Memory (Short Story) published in Northword Magazine

Written by Allison Smith, with Joseph Crawford

“Stick your face in the moss and take a big inhale,” I suggested as I kneeled down and squished my face in the forest floor.

They looked at me like I was a bit crazy for suggesting it, like I was trying to play a joke on them. It wasn’t something they had been asked to do on the streets of Toronto before. But after they reluctantly tried it, they were converted. It wasn’t  long before I would find them with their faces pressed to the ground, sucking in the fresh, cool air from a big patch of soft moss.

“I’m telling you one day this will be a treatment at a spa: moss breathing, a Haida Gwaii moss facial.” They laughed at the thought.

Guiding  tests your patience, your endurance, and your wilderness experience. You’re up before everyone else. Making coffee and oatmeal while the guests get another hour of sleep. And you’re the last to bed. Putting the food in the cache, listening to the radio, and making sure the fire is out. You’re always on. You’re happy, approachable and  full of stories. Always.

I like people. I like meeting people, talking to people, making them laugh when they are on the edge of being uncomfortable. I like learning about their experiences and hearing their stories. As a guide, you never know what personalities will walk through the shop door.

~

It was an early August morning when Anita and Peter came into the shop looking to join a two day kayak trip. They were friendly, with a free spiritedness about them. As Anita made her way through the paperwork, Peter quickly pulled me aside.

“Just so you know, I have early onset Alzheimer’s and I might forget some things.”

I paused. I wasn’t sure what that would mean and how to navigate it. I reflected back to previous trips I had guided, where I had to juggle various abilities and personalities. It isn’t easy to manage a large group as a solo guide.

So I asked: “Will you forget that you’re kayaking?”

“No,” Peter smiled.

I helped Peter, Anita, and the three other guests pack their bags, making sure they had their appropriate overnight equipment, rain gear, and dry bags. We all loaded into the van and headed to the island’s west coast, kayaks on a trailer behind us.

When we reached the coast, we unloaded and packed the kayaks. I led an obligatory orientation of how to get in and out of a kayak. And, in the unlikely scenario, what to do if a kayak flips. Then we paddled.

From the beginning, I could tell Peter and Anita were in awe. The awe that hits a guest right in the face, giving them a permanent smile. They talked about how they hadn’t imagined it would be this beautiful and how Haida Gwaii had always been on their bucket list. But now that bucket list had a lurking ending. It had become a list of the last opportunities to share memories and experience places together. It changed how they experienced places.

As we paddled, Peter kept pointing to the rugged shore.

“Look at the cedar branches, twisting and rolling like an arch.” We stopped to marvel at the shape a dead cedar tree makes when it is close to water. I hadn’t really noticed it before.

We paddled for a few hours, then began to jig for rockfish from our kayaks. Anita and Peter were both in single kayaks parallel to each other. It was Anita’s first time fishing, and one of her first times kayaking. I could tell she was nervous, and curious to see what would happen. After some patient jigging, Anita had a tug on her rod. I hollered for her to pull back and start reeling it in. She furiously turned the handle on the reel. Peter balanced her boat with his paddle as she pulled the spiny, grey fish onto her sprayskirt. She and Peter celebrated with roars of excitement. Another memory. Later that evening, I gutted the fish and cooked it whole on the fire. They all crept in close, shoulder-to-shoulder, eager to try the white, juicy flakes of meat.

Peter was pleased. He kept raving about the freshness and the taste. Suddenly, his eyebrows furrowed and he looked lost and confused. He swallowed his last piece and asked the group, “Where did we get the fish from?”

I sat there thinking that if I’d forgotten the first time my girlfriend caught her first fish, she would have been a bit miffed. It would have been like forgetting an anniversary or a birthday. By the looks of everyone else around the fire, I could tell they felt the same way. The group looked at Anita with little discretion, waiting for her response.

Anita responded with a lovely, matter-of-fact, “Honey, I caught the fish.”

We were humbled.

The next day after breakfast I took the group on a hike on a decommissioned logging road. Anita and Peter told me about their children and the urgency to get to know and spend time with their grandkids. How they wanted to experience the world together. We walked beneath the moss-covered branches that looked like arms reaching for each other. The group started to drift into pairs. Peter and I were near the front, Anita slowly pacing behind us. It was warm, and the sun was nearly overhead as we approached a lake.

Peter reached forward, which I thought was an attempt to brace himself from fatigue or tripping. I fumbled to catch him, but he caught his balance on a cedar tree that reached out over the water. Peter stood there, touching its barkless trunk, marvelling again. This time, I wanted to know what was going through his mind.

“I remember this tree. Were we here yesterday?” he asked.

“No, but we paddled by a similar tree,” I said.

“These cedar arches remind me of a wedding arch or altar, of marriage.”

It was like a transcendent memory, or a feeling of déjà vu. I was surprised he wasn’t anxious or frustrated with himself for not remembering. He never got hung up on his failing memory but embraced new experiences while allowing old ones to filter through.

He had noted this arch again and again on the trip, and each time he marvelled at its shape. I was inspired by the way he was experiencing this place, with memories intertwining the beauty of his past with new experiences. It was almost as if this memory of a wedding arch was seeping through his mind, taking shape and reconfiguring in nature.

Anita joined us. She stood beside Peter and held onto to him, standing by their cedar wedding arch.