Here is Chapter One of Lake of Gulls. (c) Richard Gould

Patrick ran his fingers through his hair as the dry grass at his feet twisted and bent in the wind. A cool breeze touched his face, carrying the dry, fruity scent of autumn, and a memory of children's voices echoing across the water floated in the distance.
The yard before him was wild and unkempt. Had it not been for the concrete sidewalk leading from the road and ending at nothing, it would have been difficult to tell that this had once been a manicured lawn. He could still picture it - the colourful flower garden with the border of carefully selected rocks; the neat lawn with the picket fence on one side; and the granite outcropping that served as a parking lot for his toy cars. He could smell the sweet tangy aroma of drying grass; he could almost hear the raspy mechanical whir of a hand-pushed lawnmower.
"Excuse me!" The voice came from somewhere behind him. Patrick didn't turn. He had seen the park official earlier, and had hoped to avoid him. He took two steps through the weeds and brittle stalks of grass.
"Sir! Is this your vehicle?"
Again, he ignored the voice. Just go away, he thought. He exhaled unsteadily and looked toward what should have been his house. There was nothing. For a moment, he thought he saw the ghost of the building - a shimmering reminder of what had been - but it disappeared, evaporated like an early morning mist on a sunny day.
The dry grass behind him rustled again. The park official was walking closer. "Sir? Is this your vehicle parked on the road?"
Patrick, a tall man with square shoulders and imposing build, turned. "Yes," he said, as he looked down at the ground.
"Well, you can't park here, and you have to put your camping permit on the dash." Course weeds clung to the man's brown uniform pants as he took another step. "You do have a day-pass, don't you?"
Patrick smiled and shook his head. "I used to live here." He waved his hand backward toward the house that no longer existed.
"Doesn't matter. You still need to buy a day-pass if you want to be here."
Patrick's cheeks flushed. The idea that he had to buy a pass to visit his place of birth seemed unreasonable. "I . . . I'm not going camping. I . . ."
"You're still in the park."
The cords stood out on Patrick's neck, but his tone was calm. "Yes, sir."
The park official took off his hat and waved it toward the car. "As I said, you can't park there either. You'll have to park in the designated area. I don't have a problem with you snooping around, but you can't leave your car there."
Snooping? He silently mouthed the word. He closed his eyes and fought for control. "Yeah, okay," he said.
The warden left and Pat turned. So much of his young life was tied to this bushy, scraggly field. Just up the street was the school and not too far away, the house of his girlfriend. A few steps from where he now stood, his hand would have touched the blue wooden door that gave entrance to his parent's home. It had been full of laughter, alive with his mother's Irish accented singing, and redolent with the smells of a country kitchen.
The house had not burned; there were no charred remains; it had not collapsed, there was neither a stone, nor a board, nor a roof shingle left on the ground. It had been erased as if some painter had decided that it didn't fit in with the background and painted it out.
It had been a small frame house with three windows facing Kioshkokwi Lake. His bedroom had been downstairs, across from the bathroom, and from its windows, he could see the Amable du Fond River flowing out of the lake. It was a big river, and as a child he had listened to it surge over the weir and under the bridge. The weir was gone now, making the lake lower, but the water still rushed over the bed of stones on its way to the Mattawa and then the Ottawa Rivers.
On the lake, he saw a canoe, its two occupants working hard against the wind, fighting whitecaps. It wasn't a stormy day, but it did not take much to get Kioshkokwi angry. One minute it was a smooth blue layer of silk, the next it was a turbulent black tempest of cresting, foaming white caps.
Buried beneath the sound of the grasshoppers and crickets, he thought he heard the distant voices of children. They were barely audible, haunting, almost frightening.
He looked down at the dry grass, its rhythmic movement hypnotic. He wanted to escape the ghosts around him - Kenny, Uncle Roy, Andre, Suzette and all the others whose spirits still ran, yelled, and laughed through the yards and streets of the town. The park official had walked away, but in the silence, Patrick was still not alone.
He turned his attention to the Amable du Fond, half expecting to see buildings, fishermen, and children playing, but there was nothing. It was just a desolate expanse of scrub, high grass and creeping alders.
How could it happen? How could an entire town disappear? A school, a post office, a large sawmill, almost a hundred homes - all gone. This was not a ghost town, with vacant houses and empty stores; this was a void. There was nothing except the odd driveway or path leading to a front door that no longer existed. Even the train tracks were gone. How was it possible? He placed his hand over his forehead and then ran it down over his eyes, squeezing them shut.
He remembered the warden telling him he needed to buy a pass to be here! The thought made him angry, and he wanted to protest, but where would he start? Whom would he fight?
He had lost touch with his two best childhood friends and he was on his way to see one of them, Kenny Campbell, but he had no idea what had happened to Suzette Labelle. Suzette had been more than a friend; she had been his first love - the first to cause his cheeks to flush and his heart to beat fast. He remembered her shiny, dark hair, her soft skin, her moist lips and he almost remembered the sensation of kissing her. Stop! he thought. He shouldn't go there. It was part of something else, something lost and gone.
Just as life had been taking shape, Patrick had been removed from the town and, in the years that followed, he hadn't so much as written a letter. All connections had been lost.
Standing here, breathing in the air, sensing the ghosts of this ghost town, he felt something tug at him. He kicked at the ground and watched the dust rise and float off across the yard. It slowly disappeared. Stop, he thought again. It was time to move on.
He slammed the door of the two-year-old Taurus, started the engine, and yanked the gearshift selector into drive. The tires dug into the dirt and made a sound like ripping cardboard.
At the end of the short road, he hit the brakes and turned. He was near the empty field that had once been the school yard, and in the distance, some fencing, which had served as the backstop for a baseball diamond, still remained. He could almost hear the frantic, happy screams of children chasing each other. Pursing his lips, he drove on and then stopped by what should have been Suzette's house. It was another vacant lot. The lacy tops of some asparagus plants bent in the wind - many people had asparagus in their gardens - but nothing else remained to show this had once been the house of his girlfriend.
He closed his eyes and tried to picture her. He could remember her long dark hair and he could almost see her face, but the complete essence of her was difficult to fix. He remembered her smile - her unconditional joy - and he felt a warm sensation spread across his chest.
He drove further, remembering every house. Every once in a while, he glimpsed a ghost walking the dusty road or standing in a yard, but when he looked closer, it drifted and disappeared like the misty shapes on the lake on an autumn morning.
He slowed as he crossed what used to be the train tracks. The rails and ties had been removed and there was nothing left but the broken brown slag and the smell of creosote.
He turned parallel to the lake, stopped and got out. The creosote smell was gone, replaced by the sweet northern aroma of cedar, pine, and water.
A reflection of sunlight caught his attention and he turned to see a couple of Yurts under construction. Each one had a pressure-treated deck, a barbeque pit, and a large black solar panel mounted on a stubby metal post. He looked through a screened window. The units were not yet in use, but were all very modern. They would attract the richer tourists - the people who had chased him and his family out of the town in the first place. And this was only the start.
His first stop in Kiosk had been to the park office, and there, a young female park employee had told him about all the wonderful plans for the future of Kiosk. Office buildings, new campgrounds, comfort stations, flush toilets, new parking lots, there would even be cabins for people to rent. As Pat thought about the enthusiasm of the young woman's explanation, he kicked the wall. The hollow sound echoed across the lake.
He shook his head. The Ministry of Natural Resources, the government agency responsible for maintaining Algonquin Park, was looking for ways to generate revenue. First, it chased out all the residents, saying the park had to be preserved in a wilderness state. Now that everyone was gone, it was building for profit. It was that typical double standard in which the poor had to suffer for the pleasure of the rich.
