This is the final story in my new book, THE TUG OF THE STRING: Stories about staying connected. Get the book on Amazon for just for ninety-nine cents, click here.
This story about my dad was first published in my hometown paper, The Bridgton News, in September 2007.
I passed Dad on the trail—he walking west, me walking east.
I served him a wink. “Better pick up the pace there, Dad,” I said.
“You just wait to see the load I left for you,” he volleyed back, returning my wink with a bit of backspin.
This was day two of a 75-mile canoe trip deep into the core of the Adirondack Mountains and a rainy September night had given way to the sun and the sun rose through heavy mist and colored our world in brilliant oranges and reds.
We were portaging between Utowana Lake and Raquette Lake on the Marion River Carry, a half-mile path that ages ago had been the right-of way for one of the shortest railroads in the world.
When I reached the Utowana end of the carry, I found a pack-basket overflowing with canned food, and I remembered Dad’s wink.
Dad and I went back and forth like this for much of the morning. I was 26 and fit; Dad was 60 and not as fit, but this was no contest so we both just plodded along under our loads, passing each other and trading wisecracks and winks.
This was Dad’s second trip along this portage and I had grown up hearing the stories of the adventure he’d had with his father, my grandfather, back in 1950. He told me about the heavy wooden canoe and the rain and the bugs and of “Fig Newton Surprise,” a secret family recipe invented on that trip that began: “Soak a box of Fig Newtons overnight in Long Lake, accidentally drop into campfire, fish out with stick….”
And he told me about the Marion River Carry, of passing his father on the trail, and of the old steam locomotives that they had found abandoned in a clearing at the west end of the portage.
“Oh Pete,” he always said. “It was the best trip ever.”
As the morning wore on, Dad and I wore down. Each load bore deeper into our shoulders and our feet grew sore. The teasing gently fell away and the winks became half-hearted. When I passed Dad on the final lap, he didn’t even look up.
We had left the canoe for last and it was my turn so I flipped it over, heaved it up, positioned the center thwart across my aching shoulders, tipped the bow down, gained my balance, and set off. Despite the long morning and the heavy loads, I was determined to make the carry in one shot so I gritted my teeth and fought back every thought of resting. My feet were wet. My knees hurt. Balsam needles stuck to my sweaty forehead.
When I finally reached the Marion River, which would carry us in time down to Raquette Lake, I jammed the bow of the canoe in the fork of a tree and dropped the stern onto the soft ground.
“Well Dad, I did it,” I said, triumphantly.
Dad was facing away from me, looking into the overgrown clearing at the end of the trail. He didn’t turn around. His shoulders were slumped. His hat dangled from his left hand.
I walked over and stood behind him.
“Dad?” I said.
“They were right here,” he said softly, gesturing toward the blackberry brambles with his hat.
Then he turned to me slowly and I saw the red in his eyes.
“The trains,” he said. “They’re supposed to be right here.”
Then he took a step and fell into my arms.
Dad smelled of wet wool and campfire smoke and citronella. His two-day beard scratched against my cheek. It was autumn and the sun glowed orange through the trees and Dad and I were alone and I wrapped my arms around him and just held on.
Over Dad’s shoulder I watched the Marion River, its dark, tannin-stained water flowing to the distant lake as it had since forever began. A crimson maple leaf floated down through the braided current, wrapped itself around a half-submerged boulder, and began spinning in the tiny eddy on the downstream side.
For a few quiet moments the world paused and the leaf stayed put and the sun hung in the sky and Dad hung in my arms. He was shaking gently, rhythmically, and I felt a catch in his breath now and again. From way down deep the wetness of the decades and the lost trains and the memories of this trip so long ago ran out of Dad’s eyes and down my neck.
“I wish my father was here,” he whispered.
The maple leaf broke loose in the current and floated away.