Nature Girl (18 page)

“Don’t worry. We’re not going THAT far. We’ll just find a river so you can catch a fish.”

Arp cocks his head.

“Come on.” I start walking along the edge of the stream. I step from rock to rock. Arp stays on the bank, slithering under the bushes. I go faster than he does. Well, my legs are longer. But I can tell he doesn’t think much of this plan. To be honest, neither do I.

Let me tell you the whole trouble with the world. You never get to choose between something you want and something you don’t want. Your mom never says, “Would you like broccoli or a chocolate-pudding cup?” Your mom says, “Would you like broccoli or cauliflower?”

If we keep going away from the Trail, we might not even find a river. And if we do find a river, Arp might not be able to catch a fish. Even if he catches a fish so we don’t starve, we might get lost for real (only no one will be looking for us, since we have told them not to). Then we’ll never make it to Mount Greylock. And I won’t finish my Hodgkin’s Hike or apologize to Lucy so we can be friends like we were before.

But if we stay on the Trail, we won’t find anything to eat. Instead, people will find us. And once they find us, our journey won’t end in triumph. We’ll have suffered all these miles for nothing but failure. All we’ll prove is how dumb we were to even try.

Broccoli or cauliflower?

More people pass by along the Trail up above us on the ridge. It’s a whole summer camp. “Stay with your buddy. Don’t leave the Trail,” the counselors shout.

But here’s the thing: sometimes if you want to be with your buddy, you have to leave the Trail.

Then I see a place where the stream empties into a river that’s definitely big enough for real fish. I run on ahead, happy that at least this much of the plan is going right. I run through what looks like tall grass along the shore. AND SINK IN GUNK!

I stop running and pull up my left foot. I lose my shoe. Then, as I lean over to pick it up, I sink some more and fall
splat
in slimy goosh!

Apparently Vermont isn’t the only state with disgusting water.

But I can’t worry about that. I have to get my shoe. I can’t hike without it. After slipping and sliding in the gunk, I grab it. Then I crawl to a dead tree that stretches across the river like a bridge. I pull myself up on it just as Arp comes trotting down.

“Be careful!” I warn him.

He stays away from the weeds and goes over to a little pool that’s a few feet from the river. When he wades in it, the shallow water barely gets his belly wet.

“That’s not deep enough for a fish. They’re all in the river. Come on, what are you waiting for? Catch us a fish.”

As usual he doesn’t listen to me.

I dip my shoe in the water to rinse off the mud. Then
I toss it onto a big flat rock on the shore to dry. I throw my other shoe over there too. That rock will be a good place to build a fire to cook the fish. And you better believe I’m going to cook it. Patricia Palombo and her friends always brag about the best place to eat sushi. But they’d scream their heads off if I handed them a real live raw fish.

Arp is still just standing in the little pool. Sometimes he snaps at a dragonfly.

“What are you doing? That’s no way to catch a fish.”

I can see that I’ll have to do something. But what?

The book I threw away probably told exactly how to make a fishing pole out of a tree and carve a fishhook out of another tree and make a fishing line by tying pieces of my hair together. But it’s no help to me now.

“I did my job, Arp. I found the river. Now you have to catch the fish.”

He just drinks a little water and shakes the drops off his fur.

“You know how much I hate going in the water,” I tell him.

Then I look down at the river. I’m thinking, What am I afraid of? I’ve already survived so many worse things. Then I realize something. I’m not that kid who’s scared to death of what’s in the water anymore. I’m Nature Girl.

And if I jump in the river from the log, my feet won’t sink in that slimy goosh by the shore.

I take off my shorts and my shirt and toss them to dry land. (I keep my underwear on.) I walk out further along
the log until I reach the middle of the river. I only hesitate for a second. I mean, if you were standing on a log in your underwear, would you spend a lot of time worrying about what’s in the water? Then I jump in.

I don’t sink in gunk. I’m swept along by a rushing current!

Somehow, I fight my way to the surface. Once my head is above the water, I try to swim back to the tree bridge. But I can’t. The current carries me further and further downstream.