He returned to his car and drove away. As he rounded the last corner that would take him in the direction of the highway, he hammered the accelerator to the floor. The tires dug into the sand and hopped wildly as the car swerved right and left. He was doing 50 kilometres per hour as the tire chirped on the cold-top surface of Highway 630.



A couple of hours later, approaching Sudbury, Patrick was surprised to see that the area he remembered as a moonscape was now a little more green. The transition was not complete and the huge fields of slag were still visible, but trees and small bushes were evident. A decade ago, this had been an area of bleak bare mining slag.
It was a cruel irony that Kenny Campbell had been moved to this environment. He had been so in love with the forest and the lakes and he had been pulled away from them and placed in an acidic wasteland. Why had he stayed so long? Certainly, in all those years, an opportunity should have presented itself.
Finding Kenny again had been an accident. Patrick had leased his car from the King City dealership in which he worked, but the lease had been handled by Grey Owl Leasing out of Sudbury. He had driven the car for almost two years before Kenny - or 'Ken' as he was calling himself - had spotted his name on the terminating contract.
King City Fine Cars ran their leases though a number of credit companies and they used Grey Owl Leasing only occasionally. The leasing company was small, but willing to handle the difficult credit cases - bankrupts, skips - and, occasionally it offered special rates to dealership employees as a way of encouraging new business.
On the telephone, Ken had called him 'Patty', a name he hadn't heard in decades. Pat had decided to take some time off, visit Ken - it was hard not to think of him as 'Kenny' - and stop at Kiosk on the way. He now wished he had bypassed the town, which had awakened memories he would have preferred to leave dormant.
He zoomed past the Science Centre, drove a few more kilometres, and turned into a suburban subdivision. On Ken's street, he found the house number on a rectangular plastic sign and turned into the driveway. The house was a nondescript bungalow with a postage-stamp lawn and it didn't seem like the kind of place Kenny would choose. The pickup with the rough, metal boat rack was the only thing that was indicative of the outdoorsman that Kenny had once been.
The yard was plain, with a small fence and no landscaping - just a patch of grass. The house was red brick with a cracked, concrete veranda and a dark, shingled roof. White sheer curtains hung in the front window. It was a house like all others on the street, with little individuality.
He stretched, walked to the side door, and rang the bell. Kenny took a few moments to respond. He opened the door from the top of the stairs and then moved back down the hall. "Come in."
Patrick entered cautiously, pulling the door closed behind him. He walked up the half-flight of stairs, through the hallway, and into the living room. Kenny was at the stove in the kitchen. He was wearing white socks, blue jeans, and a blue golf shirt. His clothes were clean, but wrinkled and his hair was thinner, finer, and sun-bleached. He seemed to be in good shape - there was no belly to speak off - but there was something missing, something absent.
Pat looked around the house curiously. The living room was cluttered. There were mismatched canvas chairs, two wooden tables, and outdoors items strewn everywhere. Although the house looked plain from the outside, the inside was decidedly bohemian. It was not the house of a middle-class Canadian family; it almost seemed to be an extention of Kenny's bedroom in Kiosk.
"Can I get you something?" Ken stirred a pot with a wooden spoon.
Pat retreated from his thoughts. "Cold beer would be nice."
"Sure. Gimme a minute. I can't let this stuff stick. Hungry?"
Pat nodded. "I could eat."
Across the hall, he could see into a small bedroom. On the wall was a locked, gun rack containing a couple of .22's, a couple of shotguns, a high-powered rifle with a scope, and a beautiful Winchester 30.30. The Winchester would be the kind of rifle he would expect Kenny to own. Although it didn't have great range, it was a wonderful rifle for walking through dense bush. Ken would not be the sort of hunter who would sit in a blind waiting for a driven animal; he would walk the bush alone. "You do much hunting?"
"Not too much anymore. I only hunt if I'm going to eat what I kill, and there's too much meat on a deer or a moose."
Pat looked at a topographical map pinned to the wall. It was covered in post-it notes. "So you live here by yourself?" The question was rhetorical.
Kenny dished out food. "Yup."
A longbow hung from a hook and two canoe paddles were tucked behind a table. On another table was a box of pencils and charcoal and a worn, but closed, sketchpad. "You said you were married, though?"
"Yup. Was." Heavy glass bowls banged together. Kenny walked into the room, moved a bunch of items from a wooden kitchen table, and dropped the bowls of stew. He returned to the kitchen and came back with a coffee mug and a glass of beer.
"You look good, Kenny . . . healthy."
"Yeah, well, there's that."
"So did you and your wife live here?"
"Nope. Not here."
Pat was used to drinking out of the bottle, but he picked up the glass and smiled. "Thanks."
Ken nodded, turned his chair sideways, stretched his feet out, and held his bowl in his hand. "You haven't changed much either," he said, swallowing a mouthful of hot stew.
"I only wish that were true . . . but thanks." Pat laughed and was surprised by the sound of his own voice. It was deep and full, much different from the last time he had talked to Kenny in person. Ken's voice was still soft and quiet by comparison. "A lot has happened in all those years."
"You still haven't cut your hair," Kenny said laughing.
"Yeah, well, I guess some things don't change." Pat looked down at the floor as he ran his hand through the hair, sweeping it behind his ear. The length of his hair was a sensitive issue for him. His ex girlfriend had been constantly after him to conform to current shorter trends, but somehow, this seemed like his last protest. He had conformed in so many ways, and cutting his hair short, would be the final step in a loss of self.
Ken said, "You know, I was really surprised to hear you were selling cars. I mean . . . I had trouble picturing that."
"Well, I have trouble picturing it too, sometimes. It's not a job I'd wish on anybody else, I'll tell ya."
"Whatever happened? I expected to hear that you were a famous musician or something."
"Well, you do what you gotta do, I guess." Pat drank again and looked at Kenny. "So you're a banker. I kinda expected a suit and a pot belly. You've kept in shape."
Ken laughed. "Not from my job. I do a lot of camping and fishing. Every chance I get, I'm out somewhere."
"Yeah, well you always were the 'nature-boy'."
"I suppose." Kenny fidgeted with a pocket knife on the table. "It keeps me sane. I know some great fishing holes. I'd love to show you."
Pat tucked his bottom lip under his top teeth. Although he had already agreed on the phone, he was not that fussy on camping and he had little desire to go back to Kiosk. "Yeah. And I guess you will." He finished his beer, looked at the empty glass, and then looked at Ken. "I'll be right back. I brought a case of beer with me."
"Sit down, sit down. Yours will be warm. I'll get one from the fridge."
"It was a long drive . . . and this time, skip the glass." As Kenny handed him a bottle, Pat continued to speak. "I stopped at Kiosk on the way here."
"Looks different doesn't it?"
"It was hard to tell where the houses had been. I just stood there looking at all these sidewalks going nowhere . . . it bothered me."
"It looks smaller too, don't you think?"
Pat nodded. "Everything we grew up with is gone. The houses, the rec. centre, the school." He took a long drink from his bottle before he continued. "You know, I thought I could hear children playing. I expected to see some kids running through the field, playing baseball. Damn, it was kind of spooky."
"You're not the only one who feels that way. I've talked to a lot of people. They have a Kiosk reunion every year, but it's never held on site. They usually meet in the Mattawa Golf and Country Club because most of them don't like to go back. It feels too weird. I've had a couple of people tell me that they choke up and cry every time they're back in the town."
"How did they clean it up so fast?"
