Wilderness Tips Read Online Free Page A

What she wants is what Ronette has: the power to give herself up, without reservation and without commentary. It’s that languor, that leaning back. Voluptuous mindlessness. Everything Joanne herself does is surrounded by quotation marks.
    “Marshmallows. Geez,” says Perry, in a doleful, cheated voice. All that paddling, and what for? Why the hell did she come along, if not to make out?
    Joanne feels guilty of a lapse of manners. Would it hurt so much to kiss him?
    Yes. It would.
    Donny and Monty are on a canoe trip, somewhere within the tangled bush of the mainland. Camp Adanaqui is known for its tripping. For five days they and the others, twelve boys in all, have been paddling across lake after lake, hauling the gear over wave-rounded boulders or through the suck and stench of the moose-meadows at the portage entrances, grunting uphill with the packs and canoes,slapping the mosquitoes off their legs. Monty has blisters, on both his feet and his hands. Donny isn’t too sad about that. He himself has a festering sliver. Maybe he will get blood-poisoning, become delirious, collapse and die on a portage, among the rocks and pine needles. That will serve someone right. Someone ought to be made to pay for the pain he’s feeling.
    The counsellors are Darce and Perry. During the days they crack the whip; at night they relax, backs against a rock or tree, smoking and supervising while the boys light the fire, carry the water, cook the Kraft Dinners. They both have smooth large muscles which ripple under their tans, they both – by now – have stubbly beards. When everyone goes swimming Donny sneaks covert, envious looks at their groins. They make him feel spindly, and infantile in his own desires.
    Right now it’s night. Perry and Darce are still up, talking in low voices, poking the embers of the dying fire. The boys are supposed to be asleep. There are tents in case of rain, but nobody’s suggested putting them up since the day before yesterday. The smell of grime and sweaty feet and wood smoke is getting too potent at close quarters; the sleeping bags are high as cheese. It’s better to be outside, rolled up in the bag, a groundsheet handy in case of a deluge, head under a turned-over canoe.
    Monty is the only one who has voted for a tent. The bugs are getting to him; he says he’s allergic. He hates canoe trips and makes no secret of it. When he’s older, he says, and can finally get his hands on the family boodle, he’s going to buy the place from Mr. B. and close it down. “Generations of boys unborn will thank me,” he says. “They’ll give me a medal.” Sometimes Donny almost likes him. He’s so blatant about wanting to be filthy rich. No hypocrisy about him, not like some of the other millionaire offshoots, who pretend they want to be scientists or something else that’s not paid much.
    Now Monty is twisting around, scratching his bites. “Hey Finley,” he whispers.
    “Go to sleep,” says Donny.
    “I bet they’ve got a flask.”
    “What?”
    “I bet they’re drinking. I smelled it on Perry’s breath yesterday.”
    “So?” says Donny.
    “So,” says Monty. “It’s against the rules. Maybe we can get something out of them.”
    Donny has to hand it to him. He certainly knows the angles. At the very least they might be able to share the wealth.
    The two of them inch out of their sleeping bags and circle around behind the fire, keeping low. Their practice while spying on the waitresses stands them in good stead. They crouch behind a bushy spruce, watching for lifted elbows or the outlines of bottles, their ears straining.
    But what they hear isn’t about booze. Instead it’s about Ronette. Darce is talking about her as if she’s a piece of meat. From what he’s implying, she lets him do anything he wants. “Summer sausage” is what he calls her. This is an expression Donny has never heard before, and ordinarily he would think it was hilarious.
    Monty sniggers under his breath and pokes