A Walk in the Woods

(Sean Pound) #1

block, and a couple of other indeterminate buildings scattered around a big, level, open
area clearly intended for camper vans and recreational vehicles. By the entrance, in an old
white house, was the office, which was really a general store. We went in and found that
every hiker for twenty miles was already there, several of them sitting around a wood
stove eating chili or ice cream and looking rosy cheeked and warm and clean. Three or
four of them we knew already. The campground was run by Buddy and Jensine Cross-
man, who seemed friendly and welcoming. If nothing else, it was probably not often that
business was this good in March. I inquired about a cabin.
Jensine stubbed out a cigarette and laughed at my naivete, which caused her a small
coughing attack. "Honey, the cabins went two days ago. There's two places left in the
bunkhouse. After that, people are going to have to sleep on floors."
Bunkhouse is not a word I particularly want to hear at my age, but we had no choice.
We signed in, were given two very small, stiff towels for the shower, and trudged off
across the grounds to see what we got for our $11 apiece. The answer was very little.
The bunkhouse was basic and awesomely unlovely. It was dominated by twelve narrow
wood bunks stacked in tiers of three, each with a thin bare mattress and a grubby bare
pillow lumpily filled with shreds of Styrofoam. In one corner stood a potbellied stove,
hissing softly, surrounded by a semicircle of limp boots and draped with wet woollen
socks, which steamed foully. A small wooden table and a pair of broken-down easy chairs,
both sprouting stuffing, completed the furnishings. Everywhere there was stuff--tents,
clothes, backpacks, raincovers--hanging out to dry, dripping sluggishly. The floor was bare
concrete, the walls uninsulated plywood. It was singularly univiting, like camping in a
garage.
"Welcome to the Stalag," said a man with an ironic smile and an English accent. His
name was Peter Fleming, and he was a lecturer at a college in New Brunswick who had
come south for a week's hiking but, like everyone else, had been driven in by the snow.
He introduced us around--each person greeted us with a friendly but desultory nod--and
indicated which were the spare bunks, one on the top level, nearly up at the ceiling, the
other on the bottom on the opposite side of the room.
"Red Cross parcels come on the last Friday of the month, and there'll be a meeting of
the escape committee at nineteen hundred hours this evening. I think that's about all you
need to know."
"And don't order the Philly cheese steak sandwich unless you want to puke all night,"
said a wan but heartfelt voice from a shadowy bunk in the corner.
"That's Tex," Fleming explained. We nodded.
Katz selected a top bunk and set about the long challenge of trying to get into it. I
turned to my own bunk and examined it with a kind of appalled fascination. If the
mattress stains were anything to go by, a previous user had not so much suffered from
incontinence as rejoiced in it. He had evidently included the pillow in his celebrations. I
lifted it and sniffed it, then wished I hadn't. I spread out my sleeping bag, draped some
socks over the stove, hung up a few things to dry, then sat on the edge of the bed and
passed a pleasant half hour with the others watching Katz's dogged struggle to the
summit, which mostly involved deep grunts, swimming legs, and invitations to all
onlookers and well-wishers to go fuck themselves. From where I sat, all I could see was
his expansive butt and homeless lower limbs. His posture brought to mind a shipwreck

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