liveliness. Either her accident had loosened her up, or her expression of friendship had given her a confidence not previously felt in my presence. Maybe she would now be more open, more willing to share what lay behind her usual silence.
Another chickadee zipped onto the feeder, grabbed a seed and safely retreated before the blue jay sitting on the porch railing realized his territory had been invaded. Beyond, the expanse of snow gleamed invitingly under the noon day sun. Perhaps I shouldn’t view winter’s early arrival in a completely bad light. Better to enjoy its newness by skiing to the Fishing Camp for the marathon meeting than continuing to sit here for another hour-and-a-half stewing over Eric and my lost money.
Although Echo Lake offered the fastest ski route, with a straight run down Forgotten Bay to the camp at its far end, this early in the season most of the bay remained open water. With two hours to spare before the meeting, I set out along the longer, but more enjoyable route that would take me through Aunt Aggies’ old sugar bush to the neighbouring territory of the Migiskan Reserve. This circuitous route up the inclines and down the plunges of the hilly terrain would also enable me to celebrate the season’s first ski with some long, lingering downhill runs.
I hoped the thrill of the ski would keep me from worrying about seeing Eric. Although he had sounded his usual friendly self on the phone, I’d detected a certain distance, and I knew that I too would be maintaining my distance. I didn’t have the strength to pretend all was well. I knew as sure as my skis were sliding through the snow that my reaction would be to stand back and wait for him to say something. And if he said nothing, the memory of that woman’s gorgeous face and his happy greeting would grow like a cancer between us.
Soon I was pushing through the deep powder with Sergei bounding behind me. Last time I’d been this way, the woods had rustled with autumn leaves. Now the snow muffled all sound but the gliding hiss of my skis. I panted up the first steep hill with a near perfect herringbone, glad I’d finally bought wood touring skis. My old plastic skis would’ve had me cursing at the constant backsliding that invariably happened in such deep snow.
At the top, I stopped to enjoy the transformed hardwood forest, really more an excuse to allow me to catch my breath. Despite best intentions of getting myself into proper shape before the ski season began, I hadn’t. Now I would have to creak and groan through a month or more of rigorous skiing before my body even approached the finely-tuned firmness the sport demanded. Unfortunately, this state was invariably reached only at the end of the winter, when spring thaw gave me an excuse to put away my skis and return to less physically challenging summer activities like hiking or, more aptly, slow meandering rambles through the bush.
While I stood puffing, Sergei, not bothered in the least by the climb, chased a red squirrel up a lone pine, where it chattered its outrage to the rest of world. The only other occupant of this snow-shrouded forest was a woodpecker swooping from bare tree top to bare tree top. Although the snow had long since stopped falling, an occasional branch would shake its wintry load free and release a cloud of sparkling white. Some fell on my head and trickled icily down my neck, cold enough to spur me on.
I followed the broad track along the ridge that skirts the back end of my property, up and over small knolls, down into a steep ravine, across a burbling stream and back up the other side. I skied past abandoned rubber tubing used by my greataunt to collect the spring sap for her once-flourishing maple syrup operation. A few of the ancient maples were still marked by numbered pieces of tin used to identify good producers.
When I’d first moved to Three Deer Point, I’d thought of resurrecting the sugar bush operation, but quickly dismissed it as a venture requiring a lot of hard work with minimal return other than the satisfaction of having produced a quintessentially Canadian product. However, given the present future of my twenty thousand dollars, maple syrup would have been a better investment.
Finally, I reached the beginning of the long run which would take me into Migiskan territory. Unfortunately, in order to remain within the Three Deer Point property line, Aunt Aggie’s old track veered a sharp left at the bottom of the steep hill. Sometimes I made the turn; sometimes I didn’t and found myself entangled in brambles. This time I needed to go through this thorny snarl in order to get to the Fishing Camp.
Slowed by the deep snow, I glided, almost floated down the long incline, enjoying the thrill that made the long climb to the top worth the effort. Between my knees, I felt the soft furry snout of Sergei, who insisted on racing directly behind me in the narrow gap between the skis. Occasionally he’d miss his step and land on a ski, and the two of us would go tumbling into the snow’s iciness, but this time he showed his true athletic prowess.
As I descended, I looked for a path through the summer’s crop of tangled underbrush, one made either by animals or by band members trespassing on my land in search of game, an ongoing complaint I had with Eric. Unfortunately, I reached the bottom of the hill with no such sighting.
Unwilling to crash through the head-high blackberry canes and their inch-long thorns, I continued skiing along the trail for as long as it headed in the direction of the Fishing Camp, but I reached where it jogged back deeper into my land without encountering an easy passage through the brambles. I had little choice other than to whack my way as best I could through the spiked tangle.
I was on the point of raising my ski pole to begin smashing the canes aside when I heard a faint noise, which sounded amazingly like laughter. Sergei perked his ears in interest too. Silence, then another tinkling noise that sounded more like a giggle, which sent a barking Sergei leaping through the snow towards the sound.
Annoyed at the thought of trespassers, I followed. Although the dog quickly disappeared through the crowded trees, his track and continued barking led me to a clearing, where another discard from my great-aunt’s sugar bush operation still stood, a small wooden shack once used for storing supplies. Sergei barked in front of one of the many gaps in the exterior’s weathered planking. From inside came a sharp shush followed by a burst of giggles. I could see a line of fresh snowshoe tracks leading from Migiskan land to the other side of the shack.
Not again, I thought to myself. I’d already had one bad experience with band members using my abandoned property. I wasn’t keen on facing another.
“Who’s there?” I shouted. Silence. Convinced it was a couple of lovesick teenagers intent on escaping parental eyes, I skied around to the side, where a door once kept the elements at bay. Now it was a gaping hole partially blocked by a trampled snowdrift. At the sight of numerous pairs of snowshoes propped against the outside wall or abandoned in the snow, I ruled out teenage lovers.
Not sure what to expect now, I gingerly poked my head through the opening. As my nostrils twitched at a sharp, cloying odour, I saw about seven or eight kids, boys and girls, fully clothed, some sitting propped against the rough walls, some lying on the frozen dirt floor. The oldest couldn’t have been more than sixteen, the youngest about eight.
“Okay guys, time to leave,” I said, wondering what kind of trouble they were up to.
More giggles, with one or two dreamy stares turned towards me. At the sight of a young boy wedged into the far corner lifting what looked to be a cigarette to his face, I realized the significance of the smell and knew immediately what I was dealing with.
It appeared Eric’s ongoing battle with kids and drugs was far from over. He might have had some success in getting them away from sniffing gasoline, but that was all. They’d merely switched to a different kind of drug, marijuana. And while it might not be as harmful as inhaling gas fumes, it still wouldn’t do them any good if it led to a dependency on other, more damaging drugs, even alcohol, my own particular problem.
I shivered and watched my breath mist in the frigid air of the shack. I realized it would be dangerous to let