"Well . . . it wasn't that fast."
Pat looked at Kenny sideways. "What're you talking about? Don't you remember? There had to be at least 80 houses . . . and the church . . . the school, the bunk houses, the stores and the mill . . . gee, the mill was huge!"
"Most of the mill burned - only the water tower remained - you know that. Five years ago, there were only five or six families still left and all the other houses were gone. They wanted the place empty."
Pat grunted. "It's bullshit, you know."
"The government never cared about people's homes. They think that people can just move from place to place. I don't think they want the population to be tied to the land. They want everyone to belong to a kind of national, mobile workforce."
"I guess the favours are always given to the people with the most influence. No one gives a shit about the people who pioneered the land."
Ken broke into laughter. "You know what we sound like? We sound like your uncle Roy and our two dads sitting on the porch. I haven't thought about them for years, but I remember listening to them from my room. They were always talking about how they were being ripped off . . . how the government was to blame."
"Well . . . maybe they were right." Pat finished his beer and stood. "I'll be right back." He returned with his own case of beer, ripped it open and handed a few bottles to Ken to put in the fridge. He took one of the cold ones that Ken offered in return.
"Regardless of the politics," continued Pat, "it was pretty disturbing to see Kiosk the way it is. The last time I saw it, it was alive, and today there was nothing. Just dry grass, bits of concrete, and dusty roads. It gave me the creeps."
"Yeah, I guess it would if you saw the change all at once. I've gone back from time to time, so I've seen the changes gradually. Not too long ago, a construction company came in and picked up all the rail lines and the telephone wires. Pretty soon, you won't be able to tell that anyone ever lived there."
"Well, that's what they said they wanted, but it really bugs me to see what they're doing now."
"What's that?"
"Don't you know?" Pat perked up and sat forward on his chair. "They've put up some Yurts."
Ken raised an eyebrow.
"They're sort of half cabin, half tent. They have canvas walls, but they're built on a wooden floor."
Ken nodded.
"You should see them! They've got solar panels, electric outlets . . . everything."
Ken was about to speak, but Pat continued, cutting him off.
"That's not all! I got chatting with the girl in the ranger station and she showed me a draft of the future plan for the park. They hired a couple of architects and drew up a five-year plan. They're gonna put up an office building - a headquarters - for the MNR just where the road comes into town."
"And she told you this?"
"Sure." Pat was surprised by Ken's disbelief. He was surprised that Ken's reaction was the same as his had been. The girl had been so excited by the prospect of growth. "That's not all," he said. "They're putting in a campground where the school ground and our house used to be and they're going to build four replicas of the Ranger Cabin."
"Are you serious?"
"Absolutely. She showed me."
"And where are they going to put the cabins?"
"Three, where they put the yurts - on the old mill site - and one by the river just past the bridge."
Ken scowled. "They won't get away with it. Too many people will protest."
Pat laughed. "Yeah, right! They've already got it started with the yurts. It's supposed to be a wilderness park, but now that everyone's gone, they'll do what they want. They're turning it into a resort for the rich." Pat took another drink.
Ken sank back in his chair. "The bastards waited till the leases were up and then started to build."
"The leases expired a few years ago didn't they?"
"Yup. If anyone had stayed, they would have been forced out. Some of the people with cottages further down the lake had their leases extended to 2017, but the government's still trying to get them out too."
"Yeah? How?"
"Just pestering them . . . coming up with regulations and lots of warnings . . . raising the rent. I know a guy down by Daventry. His rent went from $100 to over $2,000 per year."
Pat shrugged. "I guess if you got the money, you can afford it." He took a long drink of beer. "Someone should do something." The sibilance in his voice was becoming noticeable.
"There's nothing to do; that's why I go fishing." Ken jumped to his feet suddenly and then stopped. He looked unsure of what he was going to do next. The frown he was wearing turned slowly into a grin. "Come on, let's get your stuff. Tomorrow I'll take you to places where the fish are so big, you need steel line to reel 'em in."
Pat rose reluctantly and followed Kenny, beer bottle in hand.


Patrick helped Kenny get the boat off the truck and winced as the muscles strained in his lower back. He walked down the concrete ramp, dropped the canoe in the water, and returned to the truck for more supplies.
They were beside the Ranger Station standing in a large, gravel parking lot, in which many canoeists left their cars and trucks. To the east was a camping area with vehicle access. Each spot had a fire pit with a metal rack, and four yellow stakes in the mowed grass to show the boundaries. Some campsites even had electrical hook-ups. There was a swimming area, picnic area, and even a bathroom with a flush toilet, a sink, and running water.
To get to the Ranger Station it had been necessary to drive through town and Pat had suggested they stop and look at the new cabins. Ken had refused, saying they didn't have time and he drove past without looking right or left.
The ranger station was about a half mile east of the town and it now had the nicest beach in the area. Many years ago, some of the older children had cleared the area when they could no longer dive off the company dock by the mill. They cleaned up the beach, cut the grass and dragged away the deadheads. For many years, the beaches resonated with laughter as children swam and played.
Now it was a provincial park campsite, visited primarily by serious canoeists with expensive gear and top-of-the-line canoes. A short distance away, Pat watched four young men loading their two Kevlar canoes for what looked to be a long trip. Although there were electrical sites for tents and trailers, and a concrete boat launch for the small motor boats, the four canoeists acted as if they were embarking on an expedition into a lost and unmapped wilderness. Their gear was brightly coloured, state-of-the-art, and obviously expensive. One camper played with a digital camera, taking pictures of one of his friends who was installing a nylon cover over the canoe.
Patrick threw Ken's tent, a dirty, faded, blue bundle with old-fashioned, aluminium poles, into the canoe. Ken was obviously not interested in expensive, designer gear and Pat watched as he hefted his backpack, an old canvas affair that had been to some very remote spots, and dropped it into the canoe.
Their food was in another canvas bag, which Pat placed more carefully. They were not allowed to bring glass bottles into the park - even if they were willing to bring them out again - so before leaving Kenny's house, Pat filled two plastic bottles with rum. He didn't want these to get cracked or damaged.
Ken had a season's pass to the park, but it was still necessary to purchase an interior pass. Patrick waited outside with the canoe as Ken went into the station. He did not want to get into another discussion with the enthusiastic woman he had met the other day.
"You going far?" asked one of the young men putting the finishing touches on his canoe He was grinning slightly, his chubby face round like a cherub.
"Nope. Just doing some fishing." Pat lit a small cigar and puffed it a few times.
"Oh, I see," said the young man chuckling and nodding his head.
"Looks like you and your friends are going on quite a trip." Pat's smile curled.
"Two weeks!" The young man's head went up and down like a bobber in the water. "Going down to Brent and all along the Petawawa."
Pat took a drag of his cigar and exhaled. A trip to Brent was a one day journey and these fellows were outfitted as if they were going to circumnavigate the park. "You sure you got enough gear?"
Another of the canoeists caught the sarcasm. He too was heavy-set and his hair was bleached and gelled. "We take gear that's low-impact. We don't want to damage the environment."
Patrick looked at the man and chuckled. "Maybe you damage it just by being there."
Tension hung in the air. The heavyset man was silent for a moment and he looked disdainfully at Pat's canoe. "Look who's talking."
Pat grinned again. "Well, you just have a good trip and don't feed any bears."
After another moment of silence, the canoeist with the camera said, simply, "Yeah. Thanks." Pat walked away.
Ken returned with the numbered, yellow plastic garbage bag, and helped Pat push the canoe further away from the rocky shore. With the weight of the packs and tent, it scraped noisily and Pat could imagine the four young men wincing at the sound. They would probably walk through leach infested mud rather than risk scratching their canoes.