Arp is barking. When I try to call to him, I get a mouthful of water. I’m swept around a bend. The current spins me around. Then I gasp. Up ahead, I see white froth as the water crashes over some rocks. Beyond that, I can’t see any more water. The river ends in a waterfall. But does it drop two feet? Or two hundred?

The water rushes on. I bump into rocks below the surface. But I can’t hang on to anything. It’s all going by too fast.

I try to swim straight to shore, but I can’t. The water pushes me toward the falls.

Then I notice a tree growing out of a rock along the shore between me and the end. The rock sticks out into the river. And the tree has a branch that’s hanging in the water. I swim as hard as I can sort of with the current, but toward that branch. It looks thin. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t strong.

When I get to the branch, the current almost sweeps
me past it. I have to reach back to grab it. The branch bends and bends. I think it’s going to break! But it doesn’t. I just hang on to it for a moment, trying to catch my breath. Then I pull myself along it until I get to the rock. Now the current is pushing me against the rock. But somehow I get one leg up, then the other knee. Finally I’m lying on the rock, with my arms around the tree, splattered by spray from the churning water that rushes past.

I’m shivering with exhaustion and the cold. When I feel brave enough, I stand up. Now I can see over the waterfall. It isn’t two hundred feet; it’s barely even four. But when I see all the smashed logs at the rocky bottom of the falls, I’m glad I didn’t have to go there.

In the distance, I hear Arp bark.

“Stay!” I’m afraid he’ll follow me. I quickly slide down off the rock on the side closest to the shore. My feet land in gunk! Beautiful, slimy goosh grabs at my legs and holds my feet. When I get to the edge, I don’t go back onto dry land. I wade where the current isn’t so strong. The water feels cool and refreshing. It soothes my bug bites. If I weren’t so worried about Arp, I’d probably go swimming again.

Here’s something you probably already knew about lakes and rivers. It’s sort of obvious, but I never realized it until this moment. Lakes have gunky parts you don’t even want to think about. But if you stay out of the lake because of them, you’ll never find the parts that are good.

I wish I could tell Lucy that. I wish I could tell her
how I know I’m awkward and clueless and no good at knitting, but I also have good parts. I’m a lake. And other people are more like bottles of water. Maybe the bottles have fancy labels, but inside it’s just plain water.

I wade up the river, around the bend. Arp is still standing by the little pool, right where I left him. “Arp! Here I am!”

Does he run toward me? Does he leap into my arms and lick my face all over? Is he glad the river didn’t sweep me over the waterfall and carry my broken body all the way to the Atlantic Ocean?

No. He isn’t. He just barks at that little pool.

I’m so annoyed I stomp over to him. “What kind of Loyal Dog are you?”

But I don’t say anything more. Because as soon as I get to the pool, I see what he’s barking at. Somehow (and I’ll never know how, since I was a little busy when he did it), Arp trapped a big speckled fish!

After I finish congratulating Arp for being such a terrific Loyal Dog, we watch the fish flop around in the little pond.

Yes, it’s flopping because it isn’t dead. It’s very alive and it’s trying to flop itself back to the river. But we can’t let it swim away.

“Kill it,” I say to Arp.

Arp barks. I guess he’s saying, “I caught it, so you kill it.”

I shut my eyes. I wish I was sitting in a restaurant and watching the waiter put a big plate of fish and chips on the table in front of me. But I’m not. So I open my eyes. I don’t wait around for the yucky voice to tell me I can’t do something. I find the biggest rock I can hold in one hand. Then I bash the fish on the head.

Now the fish is definitely dead. It looks more like the fish I see in the grocery store. But it’s different because I killed it. I carefully put the rock down. Then I say a little thank you to the fish for feeding us. “Don’t feel too sad,
Arp. It’s all part of the cycle of life. It ate a bunch of little fish and now we eat it.”

Arp barks at me. He isn’t interested in big questions about life and death. He’s saying, “So let’s eat it already!”

