THE RIVER AWAY FROM HOME

CHAPTER 1

I was desperate to get out of the house and checking the bulletin board at Mountain Equipment Co-op (MEC) was as good a reason as any. It was my mom’s suggestion. She was sick of watching me mope around like a lost soul. Living with my parents and working for my father’s company had been manageable before my trip, but since returning from Africa, this dull routine had become painstaking. So much so, it had gotten to where I was grinding my teeth at night.

I loved MEC. It was big and beautiful and could fulfill every outdoor adventure fantasy. I had spent a great deal of time there prior to my Africa trip, and as I walked through those giant automatic sliding doors, I was once again hit with the nervous anticipation that I had felt all of those months prior.

I remembered picking out the purple sleeping bag that would keep me warm during the month we would spend climbing Mt. Kenya, and finding the perfect hiking boots I was instructed to break in at home so that I could cross the mountain blister-free. I remembered choosing the transparent Nalgene water bottle (instead of the opaque one) that I used to filter some thick brown water as we hiked through the tortuously hot and dry landscape of the Maasai Mara; the Swiss Army knife I used to slice through many a delectable mango as we sailed on a traditional dhow through the Lamu Archipelago, and proudly choosing last season’s backpack because its price was heavily discounted. 

This beautiful red backpack had been my constant companion. 

I’d named her Red Fran.

Africa was not an inexpensive trip. Even though I’d worked two jobs for the five months before my departure to help fund it, I was also fortunate enough to have parents willing and able to split the cost with me. They may not have been eager for my choice of destination. (My mom had said at the time with tears in her eyes, “Oh Tish, if anything ever happened to you…”) They had never gotten in my way, either. They always supported me and my sister as best they could. 

My upbringing was one of privilege, and though we never had the white picket fence, we did have a pool. I attended a private girls’ school. We had a summer cottage in the Muskokas, a winter chalet in Collingwood, and every spring break we traveled somewhere new, be it a ski trip out West, a visit to Hollywood, or a tour of Italy. But the absolute best part of my childhood was getting to spend every July at summer camp. It was there I had the most fun. 

I may have acted like a spoiled brat on more occasions than I care to remember, but I wasn’t spoiled. My dad made sure I was aware of the opportunities given to me, making me work for my allowance and such, wanting me to understand the value of money. 

All in all, I consider myself lucky that my parents felt it important to show us the world and shower us with opportunity so we could see for ourselves what was out there. It fueled the fire within me, and the more I saw, the more I wanted to see. 

it’s my choice to be free

choose my path as I please

it’s safe to be me

that’s how I feel most at ease.

Since my return, with all my excited talk of seeking more adventure, something had shifted. I no longer felt my parents’ support and could tell they weren’t keen for me to jump on any more outrageous adventures. Ever, it seemed. According to them, Africa was supposed to be my last hurrah before joining the real world (a.k.a the family business). Now that I was 23, I should get on with my life and make a future for myself. 

For me, it was the opposite. I was only 23 and just getting started! But I couldn’t tell them that. 

My mom, in particular, was still recovering from the emotional toll of me doing a semester in Kenya with NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership School), and then backpacking solo down to South Africa via Tanzania, Malawi, and Zimbabwe. Once in Cape Town, I had planned to either stay and work there for the summer, or go back up to Zimbabwe to become a whitewater rafting guide. But after tearing some ligaments in my knees after an awkward landing while cliff-jumping, it forced me to return home to Toronto.

Mom had been suffering from migraines since the day I’d left, and at one point she’d even gone for an MRI, worried that she had a tumor. But the scans had come back clear, and upon my return home, the migraines immediately disappeared. I only knew this because my dad had enthusiastically shared this story at the dinner table, mocking her enthusiastically. 

“David!” she interrupted him, unimpressed. I guess she didn’t want me to know what she had gone through. 

Such is a mother’s worry. On the one hand, it was annoying, but I do get it. I was only able to contact them via collect calls in international phone booths at various points on my journey, which amounted to once or twice per month. Each time I could feel how stressed she was by the tone of her voice. 

“Tish! Tish! Are you okay? Where are you? David! David! Pick up the phone, it’s Tish!” 

Only after I explained my whereabouts and insisted everything was fine would she calm down, but all that time between calls left too much to her imagination. 

My dad always played it cool, but I knew he was concerned too. He never failed to ask if I had enough traveler’s checks, which was his way of taking care of me. In his mind, if I had enough money, I would be fine. It was the one thing he could control.

But if I’d learned anything in Africa, it wasn’t control...