The lake was calm as they paddled toward Wolf's Bay, and Patrick lost himself in the gently rolling surface. He had forgotten how big Kioshkokwi was. It was one thing to see it on a canoe map; it was another to be surrounded by its mass. It was six miles, or ten kilometres, from east to west and in the northwest corner, Wolf's Bay stretched two-and-a-half miles to the north. They were travelling toward Manitou Lake and they would have to cross four miles of water.
The water flowed across Pat's hand near the blade of the paddle and it felt warm and substantive. It was only warm at the surface, he reminded himself. A few feet down, it would be much colder. The lake was rumoured to be bottomless and he remembered hearing about people who drowned and then never surfaced.
As he continued to paddle, he could feel the burn in his shoulder and arm muscles. They still had a long way to go and the stinging pain reminded him how unaccustomed to exercise he had become. Ken wanted to camp on Manitou Lake, but Pat doubted he could make it. He was out of shape.
The sun rose higher in the sky, a breeze played over the lake, and small waves formed. Nothing dangerous, just ripples in the giant surface, but they started to push the bow of the canoe to the south. Pat knew that Ken had to work hard to correct for the wind and he was glad he was not in the stern. "Do you want me to switch sides?"
"No. I'm fine."
Pat continued to paddle, feeling a knot starting to form in his shoulder. "Is there still a beach at Scott's point?" The shore of Kioshkokwi was rocky and bordered by coniferous forest, but there were a few sandy spots. Most of these were covered with dead trees and driftwood, but Scott's point had been kept clean. It was only a mile away and would be a nice place to camp, but most importantly, since it was so close, if they stopped there he would not have to tell Ken he didn't have the strength to paddle all the way to Manitou.
"Still there, but the cabin's gone. Someone burned it . . . or tore it down. I don't know which."
"Should we have a look?"
"You can't fish from there. It's too shallow."
Pat wasn't interested in fishing. He was sweating with exertion, and he remembered how critical he'd been of the four young men at the shore. Perhaps a trip to Brent could have been done in one day, but not by him. Thinking of how much he had weakened over the years, he turned and looked at Ken. Ken was down on his knees, relaxed and pulling his paddle through the water as if it involved no effort. Patrick turned forward. "It's bigger than I remembered."
"What?"
"The lake. It's bigger than I remember."
"Shouldn't be."
"Why's that?"
"You've gotten bigger. The lake should seem smaller to you now."
"Maybe if I didn't have to paddle."
"Take a rest if you need to."
"No . . . I'll make it." Patrick laughed self-consciously. "I guess it's true that some things look smaller. When I look at the forest now, it doesn't seem as big as I remember. I remember the pine trees towering miles over my head. Now, they look smaller." Ken didn't reply.
Gull Island was off to their left and Pat studied the rocky outcroppings painted white with dung. "It looks like the birds on the island aren't any smaller."
Kenny laughed. "Yeah, or there are more of them." He was silent for a moment and then he continued, his tone more serious. "You know what bugs me a little? Some of the cottagers sneak out there and break eggs in the nests trying to cut back the numbers. They don't like the idea of bird shit on their porches and their motor boats. People weren't like that years ago when we lived here."
"Isn't the lake named after the gulls?"
"Yeah, I think Kioshkokwi means Lake of Gulls."
"Would they have to change the name if they killed all the gulls?"
"No more than they have to change the name of the town after they've chased away all the people."
Patrick turned to look at Kenny, who was studying the island. He turned forward again. "Can we switch sides?"
"Sure."
After ten minutes of paddling on the other side, Pat was again tired and he decided he did not want to paddle all the way to Manitou Lake. Not only would it mean another two hours of work, it would mean crossing three long portages. "You know where I used to catch some fish when I was a kid?"
"Where?"
"On that big rock jutting out into the water in Wolf's Bay, across from Scott's point. You remember it?" Ken did not reply and Pat assumed that he was nodding his head. "Let's go there first."
"Only rock bass there now."
"That's okay. It was a nice spot." Pat was silent for a moment and then added, "I need a rest."
"You remember jumpin' off the rock into the water?"
Pat sighed. "Sure do. It was pretty high. We used to dare each other to see who would go off the highest point. Let's have a look." There was no reply, but Pat saw the bow of the canoe move in response to Ken's j-stroke.
At the shore, Pat jumped out, secured the bowline, and held the canoe for Ken. They climbed the rocky shore to the flat plateau above. It was windswept at the end, which meant fewer flies, and there were lots of places to lie in the sun.
This was now one of the 1900 interior camp sites in Algonquin. These spots were located throughout the park and were identified by an orange triangle nailed to a tree. They each had a metal grill for a campfire, an outhouse, and a small clearing for a tent, but they also showed other signs of use. There was little or no underbrush, larger trees were scarred with axe and knife marks, and the ground was grey and dusty rather than dark and organic.
Algonquin was one of the largest parks in Canada, covering almost 8,000 square kilometres or 5,000 square miles, and since it was only a three-hour drive from Toronto, it was used heavily. The entry points in the south were often so congested that people had to wait in line. Over the years, new land had been appropriated and new camp sites added.
Most of the entry points had large campgrounds with suburbanized camping, electrical sites and communal activities, but inside the park, camping was more primitive. The thousand lakes were all linked together by portage trails and it was possible to travel for hundreds of miles. Fifty years ago, only avid campers went into the interior, but now it was overrun. This particular spot must have been popular because, in addition to the usual signs of camping, there were two benches, a handmade picnic table, and clearings for not one, but three tents. It was just far enough away to be isolated, but tame enough to be comfortable for city folk.
Pat walked to the north side and looked down at the water. The rock sloped toward the tip of the point. From where he stood, it was about twenty feet over the water. He had remembered it being higher, but as Ken had said, things looked bigger to a child. "This seems like a good spot to fish. Let's stay here tonight and go on tomorrow morning."
Ken shrugged and made an expression that implied it wouldn't be his choice, but he was okay with it. Pat reached in his shirt and lit a small cigar.
"You shouldn't smoke those things."
"Actually, I'm almost quit."
"No such thing as 'almost quit'."
It was Pat's turn to shrug. He turned and looked east, back toward Kiosk. There was nothing except rolling forest and dark water. He stood silently, drinking in the environment. Images ran through his mind, many of them pleasant, but most unclear. A breeze blew through the needles of a red pine producing a mournful cry and Pat realised that there were no mechanical noises at all. It had been years since he had experienced this sort of quiet.
He took a drag of his cigar, looked at it with distaste, and flicked it out into the lake. The water at the bottom of the rock cliff was catching the sunlight as it rolled up and down. It looked soft and smooth, and the effect of its undulating movement was deeply relaxing. He closed his eyes, breathed in the pine scented air, and sat on the rocky ground as Ken carried the supplies up the hill.


Ken stirred the glowing embers with a stick and watched Pat drink from his bottle of rum. He sometimes enjoyed a cool glass of wine, but he couldn't imagine drinking warm rum out of a plastic bottle. "So what do you think of your old stompin' ground? I can't believe you haven't been back in all these years."
"Brings back a lot of memories."
"For me, it's sanity. I think I'd have gone nuts if I hadn't been able to come back here."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. I'll bet you that lots of people would have liked to come back."
"Maybe after I'm dead, I'll get you to spread my ashes here."
