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You
arrived in Lakeview just over a month ago, in late May, leaving
all of your friends from home behind, driving up here with a
car full of outdoor clothes and paddling paraphernalia, a roof
rack on top with saddles to hold a kayak (just in case you ever
bought your own), following a dream, an idea you had written
down in your journal so many times you got sick of reading about
it and finally had to try it out for yourself. It was tough,
going off alone. Matt, your best friend, the guy you relied
on for support and advice and lots of good laughs, was moving
to Des Moines with his wife. He had wanted you to take the job;
he knew you were ready. “I’ve always thought of you as a guide
anyway,” Matt had said. “I mean, you taught me everything I
know about kayaking.” And that was true, but you definitely
still owed him for all the late-night philosophy sessions and
reassuring phone conversations, not to mention the mile-wide
grin he often wore that made all your monumental worries seem
silly. Staying at home just wouldn’t be the same without Matt.
The hardest, though, was Amy. Yes, Amy: the rugged, smart, spirited,
beautiful young woman you were starting to think might be the
one. She was going to Nepal for the summer. It had only been
April when she had told you, in the warm security of the darkness,
that you make her heart smile. But she left in mid-May. “Write
me,” you had said. “I don’t think Katmandu is renowned for its
reliable postal service,” she said, “but I’ll try.” Better to
be in Lakeview, you thought, than back at home without her.
The
room in the cabin where you are staying is small and cramped.
There’s a bed and a little nightstand, a chair and a cheap armoire
with six drawers and a place to hang a few shirts. All that
furniture leaves just about enough floor space to step inside
the room, turn around once, and walk out. You sit down slowly
on the edge of the dusty mattress. There’s a weathered picture
on the wall, probably left by the room’s previous inhabitant.
It’s a painted portrait of an Apache Indian. His face is brown,
wrinkled and leathery, but not old, his expression resolute.
His eyes are deep and sad, but there’s a light there, the light
of hard-earned wisdom. You pull the little picture of Amy out
of your duffel bag and set it gently on the nightstand. You
remember the cold winter day that it was taken: the pure white
snow, the bright sun, the crystal-blue sky. You look closely
at the photograph, seeing that perfect smile and those eyes
that are always somehow distant. The Apache stares down at you
from the wall and you stare back, your brow furrowing just a
little bit, just a little like his.
Early
on, to ease the homesickness, you go paddling: sometimes alone,
sometimes with Herb. If there is such a thing as a born handyman,
Herb is it. His uncanny ability to fix anything—from a squeaky
screen door to a manual transmission—got him his job at the
Barn. When you walk down the street with Herb, the two of you
look a little strange. You’re still this side of thirty, and
can’t dress yourself without having the right logos on your
person. Herb is a forty-year-old grandfather, ex-factory worker,
ex-alcoholic, a tattoo- and body-piercing aficionado with long,
braided, raven-colored hair and a stained straw cowboy hat,
complete with an eagle feather in the band. Except for his mustache,
he looks more like one of the area’s native Ojibway people than
a motorcycle guru from Green County, Wisconsin. But a guru he
is. Herb built his own Aleutian baidarka—before he’d ever been
in a kayak. It’s a beautiful creation: a wood frame lashed together,
a canvas skin cover stretched and sewn over the frame. There’s
not a single nail in the whole thing. He even waited until he
got to Lakeview before he finished the coaming around the cockpit—he
wanted to see how a sprayskirt would fit—and then he fashioned
a perfect oval from willow branches gathered just outside of
the Barn and lashed them on. It’s custom-made to fit him; your
legs are too long to even squeeze under the deck. So, you paddle
with Herb because you like to watch his work of art slicing
through the waves, and because even though he doesn’t have a
bachelor’s degree in Philosophy and Comparative Religion, when
he talks, he sometimes reminds you of Matt.
“It’s
all about Zen, dude,” Herb says as a wave breaks over his bow.
“What, kayaking?” you say. “Kayaking, guiding, working on boats.
Everything, dude.” Herb peels out in a low brace turn, not because
you’re changing direction, but just because. You see
him grin. “It’s about mellowing out, dude. Letting things happen.”
“I guess I need to work on that one,” you say. “Dude,” Herb
chuckles, “we all do. Why do you think I came up here? I’m just
on a walkabout, dude. A walkabout.” Herb sprints out in front,
rides up the face of a steep roller, then yawps a joyous “woo-hoo!”
as his bow slams down into the trough. You smile to yourself
before catching up.
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