There’s one problem. I don’t know what to do next. “There were probably instructions in that book. Why did you let me throw it away?”

Arp barks. I guess he’s saying, “Shut up about that book and just clean the fish.” So I do. First I get a fire going on the flat rock where my shoes are drying. Then I find the sharpest stone I can. I saw off the fish’s head so its eyes can’t stare at me anymore. Then I slice open the body and scrape out the disgusting bits. To be honest, it mostly looks disgusting, but I try to keep the parts that remind me of tuna salad. Then I make a kind of grill with a bunch of really green sticks and I lay the fish on it.

Of course, while I am doing all this work, Arp is gobbling up the disgusting parts. But I try not to think about that. While the fish cooks, I draw a picture of it. It makes me sad to draw it in the fire, though, so I draw it swimming up to fish heaven.

I’m so busy drawing that I don’t notice how the fire is eating up our dinner until flames shoot into the sky. That isn’t supposed to be part of the cycle of life! I quickly find a really long stick to poke our dinner out of the fire. The fish is totally black, but we don’t care. It tastes delicious. We eat every bit we can. Arp has a nice long drink from the river. I wish I could drink that water too, but I just take a few sips from my bottle. I don’t have much water left. Then we fall asleep on our blanket even though the sun hasn’t set yet.

I wake up when there’s a light in my eyes. At first I think, Oh no! We’ve been rescued. But it isn’t the State Patrol with a flashlight. The moon has risen above the trees and is shining down on us. I check my watch. It’s only three in the morning. But I don’t feel tired. In fact, I feel kind of excited. “Today’s going to be the day!”

Arp doesn’t say anything. He’s probably thinking, How can today be the day when it isn’t day yet?

But I pet him until he wakes up. I pack our stuff and put out what’s left of the fire. Then we retrace our steps back along the stream. Going up is harder, but at least we aren’t starving anymore. My main worry is that we won’t be able to find the Trail in the dark. I don’t want to
walk in the stream and get my shoes wet. I’m sort of crashing through the bushes when I hear a strange sound like an animal growling. I don’t think chipmunks and rabbits growl. I’m very worried that it’s another bear. Then I realize the growling is actually snoring. And then I see a splotch of orange hanging on a tree limb. It’s Trail Blaze Betty’s hat!

I can’t believe Trail Blaze Betty has followed us all the way to Massachusetts. It’s very weird to find her right at the spot where we left the Trail, just like she was the other time when we went to the lake. It’s like she’s waiting for us to come back. I’m certainly not going to wake her up to ask her why. I pick up Arp and tiptoe around her as quietly as I can and get back on the smooth, wide Trail.

I like walking at night. Even though the moon is bright, I’ve never seen so many stars. In New York, you only see about three, and sometimes what you think is a star is a jet. But now there are millions above my head. I know those stars didn’t just show up tonight; they’re up there all the time. That makes me wonder how many other things are out there that most of the time you just can’t see.

It’s kind of like being friends with somebody. Your friend is still your friend even when you’re not with her. If she is a real friend, I mean, and not a Patricia Palombo, who would forget all about you the moment you stopped admiring her outfits.

After about an hour, we start going uphill. And that
uphill is so UP that it has to be Mount Greylock. I mean, how many mountains could there be in Massachusetts?

“I told you, Arp. Today’s the day.”

The sky gets lighter. I walk faster. Even though we ate that fish, I’m hungry again. I can’t wait to get to the top of Mount Greylock. I wonder what else the store will sell. It has to have something besides postcards and Double Stuf Oreos. I can almost see the assortment of snacks. All those shiny colors I haven’t seen in days, like bright red and orange and blue. All those different kinds of potato chips. Except I don’t want snacks or even ice cream. I want a bucket of macaroni and cheese and a gallon of orange juice—without pulp. If they don’t have dog food, I’ll buy Arp a dozen Slim Jims. I should have enough money to get all that. I have ten whole dollars and four quarters—but those are for calling Lucy.