Pat laughed. "Better get someone else. You'll outlive me for sure." His tone became serious. "You know, that was one thing that really bothered my Dad. He wanted to have Uncle Roy buried here, but it wasn't allowed. They buried him in Mattawa for Christ's sake, and Uncle Roy never liked the place. He should have been buried here."
Ken nodded slowly. He grabbed a log, threw it onto the fire and watched as a stream of red sparks floated up into the night sky. "How's your mom and dad doing, anyway?"
Pat was quiet for a while. "My mom's still alive, but the old bastard died six or seven years ago. He was a heavy drinker. I think his liver gave out on him." He looked off into the distance. "I had to go way up north to claim the body."
Ken cocked his head in confusion.
"He used to take off for months at a time. He worked construction jobs all over the place, drifting from town to town. We hardly ever knew where he was. He was often gone for so long that we would think he was never coming back, and then, one day, he would just show up."
"That's too bad."
"Yeah, I remember hating him. I'd tell myself that when he came home the next time, I was going to tell him how I felt, but then he would show up with gifts and all sorts of great stories. I don't know . . . I'd just get caught up in it all. We'd have fun and then he would pack his things and leave." Pat shrugged as if shrugging off the sadness. "He'd say he was going to be home for Christmas, and then he wouldn't show. Months later he would walk back into our lives and we would do the whole thing again." Pat moved his foot back and forth making a level spot in the dirt and then continued. "He always had a new car or a truck. Sometimes he would grab me and tell my mom we were going out to get something, but this would be an excuse. He would let me drive and I felt like such a hot shot driving one of his new machines. We would cruise up and down the main drag. For a while, it would be great, but then slowly his mood would change. He would start to drink and get depressed. He'd slap me and my mom around a little, and then, a couple of days later, he would pack a bag and be gone . . . no explanations, often no goodbyes."
"Did they get divorced?"
"Nope. I don't think she ever considered it. My grandparents were from Belfast and they went through hard times, but they believed in sticking together. They celebrated their fiftieth together and I think my mom wanted to do the same. Booze and cirrhosis put an end to that."
"I don't remember your dad drinking that much . . . maybe he had a couple a' beers on the porch at night, but I don't ever remember seeing him drunk."
"Yeah. That started after we moved to Toronto. No work, no friends, just a bottle of brown."
Ken shook his head. "So, your mom's still okay?"
Pat grunted. "I guess. We don't see much of each other. We had some big fights before the old man died. One day, after another, in a long line of broken promises, I got real mad. I thought she was pissed too and I called him a shit - along with some other names - and I told her she was stupid for defending him. She slapped me hard across the face. You know, Kenny," Pat held his two index fingers an inch apart from each other, "I came this close to slapping her back. It took all my willpower not to hit her. I left home soon after that. She's got a place out in the east end of the city. A lot of her family lives there, so I guess she has people to be with, but we don't talk."
"Sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, well, there's a lot of stuff we can't talk about. Even though my dad's dead, he's still able to come between my mom and me."
Ken remembered Pat's older brother. "What happened to Evan?"
"He got out a long time ago, shortly after we moved to Toronto. He fought with my folks all the time and then took off for British Columbia. We just lost touch. I haven't heard from him in years. I think he phones my mom sometimes, but I don't know . . ." A loon called hauntingly from across the lake, interrupting Pat's words. He shuddered and took another drink. "Enough about me. What about your folks? They still alive?"
Ken looked down. "My dad passed away eight years ago. He worked for the mines and I think the dampness and the dust got to him. Died of lung cancer. One year later, my mom died. She died of pneumonia. Can you believe that? Pneumonia! She wasn't that old. It was like she couldn't live without him. I don't know. They say that happens sometimes."
"I wonder how different things would've been, if everyone hadn't been kicked out of town. My dad wouldn't have taken to drink and your mom would've had other people in the town to support her. It was a good place, Kiosk. People took care of each other."
"It's hard to say."
Pat stretched out on the ground, watching the fire. "You remember old Mr. Frederick?"
Ken mentally pictured the old train-station master, sitting at his typewriter, working on the station log, his dark-rimmed glasses perched high on his nose, and his white hair cut short and neat. Then he remembered him standing on the tracks with arms flailing as he yelled at children who were diving off the bridge. "Yeah, he used to chase us off the bridge all the time."
"Everyone took care of him when he retired, even though he was a cranky old man. People weren't just tossed out."
Ken sat back and stretched his feet out in front of him. "Yeah, but it didn't always happen. You remember Richard Rankin?"
"Sure. He used to take you hunting and fishing. Neat old guy."
"After he retired, he was forced to leave the house he'd lived in all his life."
"Yeah, but that was after that new company took over the mill . . . right near the end. They only thought of the town as a source of employees. Before they took over . . . when the Staniforths still owned it . . . that was when Kiosk was a community."
Ken closed his eyes and pictured the town. It had been an island in the wilderness and the people were a community. He could see the neat houses nestled among the trees and bushes, the gently twisting roads leading through the fields. An image of Richard and Tabby standing by the bridge came to memory and he realised that he hadn't thought of them for years. He could see Tabby with his grey, braided ponytail and his darkened leather jacket and he could see Richard, old and wrinkled, but strong and steady. They were chatting with each other in that carefree manner that exemplified the town. "I wonder whatever happened to Richard and Tabby."
"Don't ask me."
"I've been to their cabins, but there's very little left, just some rotting logs among the trees. I guess after Kiosk fell apart, there was no reason to stick around."
Pat grunted, took another drink of rum, stood, and stumbled into the bush. He returned doing up his fly. "You know . . . it's funny . . . when we were kids, I hated to hear about all that town history stuff. Whenever my uncle and my dad started talking about it, I would tune out. Now, I meet you, after all these years, and we spend most of our time talking about it."
"Yeah, you're right," Ken laughed and threw a stick into the fire. "But, probably if either of us had kids, they would tune us out, too." Ken saw Pat's expression darken and he studied him for a moment. "You never married?"
"Define marriage. I lived with a few women - one for quite a time - but I never went to the city hall and signed a paper."
"And no kids?"
Pat shook his head and shrugged.
Ken assumed that Pat did not want to talk about the lack of children in his life. "I was married," he said. "Married to Mary, but it wasn't too merry." He chuckled at his own weak humour. "I used to work for the Bank of Nova Scotia, but they wanted to move people around, and I refused a transfer to Hamilton. Sudbury was bad enough, but Hamilton!" He emphasised the name as if it were a dirty word. "Mary was angry. She loved southern Ontario and Hamilton was close to Toronto. She wanted me to be a bank manager and that would only happen if I transferred from place to place, but I wanted to stay in the north. She just took off one day. Damn, we were different . . . shouldn't have been together in the first place." Ken poked at the fire with a new stick and broke out into laughter again.
"What's so funny?"
"Just thinking . . . another family, screwed-up by what happened to this town."
Pat laughed, drained the last of the rum and dropped backward. He looked up at the stars. "I guess it always comes back to that."
Ken sighed. "I guess."
"A lot of people have come and gone and there are a lot of ghosts wandering around these woods. I could almost hear them when I walked around town."
"What're you talking about?"
"I thought I heard children playing; I heard voices . . ." Pat's words trailed off. He sat up suddenly, swung around and pointed to the north, just over the top of the forest. "Is that Mattawa?" A glow silhouetted the trees to the north.
"Mattawa's fifty kilometres away and still a small town. That's the aurora."
Slowly the glowing light shifted, growing in some places, diminishing in others. It was not spectacular, just a pale glow, like the last light after a sunset, but its movement was fluid and it drew the attention. It was like lightening in slow motion, almost unworldly. "Shit, I forgot about the northern lights. Haven't seen them in years." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Damn, where I live, you can't even see the stars."
