Read Online The Color of Water in July by Nora Carroll - Free Book Online
Authors: Nora Carroll
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carrying a musket and looking for Indian signs, you know, like Ernie would have done.”
“Indian signs?” Jess said. “Honestly, Russ, aren’t you going a little too far with the Hemingway thing?”
Russ was unfazed. “Well, I don’t think it would be right to come to Hemingway country and not walk in the woods. Come on, let’s get it over with.”
Reluctantly, Jess agreed. Why shouldn’t she go into the woods? She had come to the cottage. No point in treating the woods like some kind of sacred space. As a child, Jess had thought of the woods as being trackless and indefinably vast. She now understood the geography of the place much better. There was a little pie-shaped area of undeveloped land, cutting between the road and the lakeshore. People said that in the winter, when the trees were bare, you could see right out to the road. It was in those woods that the last of the giant white pine stood. She hadn’t known that as a child, didn’t remember anyone mentioning it. It wasn’t the kind of thing—golf scores, sailing races—that Wequetona people usually talked about.
So she would take a little walk in the woods with Russ. She was sure he would soon tire of looking at trees. Russ went into the bedroom to get ready, and when he came out, Jess bit back a laugh. Out of his usual city garb, he was wearing a neon-yellow Columbia Sportswear jacket and hiking boots that looked like they had been designed to withstand a trek into the Himalayas. In one hand, he held The Field Guide to the Deciduous Trees of North America , and in the other, a little combo gizmo that looked like some kind of a compass/flashlight/hunting knife.
Instead of turning left at the front walk that led back toward the other cottages and the beach, they turned right where the walkway shortly turned into the woods and led over a rustic footbridge. It soon became a narrow path, so thickly covered with pine needles that their footsteps made a hollow, thumping sound when they walked.
Just beyond the footbridge, not more than twenty yards into the woods, Jess noticed a sign that she did not recall having seen there before: L ITTLE T RAVERSE C ONSERVANCY. C ONSERVATION L AND. N O HUNTING, FIRES, OR DISTURBING PLANT LIFE. S TAY ON CLEARLY MARKED PATHS.
“That’s funny,” Jess said, reading the sign. “Mamie always told me that these woods were part of our property. Her father made his fortune in lumber, but Mamie told me that when the loggers were set to clear-cut through these woods, he bought the land right out from under them and then left it untouched. Supposedly, almost all the hardwoods were gone by then, but this little patch was left because it was farthest away from the mill.”
“An early visionary of conservation?”
“No, not exactly that. What I heard was that the loggers would have set up camp in the woods—Miss Ada, my great-grandmother, didn’t want the camp there, on account of the smell.”
“What smell?”
“The Indian smell.”
“Well, maybe your grandmother donated the land—it’s not a bad write-off, you know.”
“Oh, that’s impossible,” Jess said. “Margaret would have told me. Besides, Mamie wasn’t exactly the nature-preserve type. She hated the woods. Never set foot in them, as far as I know.”
“The whole story about your great-grandfather was probably just made up. Most stories like that are, you know.”
Russ was hitting his stride. He had his Peterson field guide open and was reading from the introduction—reading, with a tone of authority, about single leaves and leaf clusters, leaf scars, and leaf buds. It had seemed a bright day when they had set out, but now Jess suspected that the sky had clouded over. Though she couldn’t really see the sky through the canopy of leaves, it was dark in the woods, and little sunlight seemed to be filtering through. The woods did appear to go on forever, but if she listened carefully, she could hear the low rumble of cars out on the highway. Jess
“Indian signs?” Jess said. “Honestly, Russ, aren’t you going a little too far with the Hemingway thing?”
Russ was unfazed. “Well, I don’t think it would be right to come to Hemingway country and not walk in the woods. Come on, let’s get it over with.”
Reluctantly, Jess agreed. Why shouldn’t she go into the woods? She had come to the cottage. No point in treating the woods like some kind of sacred space. As a child, Jess had thought of the woods as being trackless and indefinably vast. She now understood the geography of the place much better. There was a little pie-shaped area of undeveloped land, cutting between the road and the lakeshore. People said that in the winter, when the trees were bare, you could see right out to the road. It was in those woods that the last of the giant white pine stood. She hadn’t known that as a child, didn’t remember anyone mentioning it. It wasn’t the kind of thing—golf scores, sailing races—that Wequetona people usually talked about.
So she would take a little walk in the woods with Russ. She was sure he would soon tire of looking at trees. Russ went into the bedroom to get ready, and when he came out, Jess bit back a laugh. Out of his usual city garb, he was wearing a neon-yellow Columbia Sportswear jacket and hiking boots that looked like they had been designed to withstand a trek into the Himalayas. In one hand, he held The Field Guide to the Deciduous Trees of North America , and in the other, a little combo gizmo that looked like some kind of a compass/flashlight/hunting knife.
Instead of turning left at the front walk that led back toward the other cottages and the beach, they turned right where the walkway shortly turned into the woods and led over a rustic footbridge. It soon became a narrow path, so thickly covered with pine needles that their footsteps made a hollow, thumping sound when they walked.
Just beyond the footbridge, not more than twenty yards into the woods, Jess noticed a sign that she did not recall having seen there before: L ITTLE T RAVERSE C ONSERVANCY. C ONSERVATION L AND. N O HUNTING, FIRES, OR DISTURBING PLANT LIFE. S TAY ON CLEARLY MARKED PATHS.
“That’s funny,” Jess said, reading the sign. “Mamie always told me that these woods were part of our property. Her father made his fortune in lumber, but Mamie told me that when the loggers were set to clear-cut through these woods, he bought the land right out from under them and then left it untouched. Supposedly, almost all the hardwoods were gone by then, but this little patch was left because it was farthest away from the mill.”
“An early visionary of conservation?”
“No, not exactly that. What I heard was that the loggers would have set up camp in the woods—Miss Ada, my great-grandmother, didn’t want the camp there, on account of the smell.”
“What smell?”
“The Indian smell.”
“Well, maybe your grandmother donated the land—it’s not a bad write-off, you know.”
“Oh, that’s impossible,” Jess said. “Margaret would have told me. Besides, Mamie wasn’t exactly the nature-preserve type. She hated the woods. Never set foot in them, as far as I know.”
“The whole story about your great-grandfather was probably just made up. Most stories like that are, you know.”
Russ was hitting his stride. He had his Peterson field guide open and was reading from the introduction—reading, with a tone of authority, about single leaves and leaf clusters, leaf scars, and leaf buds. It had seemed a bright day when they had set out, but now Jess suspected that the sky had clouded over. Though she couldn’t really see the sky through the canopy of leaves, it was dark in the woods, and little sunlight seemed to be filtering through. The woods did appear to go on forever, but if she listened carefully, she could hear the low rumble of cars out on the highway. Jess
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