The Creek - part two

     Steve held up a baby food jar half-filled with clear liquid.  We were in his father’s garage, preparing for a mid-winter’s evening foray across the creek to the edge of the woods, where we had constructed our first make-shift fort.  He returned the can of camp stove fuel to its place beneath the workbench and assured me we would need this if we had trouble getting our campfire going.  We hadn’t been to the fort in over a week, and it had snowed.  Prudent forethought.

The creek behind the neighbourhood of my adolescence was a much different place in winter.  Gone were the insects and birds.  The reptiles and amphibians were hibernating.  The constraints of the canoe were abandoned; everywhere was accessible by foot.  When conditions were right, not too much snow or wind during a decisive drop in temperature, the slack current of the wide channel would freeze to a crystal gloss.  We’d skate and play hockey.  First rule:  everyone had to bring a puck.  Errant shots could be swallowed by the cattail fringe of our rink, forever.  Our skates, notoriously lacking insulation, allowed our feet to quickly numb from the cold.  We’d play until the pucks ran out, or it became too dark to see.  Back home, tears would stream down our faces as jabs of pain pierced our thawing toes.

One brilliant afternoon, Steve persuaded his older brother, an engineering student at university, to let us take his homemade dune-buggy onto the creek.  If you can call an ancient Volkswagen Beetle, body removed, shortened by a foot or so where the rear seats used to be, a dune-buggy.  Steve was driving, Greg in the passenger seat.  I didn’t have a seat.  I was crouched in the small space between the front seats and the rear-mounted engine.  Belts were whirring, wheels were exposed, no fenders or protection whatsoever.

Steve eased the vehicle past the garage, onto the bumpy terrain of undeveloped land behind his house.  We lurched and vaulted our way through the snow down to the bank, then manoeuvred through the thick, frozen cattails of a slender lead.  Traction was limited on the glare ice.  Gingerly, we rounded a bend and Steve brought the car to a stop.  We sat in silence for a moment, transfixed by the straight, wide expanse of the main channel stretching out before us.  Seventy metres across and a kilometre long, with no obstruction in sight.  Steve’s grip on the wheel tightened.  The distinctive ring of the Bug’s engine began to rise in pitch.  We rolled out, gently gaining speed.  Steve kept the pressure on the accelerator, his arms and head rigid, intent on keeping the car straight.  Faster.  Our eyes began to water in the icy wind.  The engine revs crept higher.  Faster still.  There was no speedometer, but we were flying.  Steve intended to see how fast the dune-buggy could go.  The dune-buggy thought different.  The heavier rear end decided it should take the lead.  The ice was having none of it and sent us spinning freely.  Round and around we went, not scrubbing off any speed at all.  We plowed into the cattails, sending the fluff flying.  We laughed until our cheeks hurt and our stomach muscles ached.

Preparation complete, with hatchet, flashlight, shovel, waterproof matches, a couple of chocolate bars and a small jar of white gas, we set out across the creek, snow squeaking beneath our insulated boots.  The night air, though frigid, was still, and the rising moon painted an ethereal snowscape.

We had spent hours chopping branches and saplings to make a frame for our small fort.  Lashed together with twine, it was circular and big enough for three to sit comfortably.  It had vertical sides, sloping roof, and a small fire pit opposite the entrance.  Steve had access to a roll of heavy polyethylene, so we wrapped the whole thing, leaving a hole and draping an ersatz chimney over the fire pit to clear the smoke.  I had been examining cattails.  There was the familiar tall spike with the brown, cigar-like seed head of tightly packed fluff, and blade-like leaves.  Nearer the base the stalk was about the width and thickness of the palm of your hand.  The cross-section has a cellular structure resembling rigid foam.  This would make great insulation, I surmised.  We harvested cattail stalks in three-foot lengths and lined the interior walls.  They worked perfectly, and with a small fire we were toasty.

We trudged up to the fort.  The snowdrift in the entrance was easily cleared.  We gathered a bit of tinder, brushed off some stored firewood, and settled into the fort.  The tinder caught quickly but burned too fast.  It failed to produce enough heat to ignite the larger, frozen pieces of wood.  Steve opened the baby food jar, held it over the fire pit and slowly tipped it, attempting to add a dribble to the defunct kindling.  Exhilarating is not a word I would use to describe what happened next.  An intense flame leapt up the stream and into the jar.  Steve instantly dropped it.  White gas splashed everywhere and burst into a roaring fire.  We scrambled out in panic and began, in vain, to throw snow on the fort.  Not only do dead cattail stalks make good insulation, but they also burn incredibly well.  The fort was consumed in true Hindenburg fashion.  Our fears of starting a forest fire quickly waned.  The fort was the only inflammable thing around on a mid-winter’s night.