"Some nights the Aurora gets so bright, it's like street lights. Sometimes it flows through the sky and dances right over your head."
"Yeah, I remember."
They watched the sky silently and then Ken stood and brushed off his jeans. "Well, it's time for me."
"You go ahead. I'm gonna stay here awhile." Pat stretched on the hard packed ground, looking like he intended to sleep by the fire.
Ken slipped into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. He was tired, but he didn't fall right to sleep. Images of Kiosk, images that had been forgotten for years, danced through his head. Just before he fell asleep, he heard a sound that reminded him of voices of children. It was the wind playing through the pines, but it made him think of the ghosts that Pat had described


Pat felt a little better once they were out on the water, but the morning had been hard. He was stiff and sore and his head pounded. The wind was stronger today, but thankfully, Ken kept the canoe close to the shore. This lengthened the journey but cut down on the work.
It took over an hour to reach Camp One, a lumber camp that had once existed at the end of the lake. Pat had visited it often as a child. It had been the quarters for many of the wood cutters, a busy place, but more importantly to a young child, it was the location of the annual town-picnic. Once every year, the entire town put all of its creative spirit into a weekend of fun, games, and great food, and it was a highlight of the summer.
Camp One was also a great place to see deer. The camp cook was well known for his habit of feeding them and sometimes in the winter, thirty to forty would gather, waiting to be fed. Some even stood on their back legs, like begging dogs, looking for food and attention. "Any deer still hanging around?" Pat asked.
"Nope. Not like the old days, anyway. I think most of them got shot."
Patrick turned to face Ken. "Shot?"
"Hunted."
"There's no hunting in the park, is there?"
"Well . . ." Kenny hesitated. "There are a lot of hunt camps on the park border and some of the deer wander."
"Hell, I can remember hundreds of deer around here. Surely they didn't all wander outside of the park."
"Well . . . there are . . . other things."
Pat exhaled sharply. "What other things?"
"I'd rather not get into it."
Patrick shrugged. The canoe was close to the shore. "Should we go and look at the camp?"
"Nothing to see, really."
"Like the town?"
"Even worse than the town. The camp disappeared long before the last houses."
Patrick remembered the large buildings, the offices, the long row of garages, the piles of logs. When he had seen it as a child, it had all seemed huge. It was hard to imagine that it was completely gone, but then he would never have believed that all the houses would be gone either. He looked into the water and saw a black ABS pipe that had, at one time, carried water from the lake to one of the buildings. It was small evidence that Camp One had ever existed.
In a weedy bay, they reached the start of the portages. The first two were fairly short and separated by a leisurely paddle on the Amable du Fond River, but the third portage was a difficult twelve-hundred metre odyssey over a long hill. Ken wanted to do it in one crossing, so he carried a heavy pack and the canoe, leaving Pat with two packs and the life preservers.
Although Ken had the heaviest load, Pat struggled the most. Each time he looked forward, he would see a little rise in the distance, and assume that the lake was just ahead, but there was always another ridge - more trail. Blood pounded in his neck as sweat soaked his shirt and he had to force himself not to give in and stop. Finally, after a particularly thick area of scrubby brush, they reached the sandy shore.
When Pat had arrived in Northern Ontario, he had noticed the air, the wonderful smell of clean air. Those first breaths were so different from the ones he took in Toronto and it felt as if they were cleaning and purifying his body. This view of Lake Manitou was to the eyes what those first breaths were to his lungs. If Kiosk had been a great disappointment, Manitou made up for it.
It had been a dry summer, the water was low, and as a result, the beach, which was about three hundred metres long, stretched twenty metres back from the water. On the other side of the bay - they could only see a very small portion of the lake - the trees were tall and strong and touched the edge of the rocky shore. There was a sense of purity, of cleanliness and Pat was stirred in a way that he had forgotten. He stopped, oblivious to his heavy load and soaked in the image.
Ken walked ahead and dropped the canoe at the edge of the water. He turned. "Are you coming?"
Pat lurched forward, dropped his pack near the canoe, and wiped the sweat from his face. "I had forgotten this lake."
"What do you mean?"
"It's a . . . so incredible."
"Kiosk's just as nice. It's just tainted by your memory. There're too many ghosts."
Pat felt a chill run down his spine. Ghosts - there was some truth in that. He shuddered. "Yeah, I guess so. But the trees look bigger here." He grinned. "Didn't they log here?"
"They did. If you go inland, you'll see it. They just didn't log around the lake. This was the old Dufond farm, so maybe they bypassed this spot."
"But the Dufonds were gone before we were born."
"True . . . but I think people were . . . intimidated by them . . . even after they were gone."
Pat noticed a hesitation in Ken's voice and he angled his head questioningly. Ken just shrugged. "You seem to get cautious whenever you talk about Indians."
"I have some mixed feelings."
"Like?"
"Nothing I really wanna talk about."
Pat raised his hands, palms forward, in compliance. He dropped to the sandy ground and leaned against a backpack. A hawk or a falcon circled above in a sky that was so deeply blue that it seemed unreal.
"Wanna get out on Manitou?"
"Woah! Slow down! We just got here. Let's stay and have lunch." Patrick leaned over and dug through the food pack. He found the plastic bottle of rum and held it out in salute to the beauty of nature before him.


Later in the day, Ken and Pat found a beautiful campsite on a small island down in the southern crook of Lake Manitou. It was a nice island, a fair distance from shore, which would mean less aggravation from curious bears and raccoons, and since it had only one campsite, it would be quiet. Ken had wanted to travel further into the park, but he could see that Pat was no longer accustomed to the exertion of paddling and he resigned himself to stay here until it was time to leave the park.
It was a great spot from which to do some evening fishing and Ken sat organizing his tackle as Pat rested by the tent. He knew this lake, had fished it all his life, and he knew where there were some deep pools with nearby shallow spots. With his favourite lure, an old silver William's Wobbler, he could land a beautiful meal.
He walked to the beach, which was not very deep but about twenty metres long. It was littered with broken clam shells, indicating that a raccoon was probably somewhere on the island. He lifted a shell, tossed it out of the water, and watched it splash, bounce and slide into the depths.
He looked at the canoe and then the overcast sky, and changed his mind about an evening fish. Manitou was equally dangerous during a storm and the storms came up fast. His mind was full of difficult images and he decided to practice some Qigong. He walked along the shore until it curved back away from the camp, and started some simple stretches.
When he felt his muscles relax, he began some movements. His breathing became regular, deeper, as he felt himself slipping away, and he tried to focus his thoughts on nothing.
Qigong suited him, but not perfectly. Over the years, he had walked many spiritual paths. He had learned a little yoga, meditation, and he had tried prayer, but the regimentation and structure had always gotten in the way. He had been searching for something that didn't come with an entire set of rules, but most religions were either all or nothing.
He had looked into Buddhism, Confucianism, Hinduism, and Islam, but none of these seemed to offer what he was looking for. He still considered himself a Christian, even though he no longer went to church, and because of this, he was excited when he learned of Gnosticism, based on the Nag Hammadi scrolls, but even this group had its regimentation. It seemed that a person had to believe in the whole package or none and he always came away with the feeling that a main piece of the puzzle was missing. There was a power in the universe, something great, but he could not see it in the ceremony and structure of any organized religion.
With Qigong, which was more of a meditation and exercise, he could modify what worked for him and discard the rest. He had hoped that he'd gain an insight into something, but so far, he had been unsuccessful. Some said that the practice of Qigong was only effective in a group, and if that was true, it explained why he still had not found what he sought, but joining a group was definitely out the question. Groups had never worked for him.
