Oh we were a ragamuffin bunch, no sight for your posh camping magazines. But we were equipped to survive. Everything we carried had a use and had proven itself time and again. The only addition was our Tin Lizzie, which had never been as far into the woods as my father intended to go.

He hung a map up in the kitchen and went over it with us and Miss Pauline.

“We’ll take the Model T in on that old logging trail to Beaver Creek,” he said. “We’ll drift down Beaver Creek, two, three days, and that ought to bring us to Big Wolf Lake. We should see big deer herds all along the way. We’ll hole up on Stag Island for a couple of days—fish, enjoy ourselves, then pack out to Tupper Lake. I’ll leave the canoe on Big Wolf, keep it there for fishing next spring.”

“How will you get the Ford out?”

“When we get back, I’ll borrow Hod Taylor’s truck, and Pete and me’ll drive in and pick her up.”

Miss Pauline ran out of questions. My father had thought out every part of the trip with great care.

As we prepared, I noticed, now that I was looking for them, signs of the impending winter. The big bull-frogs, which had serenaded us all summer with their bassy ker-chunk, had almost vanished, gone into muddy hibernation. The autumn foliage was at its brightest. The birch leaves were bright yellow, and the oaks were flaming pillars of red. The wild grape vines behind the barn were heavy with blue clusters dusted with gray powder. Tim and I ate them until we got a stomach ache. Traffic to the outhouse was heavy for a few days. After that first purple-fingered, juice-stained-mouth orgy, we moderated our attacks on the vines and picked several buckets for Miss Pauline to make into jelly. Our pear trees were bowed under fruit, and wild birds surrounded the windfalls in black swarms. We gathered more than enough for canning, until Miss Pauline cried, “No more!” and still there were pears rotting underfoot.

I marveled at the wisdom of nature—and of my father. Some days the temperature rose to ninety-five, and in the hot evenings the katydids filled the air with song. The lightning bugs were out, too. Tim and I caught them and filled a Mason jar, and they gave off enough light to read by. Winter seemed so far away that it was inconceivable, yet my father was hard at work preparing for it. So were the animals in the forest.

The day for our departure came closer. The preparations were nearly complete. I still found it hard to believe that we were really going. This new adventure was more than either Tim or I had hoped for. Usually when the weather was good enough for such trips, my father had a client for fishing or hunting or simply exploring. But this time, he turned them down in order to have the time for the canoe trip.