Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

We came upon a wide expanse of beach with a narrow inlet to the north. Most of the rest of the way along the river the forest crowded close to the shore. But at this one spot the trees thinned out and someone, probably Mr. Walker, who was always pointing out things that no one else had seen, noticed a large black bear on the side of the inlet farthest from the sand. Quietly the word spread, and we stopped paddling and watched as the bear dropped into the inlet and swam across to the beach. Only when it had climbed out, then walked back in the water and returned to its original place, did I notice two cubs huddled on the north side on the inlet, bending over the water, poised to jump in. The mother was obviously showing them how. I don’t know if anyone else had seen the cubs yet, but if they had they kept quiet about it. We were all silent, drifting slowly about thirty feet from shore, all paddles shipped except those of the sternsmen who used them to keep the canoes on a straight course.

Again, the mother bear jumped into the water and swam to the beach. This time one of the cubs followed. The second cub remained timidly on the far side of the inlet. It bounced back and forth in agitation. That was about the time that Doug finally noticed.

“Look!” he shouted, leaning over and causing the canoe to tip unsettlingly, “there are cubs!” He pointed at the bears. The mother, hearing the sudden noise from the river, turned and rose full up on her hind legs, roaring. This inspired the second cub, who flung himself into the water and swam madly to the beach. Together, the three bears ran for the trees. As the cubs reached the edge of the forest, the mother turned back, rose, and roared at us again. Then, with a final glare, she turned and followed her cubs into the trees.

We waited a few minutes before we beached the canoes. Everyone wanted to get a look at the footprints. We were all excited. Other than hearing moose crashing through the forest, this was the closest we’d been to any large wildlife. As we climbed ashore, Doug said, “Bring your paddles in case she comes back.” Preposterous as that was, we did it. We stood gazing at the deep, wide prints pressed into the sand, our flimsy beaver-tail paddles clenched in our small, smooth fists.

Doug wasn’t much of a canoeist, lily-dipping when Rick and I were digging in, but he was our comedian. That made up for a lot. He and Rick were as opposite as Maple Leafs and Habs fans. Rick was serious-minded, hardworking, and already clear on his path in life: medical school at the University of Toronto and then a specialty in internal medicine. The rest, Ian, Phil, Jerry, Paul, and I, were all different. Even so, it didn’t take many days in the wilderness to convince us that we had to get along somehow, no matter how much we might avoid one another back home.

Doug and Rick had trouble working that out. Doug was prone to borrowing things. I found this pair of sunglasses with one lens missing and wore them for a day or so, but somehow Doug got them and he wore them and they became his. At portages, he’d find ways to switch packs with you so he got the lighter one. It went on and on, but he was funny, for all that. He could make everyone laugh, except maybe Rick, and laughing made people forget about other things.

Rick didn’t laugh or joke around much. He was the best kid on the trip at handling a canoe, though. In his spare time, when the tents were pitched and dinner was cooking, Rick would take out one of the canoes and practice, working on his stroke and on getting maximum benefit from it. Sometimes we’d sit on the shore and watch him. Rick’s form was lovely — smooth and seemingly effortless. Doug wouldn’t watch. He’d just occasionally drift by, make a comment that got us chuckling, and go off somewhere else.

If there was tension between any of us, Mr. Walker didn’t interfere. He was easygoing most of the time. Every day he’d have us take a break from the day’s paddling and raft the canoes. While we drifted, Mr. Walker would smoke a pipe and talk about other trips he was planning. All of us had already been on trips along the Temagami River. The Abitibi was a step up. But Mr. Walker had higher ambitions still: a more advanced canoe trip on a mighty river like the Mackenzie or Coppermine.

In the evenings he would tell stories by the fire, usually about his tripping experiences when he was young. He wore his old bomber jacket, its leather nicked and scarred, but the sheepskin lining soft and warm. Mr. Walker called it the Breezy All-Weather, and about the greatest treat you could have on a trip, almost as great as a Dairy Milk bar, was the chance to wear the jacket for a few minutes. My turn came one evening when, after a moonlight swim, Jerry, Paul, and I had gone trembling up to the fire. He gave the jacket to each of us in turn and our trembling stopped.