With his thoughts firing off in all directions, he tried to focus on nothing, but he was unsuccessful. He kept replaying the image of Pat sleeping in the dirt. Qigong did not work well this way and he tried to force his mind into a deeper meditative state, seeing blackness and energy. Then the image of Kiosk returned . . . the loss of the town. It was annoying, like trying to lift something that was just a tiny bit too heavy, and he felt his anger starting to grow. Anger was really unproductive. His thoughts shifted quickly and he became aware of someone behind him. He turned and saw Pat standing in the trees.
"What was that?" Pat asked.
Ken's breath burst from his lungs. "What was what?"
Pat waved to indicate what Ken had just been doing. "Some kind of martial art? I didn't know you studied karate."
Ken's face flushed. "Not karate . . . it's just an exercise . . . like Tai Chi."
Pat took a puff of a cigar as he leaned against a tree. He suddenly laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"Old people in China do Tai Chi. Somehow the image of you doing Tai Chi on an island in Algonquin Park is . . . I don't know . . . funny."
Ken walked back toward the camp, forcing Pat to follow. He looked across the water. The waves were rougher and he knew he couldn't take Pat fishing. They would wait until sunset. "Feel like a coffee?"
Pat nodded, sat on the ground and reclined against a large Red Pine. He made no move to assist in the chore. He laughed again. "I guess if there were any old Chinese people living here, they would've been kicked out too."
"Yeah, along with all of us . . . and the Indians."
Pat puffed on his cigar and grimaced. "There it is again."
"What?" Ken was having trouble following Pat's meandering thoughts.
"The Indians . . . You have a funny tone when it comes to the Indians. What's up with that?"
Ken smiled and shook his head.
Pat looked at him curiously. "At least the Indians can fight for land claims; we can't."
"Yeah, I guess we wouldn't get very far if we tried to protest. I mean, who cares if we were thrown out?"
Pat was silent for a moment, deciding which way he should steer the conversation. "Well, maybe we should . . . protest, I mean."
"You think the government's going to let us back into Kiosk?"
"Maybe."
"The problem is that we're not Indians. We were born here! Both of our parents built their own houses here! But we aren't allowed to claim land as our birthright, cause we ain't Indians."
Pat looked uncomfortable. "It's a little different, Ken. At one point, the government promised not to take away any Indian lands and then it did. The Indians were not fairly compensated."
Ken was silent for a moment. "How were you and I ever compensated?"
"Well . . ." Pat was lost for words. "Forget about the Indians for a moment. Just focus on our rights. I think we might have some claim to the land."
"But we never owned the land?"
"So? What does that mean? That the government never gave us a piece of paper? My grandfather lived and worked in Kiosk and he built the house in which my father and I were born. Three generations of James' lived there and then the government came and said, 'sorry, you can't stay any longer'! We all leave and everyone thinks that's okay? I don't think so."
Ken shook the pot of water as if this would make it boil quicker. "Why are you getting so steamed about this? You haven't even been here in years. Why should it bother you?"
"I guess because being here has opened some wounds. It reminds me of what a friggin' waste my life has been." Pat stood and brushed off his pants. "I've done nothing at all." He looked at the lake for a moment. "All these years . . . just gone. Then I come back here to see this beauty, this place, and I see that the government is going to build cabins and new parking lots and laundry rooms and office building. My uncle died trying to find a new job and couldn't even be buried here. My dad left after all the years of work and he died poor, and now, if I don't do something, I'll die and be buried in some anonymous graveyard in Toronto, too." Pat turned and looked at Ken. "I don't even have any kids, for Christsake."
Ken shrugged and answered softly. "Neither do I."
"But why not? Why are we both doing jobs we hate? Why doesn't either of us have a home? A family? "
Ken shook his head. He was about to say that he had a home, but it was unimportant. "The town hired a lawyer. If there had been anything they could have done . . ."
Pat exhaled abruptly through pouted lips. "Lawyers! They only work in the framework provided by the government. If the government says it's not legal, then the lawyers work with that. And anyway, who even cares if it is legal? Maybe this isn't even a matter of what is and isn't legal. Maybe it's a matter of what is and isn't right. Maybe everything was perfectly legal and maybe the government acted within the letter of the law, but it still wasn't right! You can't displace an entire population, an entire town, for the sake of people who want to have a nice place to go camping on the weekend. The government was wrong. They have no respect for home."
Ken looked down at the ground and smiled. A short while ago, Pat had looked so tired. Now he was full of energy. "I guess there's some truth to that. I had to leave the Bank of Nova Scotia because I was unwilling to transfer from place to place. The only way to get a promotion was to move from city to city. They didn't think that an employee should have any connection to any place."
"And it all starts with the government. They're building a mobile work force." He spread his arms to indicate some great notion. "They'd like to have all Canadians living in mobile homes attached to SUV's so that they can pack up and move with the employment market - hordes of families on the Trans-Canada highway, heading for salt mines in the Maritimes after a year-long sojourn at oil fields of Alberta. No more fixed, local schools, but internet classrooms conducted by cell-phone and laptop. If the fisheries get destroyed on one coast, we'll ship 'em all to the other coast. All the land owned by the government; the workforce mobile and ready."
"Okay, okay . . ." interrupted Ken with a chuckle. "I get your point. And what do you suggest we do about it?"
"I don't know." Pat turned and stared off at the water. The surface was rough, grey and dangerous. "Maybe make a big stink in the press . . . maybe do some kind of protest."
Ken looked at Pat. "And what makes you think anybody would care?"
"Because the damned government threw us out. That's why!"
Ken put instant coffee into the two plastic cups. "That may be, but all that was long ago. What good would a protest do now? It won't change anything."
"It might. The Indians are winning land claims."
"Now you're being ridiculous. They'll never give us the land back . . . ever!"
"You shouldn't be so sure. But even if they don't, at least they'll have to admit that they took it away wrongfully . . . and, even if they don't do that, other people will know and it might not happen so easily again in the future."
Ken handed Pat his coffee and as Pat was about to continue, he held up his hand in protest. "Let me think about it, will ya?" A dark expression drifted over his features and disappeared.


On the final day of their trip, they journeyed out onto the water in the early morning before breaking camp. It seemed only fitting to catch breakfast before returning to Kiosk. The sun rose slowly, a soft, red orb shimmered through the morning mist, and Pat closed his eyes, feeling the air roll across his face like a silky fabric. The incredible quiet was broken only by the hollow sound of the water gurgling along the sides of the canoe and soft thump of Pat's paddle, which occasionally touched the gunnels. The smell of cedar and pine drifted through the fog that lay like a blanket on the water.
Ken's reel whirred as line played out, and Pat was disappointed. It would be the last fish they would catch on this trip and he would have liked to catch it. Off in the distance, hidden in the mist, a loon called and splashed, and then a duck flew overhead, the sound of its beating wings filling the air.
Within fifteen minutes, they were back on the shore, breaking sticks and feeding a fire. They had a beautiful lake trout and as it sizzled, the fog began to burn away from the water. It covered the lake like a cloud, but it was only a metre thick, and Pat stood tall, looking over its top. It was like looking out the window of a jet, high above the clouds, and seeing the clouds roll off endlessly in the distance. But the trees on the far shore poked through the clouds, looking vastly out of place. Tree tops that poked through the flat layer of clouds? There were so many visions here that could not be found elsewhere.
The coffee, the fire, and the fish filled the air. Pat lit another cigar, took a puff and then stubbed it out in the dirt.
