the deepening Montana twilight, the mountain’s massive east face was a featureless black wall, the spring-fed lake at its foot no more than an inky pool. A narrow stream flowed lazily out of the lake. High overhead, silhouetted against the cobalt-blue sky, a lone bald eagle made languid loops, following the murmuring water as it meandered through the valley.

A gentle breeze set the gingham curtain in the open window dancing. From a nearby stand of Engelmann spruce came the unmistakable churrrr of a short-tempered red squirrel. Nearer still, horses snorted and stamped.

Brenna typed: Dear Jack…

But then a spasm of pain shot up her arm. She stopped typing and closed her eyes, willing the agony to stop. Suddenly, without warning, she was back in the water…

 
She was swimming blind, forcing herself to keep going, to hang on, to ignore the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She knew only one thing now: she was going home, and she was damned if she was going to leave Ed behind.

A hand snaked over her right shoulder and across her chest. She found herself moving faster. Effortlessly. A familiar voice sounded in her ear: “It is me, Brenna.” Sergei! Together the two of them swam toward shore, tugging Ed behind them.… 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.

 
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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.

 
A Note to the Reader The gang have survived a surf landing on James Bay, and Ed has Henry Hudson’s bronze seal in his pocket. Now he and Brenna just want to get home.

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Thirty-Three

 
They waited uneasily, the broad St. Lawrence River stretching before them. Low on the western horizon, dark factory chimneys towered against the backdrop of a deep-velvet sky, fitfully illuminated by yellow-orange flares of gas. Further off, beyond the smelter’s stacks, a hazy smear of light marked the location of Aluminum City. By contrast, the riverbank behind Jack Van Dorn was a pool of shadow. On the other shore, scattered points of light were all that could be seen of the Mohawk Nation of Handsome Lake.

Jack’s eyes never left the river. He stood on the very end of Ann Laughing Deer’s wooden dock. “Almost home,” he whispered to the moonless night. “At last. Jes’ two miles to go.”

The rhythmic thud of an unseen helicopter echoed over the river. Jack craned his neck, willing his vision to pierce the blackness, but he saw nothing. Drops of sweat ran down the gullies of his spine. The late August night was hot and humid. Impatience and anxiety added their measure to his growing discomfort. He rocked on the balls of his feet, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his grimy chinos. Between his right thumb and forefinger he clutched the black, egg-shaped pebble he’d carried all the way from Ship Sands Island. His thumb moved over the smooth surface again and again. “By God!” Jack whispered, still addressing the night. “When this fool’s errand’s over, I’m stayin’ home for good!”

Gone were all thoughts of the Albany country, far to the north. “One more river,” Jack hummed tonelessly. “One more river to cross.” The thud of the helicopter faded away. Jack wondered when the next one would come along. Ann Laughing Deer had dismissed the erratic border patrols with a shrug, and cracked jokes about America’s “phony war” against the elusive Lesserson Null. Jack didn’t think it was all that funny, though. He reckoned innocent bystanders could be killed just as dead in a phony war as a real one. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

Behind him, invisible in the deep shadow of the riverbank, Sergei and Pavel gripped their Kalashnikovs.… 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 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.