Free Drifting Home by Pierre Berton Page A

Jan!
CHORUS :
Hey, Lawdy, Lawdy-oh!
PERRI :
I keep hearing her say: ‘Goddam!’
CHORUS :
Hey, Lawdy, Lawdy-oh!
    It breaks us up and Perri, who is a bit of a ham, grins at the attention. Suddenly, through the adversity of the rain, and the danger on the lake, we have become a tightly knit company, knowing each other intimately enough to trade insults in song. Nicknames are being coined, slogans developed, legends established. Years from now, if Perri or Peter should happen to encounter Scotty or Ross, it will be necessary only to whisper: “Lawdy, Lawdy-oh!” to bring this night on the river crowding back, the night of the rainbow and Pamela’s cornbread and the sing-song round the campfire.

DAY FIVE
    S kip has come up with a system for getting away earlier. As soon as he shouts “rise and shine,” each of us will immediately pack up our kit and take it down to the boats. Then the empty tents can be struck by one work party while another prepares breakfast.
    â€œRise and shine!” Skip cries. It is seven and the sun is out. There are groans from the boys’ tent but almost immediately the small figure of Perri appears. She is dollar bright and fully dressed, right down to her life belt. Off she goes, dragging her kitbag down the bank, following Skip’s plan to the letter. She cannot lift the bag so she half pushes and half pulls it through the moss.
    â€œPerri, what makes that bag of yours so heavy?”
    â€œIt’s the cheese, Dad.”
    My God, the cheese! We have forgotten about the extra cheesel Janet packed some perishables, including two great wheels of cheddar, in the children’s bags rather than send them weeks ahead to Bennett. One cheese has been retrieved and partly eaten but we have forgotten the other and Perri has been packing it around for four days without complaint.
    â€œI’ll take the cheese, Perri.”
    â€œOkay, Dad.”
    Now, for the first time, she is able to lift her own kitbag.
    â€œEverything I wear smells of cheese,” she says as she trots off. It is a statement of fact, not a complaint.
    The others are slowly rising and shining and thanks to the new system we cut forty minutes off our departure time. This morning we will not use the motors. We will lie lazily in the boats and let the current take us down the Thirtymile.
    Every river has a personality of its own, but the Yukon has more than most because its character changes as it grows, broadening and maturing on its long journey to the sea. The Mackenzie is a majestic river but a monotonous one. It flows directly to the Arctic, almost in a straight line, with scarcely a curve and rarely a twist, moving resolutely on beside the long line of the accompanying mountains. It is much the same with the St. Lawrence and the Saskatchewan. But the Yukon is more human. It has many moments of uncertainty and some of frivolity. It skitters back and forth, hesitates, changes its mind, charges forward, then retreats. On the Yukon there is rarely a dull moment: new vistas and fresh terrains open up behind every curve. This is because the river has embarked on a long and wearying quest. The Mackenzie rises in the hinterland and sets out in a direct line for the Arctic, sensing exactly where its goal must be, but the Yukon does not appear to know. It rises within fifteen miles of the Pacific but its search for that same ocean takes it in the opposite direction. Like a prospector seeking hidden gold it explores the land, swinging this way and that, pushing its way through obstacles, circumnavigating others, following false scents and lost trails, growing from infancy to youth to maturity to old age. Here, between Laberge and the Teslin, it is like a child, the water crystal clear, pure to drink and blue as Peggy Anne’s eyes. It wriggles about like a child in delight. Later, when the first of the great tributaries pours in, it will begin to broaden and then, with the alluvial muds of the Pelly