"Why do you smoke those vile things? You obviously don't like them."
Pat poured some sugar and creamer into his cup. "I quit smoking a while back and I have the occasional cigar to help with the cravings. You're right, though, they are vile - especially out here. They taste better in the city."
After breakfast, they packed their gear and pushed the canoe out onto the water. The fog was now just a wisp of mist swirling over the lake. It took most of the day to return and back at the ranger station, Pat helped Ken load the truck, but again he avoided going into the ministry station, choosing to tie the canoe to the truck racks.
They drove through the town slowly, talking about buildings and people, and then they swung around to the cabins on the old mill site. Ken shook his head, but did not comment. He turned and drove until he reached the bridge at the west end of town.
They parked and walked along the overgrown gravel road toward what had once been Ken's home. At a large stand of pink double roses, Ken stopped and took in the fragrance. "I remember these from when I was a kid."
Pat chuckled briefly. "Funny that the houses, the school and the church should disappear, but a bunch of roses should survive."
At the bottom of the road, they reached Kenny's yard. There was little to show where the house had once stood. Tag alders and clumps of wild raspberries covered most of the area, but littered among the growth were tar shingles and some bent and twisted pieces of metal.
Ken picked up a small piece of galvanized metal. He turned it slowly in his fingers and then said suddenly: "Come on, let's get out of here. There's something I want to show you." He walked away quickly forcing Pat, still tired from the long paddle, to follow.
A couple of kilometres north of the town, Ken turned off the highway onto a gravel road. The truck bounced, as its tires were forced over rocks and ruts in the unmaintained road.
"Hey, slow down. You're gonna lose the canoe!" Ken had been in a hurry since he left the town and he was going much too fast for the condition of the road.
"I've got a hunt camp up here that I want you to see. I use this place in the fall. It's rustic, but I think you'll like it."
After a long trip through the bush, they reached a small clearing and a path. The clearing was large enough to park a few vehicles but the path was only wide enough for an all-terrain-vehicle, or ATV. Ken stopped the truck and jumped out.
"Maybe we should be getting back," said Pat hesitantly. He remembered that Ken's short trips often meant hours of tramping though the bush.
"No, no, come on. It's a short distance, really." Ken had not been too talkative since they had left Kiosk and he walked away quickly. Pat groaned as he followed, looking back at the unlocked truck. It was hard for him to leave a vehicle without locking the doors. It was something he would never do in the city.
The bush was thick and although the sky was clear, the air was heavy and damp. A sweet spicy smell reminded him of the swamps and bogs around Kiosk. After a short walk, they reached a rustic cabin. The wood was dark and untreated and the windows were small and covered with boards. Ken fished out a key and removed a huge padlock from the solid, wood door.
Inside, a musty quality filled the air. Ken unlatched a wooden window cover from inside and went outside to remove it. Light streamed into the dark cabin illuminating the dust in a golden band. Some basic wood furniture sat between shelves of supplies and although Spartan, the place was fairly neat. "You were talking about living in Kiosk. This place is just out of the park boundary and I spend many weekends here."
Pat picked up a coal oil lamp, feeling the oily film that covered the base. "I guess it's quiet."
"Come here and look at this." A large topographical map was pinned to the wall. It too, was dark and frayed. "We're here." Ken pointed with his finger to a pushpin in the map. "And just a short distance along this trail is Lauder Lake. There's hunting trails all through these woods." Pat nodded as Ken walked out the door. "Come here, there's something else I want to show you."
Behind the cabin was a locked lean-to. Ken removed the lock and pulled open the heavy door. Inside a light-blue, Suzuki four-wheel-drive ATV sat ready for use. An old Sportspal canoe hung from the rafters and Patrick could see that it could be lowered onto the metal rack of the ATV. "Does it run?" he asked referring to the ATV.
"Sure." Ken swung a loose board and retrieved the machine's key. He placed it in the ignition switch, adjusted the choke, and after only two attempts, started the Suzuki. "Do you know how to drive one?"
"I had a friend who used to race these in a little town north of King City. I drove his lots of times. Can I?"
"Sure! Go ahead."
Pat sat on the machine and toed the gearshift lever into first gear. With a little shot of gas, the machine lurched out of the shed.
"Follow the trail. It will take you to Lauder Lake."
"That's in the park, isn't it?"
"Yeah, the park border is only a short distance away. Only half of the lake was in the park when we were kids, but they moved the park border to take it all.
Pat pushed the throttle and drove the old machine through the forest toward the lake. He liked the feeling of power, but he also liked the feeling of being alone in the forest. Since he had arrived in Kiosk, he had always been with Ken. Now, he was off on his own. It felt good.
The trail was well used, but on both sides, the forest was thick. This was all second growth and if there was a park boundary, he couldn't see it. All of the forest had been cut. The trail widened a little and by the tire ruts, appeared to have been used by cars and trucks. A wider trail turned off to the right, but he passed this and continued on toward Lauder.
As he approached the lake, he saw that trees were larger, older, and he decelerated. Logging companies were not allowed to cut right to the shore of a lake and this fooled campers into believing that they were camping in old growth forest, when in truth, there was only a small circle of old growth around the lakes.
At the shore, Pat found a tiny, hand-made dock. He remembered the Lake. He had fished in it with Kenny many years ago, but then there had been no road access. It had to be reached by two portages from Kioshkokwi Lake
He turned the ATV around and followed another trail to a small cottage. Like Kenny's cabin, the windows and doors were heavily boarded, but there were signs of recent occupation. He was surprised because he had assumed the only cottages left in the park were the ones given to the Staniforths before the mill fire.
Shutting off the machine, he walked to the shore and looked at the lake. A small floating dock had been left in the water and he could picture a family relaxing on lawn chairs as the sun sparkled off the jewelled surface of the lake.
In the distance, barely audible, he heard the sound of children's voices. He looked right and left, but could see no one on the lake. Ghosts again? He felt the hair on his neck bristle. There was a sensation that someone was off in the bushes watching him.
The wind moaned as it blew through the needles of a tall white pine. The laughter was gone. Pat jumped on the Suzuki, started it, and spun its tires on the needle-covered ground as he turned back toward Ken's Cabin.
He backed the machine into the lean-to as Ken walked toward him. "It runs good," he said, turning off the key.
"Not bad."
"Why didn't we come here instead of going camping?"
"The fishing in Lauder isn't as good as it used to be. I thought you'd like Manitou better." Ken worked the lock back into place.
"You've got this place well outfitted."
"I've got a couple of caches around the area too."
"Oh?"
"You know, Richard showed me how to do that. I find a nice spot, dig a hole, bury a stove, an axe, a tarp and some pots and fishing gear and then I cover it with a piece of tin and some dead branches. You're not supposed to do that, but no one ever finds the stuff."
"So nothing ever gets stolen?"
Kenny laughed. "Oh, one or two times I found some of the stuff used - it was not put back the way I had put it there - but so far, nobody's taken anything."
"But you've got this place pretty well locked up."
"Well, you don't want to tempt people. This is all out in the open."
Pat shook his head. "So, someone found one of your caches, used the stuff, and then put it back?"
"Yep."
"I remember that mom and dad never locked their house. They would even go away for a whole day and leave the place unlocked. You wouldn't do that in the city."
They walked back into the cabin. "If you ever want to use this place to get away, feel free."
"Thanks." Pat looked at the trees in the distance. They still seemed gloomy and the sense that someone was just out of sight, watching him, stuck in his mind. "But I doubt I'll be back soon. This place is a long way from my life."

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Last modified: 09/02/02