A Note to the Reader Ed and Brenna are back. As regular readers will know, their “trip of a lifetime” down the Albany River has taken an unexpected turn, leaving our heroes well and truly “Up the Creek.”

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Twenty-Six

 
Brenna ran. She drove through the dense wall of wet, clinging spruce branches without breaking stride, and emerged into a tiny clearing. She stumbled, recovered, and then stumbled again, falling hard on a mound of freshly-turned earth.

Pain radiated from her left wrist. A sprain, she thought—at least she hoped it was only a sprain. She grimaced involuntarily, grinding her teeth, as her fingers scrabbled for a purchase in the loose, sweet-smelling soil. Her right hand closed around something solid. Not a branch. Not a stone. Something unnatural. Something out of place. She squinted, nerving herself to see what her hands had found. A boot. It was the toe of a boot, sticking out of the dirt. She tugged at it, and the boot came away in her hand, revealing a foot clad in a filthy, threadbare sock.

Stifling the urge to shout, Brenna dropped the boot, struggled to her knees and then stood up, wincing as her naked, lacerated feet took her weight. Her head brushed against a low, overhanging branch, unleashing a shower of water droplets. She looked around her in the half-light. A barely-visible path straggled away to her right.

“What next?” Brenna asked herself. She listened for any sound. Nothing. Nothing at all. That was good. But she was sure her pursuer wouldn’t give up so easily. She had to get back. Get to Ed. And keep away from Nikolai.

Her eyes swept the tiny clearing. Nothing moved. Her ears strained to hear the first footfall or breaking branch. There! A squirrel chattered and churred, disturbed by some intruder. Was it Nikolai? Or something else?

“What next?” she asked herself again. What should she do now? She guessed that she was south of the camp. If she circled back…. She ran her tongue over her lips. Her breath came in shudders. Surely Nikolai must hear her! Was he behind her? How close was he? For the first time in her life, Brenna knew the terror of the hunted animal at first hand.

Her gaze returned to the foot protruding from the earth. Then she saw a hand next to the foot. It seemed to be frozen in the act of clawing its way out of the soil.… 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 Ed and Brenna have left the Albany River behind. They’ve paddled up a tributary stream, searching for the answer to a puzzle. But the mystery’s still as deep as it ever was, and things have now taken a deadly turn.

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Twenty-Five

 
Brenna stared at the muzzle of the gun in the man’s hands. The small, black hole seemed to grow in size until it filled her entire field of view. She wondered if she’d see the bullet that killed her. It was an unsettling thought. She wanted to tear her eyes away, but she couldn’t.

No one moved or spoke. The man with the gun—Ed recognized it as an AKM—examined them in silence. Two dark eyes set deep in a blocky face stared unblinking over the gun’s elevated front sight. A wild tangle of curly hair spilled out from under a greasy woodland camouflage cap.

Mist swirled around the three figures. The little river hissed and slapped against the cobbled shore. Ed and Brenna’s big green canoe was nowhere to be seen.

The gun dropped from the man’s shoulder. He cradled the stock beneath his upper arm. Suddenly, he shouted, “HANDS UP!” The English words came haltingly at first, but in seconds they were spilling out of the gunman’s mouth in quick bursts: “COME CLOSE! Come close, NOW! MOVE SLOW!” Ed and Brenna shuffled forward together, their hands held above their heads.

“Stop! Now!” the man commanded. The muzzle of his gun twitched, pointing first at Brenna’s belt, then at Ed’s boot. “Your knifes. Throw knifes on ground! One at a time.” The muzzle of the gun was now pointing at Ed’s chest. “You first!”

Ed did as he was told. Moving slowly, he bent over. Still holding his left hand above his head, Ed eased the long blade from its boot-top sheath with his right. Holding the knife by its blade, he placed it on the ground at his feet and then took one short step backward.

The muzzle of the gun now returned to Brenna. “You next!”… 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 Nearys have parted company with Ed and Brenna, leaving them to continue on down the Albany River alone. Or are they?

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Twenty-Four

 
Ed and Brenna awoke to a cloudless sky and a steady northwesterly breeze. It was their first morning on the Albany, and the omens were promising. From their camp on a gravel bar, high above the riverbank alders, the first light of dawn illuminated both the mouth of the Misehkow and the broad channel of the big river that would lead them to the Bay. An exuberant troupe of boreal chickadees flitted round them. Even better, the mosquitos and blackflies seemed to have taken a holiday. Life was good.

They ate breakfast as the rising sun wakened all the colors of the landscape, from the pale green of the isolated stands of poplar to the darker hue of black spruce and the deep blue of the river itself. Later, while Brenna struck camp and stowed their gear, Ed rigged the canoe for sailing.

“Seems like the last time was years ago, doesn’t it?” Brenna mused, as she tied the final pack in place and watched Ed finish off the last lashing.

“What?” Ed asked. His mind was on other things.

“Spirit Camp. Wabakimi. Big water,” Brenna replied. She spread her arms wide and grinned. Ed grinned, too, and without another word they pushed off. In seconds they’d dropped the leeboard, and the spritsail was filling. The canoe swept down the river with the stately grace of a royal barge, as a steady beam wind added five miles an hour to the two already imparted by the current

Much to Ed and Brenna’s delight, the wind held good for days, an almost unvarying light to moderate breeze. Sometimes it veered north and sometimes it backed west, but it nearly always blew fair. Whether reaching or running, the wind hurried them along. Ed and Brenna sat among their packs on the bottom of the canoe, leaning back to windward against rolled foam pads. One tended the mainsheet while the other kept the leeboard trimmed. It was easy work, done to the accompaniment of the liquid babble of the wake. (Ed called it “water music,” and the name stuck.) Thirty-mile days were now a matter of a few easy hours, broken only by an occasional sandbar or riffle, and the grueling slog on the upper Misehkow was soon forgotten.

Having made their planned miles by lunchtime, Ed and Brenna chose the day’s campsite early and then pushed on up some inviting tributary stream or hiked away from the river on one of the numberless game trails. They usually returned from these excursions late, fly-bitten, and soaked—Brenna was quick to note that however tall her waterproof boots, she was always sure to step in a bog at least one inch deeper than they were high—but both were delighted nonetheless. Brenna filled sketch-book after sketch-book, while Ed spent hours perfecting his roll-cast. His luck was usually good. Perhaps it was too good. Brenna began to dream of lasagna and roast beef. But she kept these thoughts to herself.

All good things must end sooner or later, though, and after five days, their fair wind deserted them, swinging round until it blew square in their faces, driving a chill, swirling mist before it. Low cloud now covered the sky from horizon to horizon.… 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.