Unexpected memory of Camp Abe Lincoln - The lost kyack ride.

[synapticjava]

I'm walking on the trail towards the lake. I can't remember who it is I'm with - probably Long Dong Johnny or Mikey - but we're on our way to our afternoon activity. I can see the path under our feet. It's just a dirt trail through the woods, but you can see the footprints of hundreds of thousands of trips to and from the lake. It's hot and I'm sweating something awful - June in the middle of a forest in Mississippi River Iowa isn't so nice when it comes to humidity. I start sweating now just thinking of it. Anyway, we're about a half mile into the mile-or-so trek. We've already passed that old abandoned cabin way out here in the middle of nowhere. The windows are boarded up and kids aren't allowed to go inside. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the kids splashing and screaming in the pool back at camp.

The woods are bright green with the afternoon sun pelting through the tree tops. Down here on the ground and in the middle of the forrest, it's actually kind of cool. A slow breeze is spreading through, and I can smell blackberries somewhere. Blackberries and earth - that rich smell that permeates your senses. Me and my companion are talking, but I can't remember what. Probably about some girl - this was back in the time before I knew myself - that I'd danced with the night before at the Social. I was quite the little charmer back then.

I can hear birds chirping, screaming. Things moving in the woods - squirrels mostly, but sometimes bigger things like fox or deer. Once we even saw a coyote way out here on our way back from Chappel. I love it out here. It's so quite, but not. It's the kind of silence only nature can bring. I remember that I'm smiling and enjoying the walk with whoever the boy is. We cut across the soccer field where we play Capture the Flag every other night. And then we head back into the woods, following the trail as it twists and turns down a small ravine. Going back up the other side isn't fun and isn't very easy after a heavy rain. Luckily the summer had been pretty dry so far - only some small showers. Not like the four day thunderstorm we'd had the previous year.

We finally get to the top of the hill. Mikey or Johnny or whoever it is is laughing at me because I'm out of breath and now I'm drenched in sweat completely. I get mad because they're always saying something about how fat I am. Always making fun of the fat kid. I never did get used to that - never did learn how to let it not get to me.

From the hill, you can see through a small shelf in the trees and brush the lake, or at least part of it. Brown and stagnant, smelling of lake muck and duck crap. Pretty nonetheless because the sun's reflecting off it, blinding rays and gillter floating on the still water. We're almost there, so we both start running down the trail, tripping and jumping off of tree roots and fallen branches. The trail here is just a thin line of mud and weeds. We're running down the hill, gathering stregnth to make our way to the top of the next one. We get to the top and suddenly the trees fall away. The clearing where the lake is set starts here. Across the lake and marshwater I can see the little boathouse where they keep the canoes and kyacks. Some kids are already there, getting their lifejackets on - orange and blue-faded-green.

This is what I've been waiting for all week - a chance to paddle my own kyack. It's the first summer that I'm old enough to do it alone. So I start running around the bend, following the narrow path towards the boathouse. The next thing I know I'm on the ground, crying. I tripped over some stupid rock or weed or something. The activity counselor comes to me and inspects my knee, which is bleeding pretty bad. I don't know how I skinned my stupid knee - I only landed in mud. Stupid mud. The next thing I know, another counselor is helping carry me back towards the infirmiry back at camp.

I never did get to ride that kyack.

Comments

[kitty-poker1.livejournal.com]

*sniffle* You ought to go ride a kyack now. But nothing's ever as good the second time around, is it?

Making fun of the fat kid is an international, multi-gender sport. Miserable bastards. *grumble*

Never mind, hon. You're a better writer than they'll every be, so sucks to them! *vbg*

[chocgood84.livejournal.com]

You ought to go ride a kyack now.
Heh - it's funny, actually. Nowadays I wouldn't be *dragged* to the wilderness. Guess people change:)