Chapter Nine
Mr. Hobbs meets them out on the porch to the main lodge. The lodge has a wrap-around plank porch that sits up two feet off the ground like the lodge itself. It allows for flood flow underneath. Stilts buried deep into the bedrock make the lodge sturdy and mostly level.
“The Krafts?”
“Yes, hello. I’m Hank. This is my wife Alison, and our son Jimmy.”
“Hi,” Alison is a little breathless but not from the exercise, she doesn’t really know why, although it might be because she still feels nauseous.
“Hobbs. Follow me. Cabins are named. You’re Cabin Four.” Hobbs is a master of the short declarative sentence. Communication annoys him.
Hobbs waddles off ahead of them. Alison smiles to herself from the juxtaposition of this man and her expectations of him. This is not the mountain man type she had envisioned. He is crotchety, with a sour face, and flaps of sagging skin that nearly cover his deep-set raisin eyes. He doesn’t look healthy, not like a man breathing clean air and living the proverbial outdoor life. He looks beaten up by wind, by rain, by cold, and by intentional neglect. She knows he can’t be over sixty, but he looks a hundred and ten. She is feeling better about herself. If Hobbs is a model of the rugged natural life then her life is clearly healthier.
Hobbs smacks open the door to Cabin Four with his shoulder and they step in. It is an ascetic sight, three cots, a wooden dresser, and a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls are not finished, so the studs are visible, and it is devoid of insulation.
“Our best.” Hobbs says proudly.
“It’s great!” Jimmy beams.
“It’s not finished.” Alison can’t help herself. She couldn’t have imagined something this primitive. Surely, drywall and paint are not luxuries.
“Outhouse in back. Dinner at six p.m. Breakfast at six a.m. Easy to remember.”
Hank steals a glance at Alison and whispers. “No reason why you can’t sleep late.”
“And really why would I ever want to leave here?” She eyes him.
“I use the P.A. loudspeaker to wake folks. Boat leaves by six-forty-five.”
“Cool.” Jimmy nods at his dad.
Hank says, “Took us longer to get here than we expected.”
“Not near nothing.”
“Yeah, felt far,” Hank agreed.
“Getting’ here’s half the charm.”
“Where’s the other half?” she asks herself quietly. She smacks the mosquito biting her through her sweatshirt. She begins to scratch. Hobbs shuts the door. Alison looks at her two boys.
“Okay!” Hank starts with comically false cheer, “So, let’s unpack then. I’m sure the main lodge is great.” Alison stands motionless. Hank nods to Jimmy, “C’mon, buddy, let’s move these cots together so we can sleep closer, I think we’ll need the warmth.”
Alison does not want to be the person this adventure is making her. She doesn’t want to be the complaining wussy woman. It is simply a role she decides she will not play. She has always been flexible, sort of. If this is it, then she will pull it together and surprise them all. She rolls the suitcase over to the chest of drawers and begins to unpack their clothing along with her new attitude.
She says, “And I saw smoke, so there is probably a great fire going in there, too. It’ll be nice. I’m sure.”
An hour later, when the storm starts for real, it screams like the Greek Furies. Hysterical winds whip through the trees and torrential downpours pummel the fishing camp. Inside the main lodge, there are no happy campers.
The lodge is one large wood-paneled room, a door on the left leads to a small kitchen. Covering the floor are a number of Chippewa rugs, geometric in design, with once bright colors now badly faded. A titanic fire rages in the brick fireplace warming the room. Two stuffed sofas and eight armchairs, comfortable from age, surround the hearth. Along the far wall is a bookcase jammed with old fishing magazines, and in front of that, is a circular game table with a half-finished puzzle on top. Over by the kitchen-side of the room is one long rectangular dining table where the meals are served family style.
Tonight ten people sit around the table. Bella Connors is the only one who has opted out of the evening meal. A thirty-year-old writer for Outback Magazine, she came prepared, and she had some granola in her cabin before venturing out toward the main lodge. Experience has taught her caution. She has done too much wilderness traveling not to be wary of unknown food sources. If everyone stays healthy, she’ll eat tomorrow. Presently, she leans against the stone hearth, looking over into the warming fire, with a cup of hot coffee.
Around the dinner table are the Krafts, Hobbs, two college boys named Grant and Bruce, the Hutchinsons, a young married couple, and two hard-core redneck fifty-year-old fisherman named Dan and Mike. On the table is a bowl of hearty looking beef stew and a loaf of brown bread. Alison does not eat meat, but would never admit it with this crowd. She notices there is no green anything, no salad, no string beans, no asparagus…nothing. Ironically, she thinks, all of the green is outside. The bread looks okay and she could eat that if she could eat - which she can’t.
Grant continues, “Hey, look, we’re all disappointed, but only a moron would go out in a boat in this kind of storm.”
“Are you calling me a moron, college boy?” Dan riles easily.
“It’s a general comment. Not specific to anyone here,” he answers coolly.
Mike talks to Dan, “Calm down. The kid didn’t mean anything by it.”
Bruce joins in, “Maybe it’ll blow through by morning.”
Dan looks to Hobbs for input, “Will it?”
“Dunno.”
“Yeah,” Dan looks dejected, “I sure as hell didn’t come all this way to play Parcheesi.”
Jimmy says delighted, “You have Parcheesi?” Hank laughs and Jimmy looks at him confused.
Julie Hutchinson says, “Have you ever been fishing, Jimmy?”
“No, but so far, this is the coolest vacation we’ve ever had.” Hank and Alison exchange smiles. “Last year we went to this boring hotel in France.”
Julie holds her grin, “Yeah, sounds awful.”
“Nothing to do there. Mom liked it ‘cause at the beach she got to take her top off.”
“Jimmy, I did not.” The group looks at Alison who reddens.
“Okay you didn’t but other girls did. It was gross. They were all old.”
“Clearly the wrong child to take to Nice.” She looks back at her plate with the one chunk of bread on it. Her stomach lurches again. “How can I still be seasick? I’m on the ground.”
“Sometimes it takes a couple of hours to feel normal again,” Bella says kindly. It only took Bella seconds to recognize this is not Alison Kraft’s idea of a vacation. She is so obviously the gentle bookworm type. Bella doesn’t usually run into women like this when she travels. They are usually more like Julie Hutchinson: Patagonia jacket, hiking boots, scrubbed face, no nail polish. Yes, there is most definitely a type of woman for this kind of travel. Maybe that should be the angle for her story, she thinks.
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