A Week in the Woods (10 page)

He could have kept finding great stuff all evening, but Mark felt like he'd better stop. He clicked on his shopping basket, and then on the “checkout” box. The total amount came to more than eleven hundred dollars!

Mark stared at the number. Eleven hundred dollars was a lot of money. He started to look at the list of things he'd chosen, trying to figure out which ones to put back.

Then Mark remembered the skis and boots and poles his dad had helped him pick out when they went to Aspen that time. Plus the jacket and goggles and gloves. Mark had used those skis for less than a week, and now all that equipment was lying in a closet back in Scarsdale, too small to ever use again. And those things had cost his dad more than nine hundred bucks.

So getting all this stuff for only eleven hundred? Suddenly that seemed like a bargain. And Mark knew he wouldn't be using these things for only a week or two, either.

He quickly filled in the shipping information, typed in his mom's credit card number, and clicked on the Buy Now button. Less than ten seconds later a confirmation screen appeared and promised that the purchased items would be delivered to his house by Federal Express on Tuesday afternoon.

Mark printed a copy of the confirmation page, closed the browser, and shut down the computer.

Then he went to the kitchen to get himself a snack. All that shopping had made him hungry.

After the announcements and the Pledge of Allegiance on Monday morning, Mark was surprised when the principal's voice came crackling out of the speaker in his homeroom.

“Good morning, fifth-graders. This is Mrs. Gibson. By this time next Monday, you will already be well on your way to Gray's Notch State Park. Mr. Maxwell tells me that three of you have not yet turned in your signed permission slips for your Week in the Woods. If you are one of those three, please take care of this right away. You must turn in a signed slip or you will not be allowed to get onto the bus. The buses will leave from the front of the school building at seven-thirty next Monday morning. That means you all should be here by seven o'clock at the very latest. Your information packet is very clear about all the details.
Please read through the information with your parents again this week. And students, make sure that you don't bring too much with you. We have a problem with this every year. Each student may bring no more than one medium-sized suitcase, one book bag, and a sleeping bag. There is a very clear packing list, and if you follow it, you'll have just enough of everything. If you have any questions, ask any of your teachers or, of course, you may ask Mr. Maxwell. Have a great week, everybody.”

The whole rest of the day was just as surprising to Mark. Everything was about the big trip. No school Mark had attended had ever focused on a single idea the way that Hardy Elementary School zeroed in on A Week in the Woods.

In language arts Mrs. Bender taught a lesson about keeping a journal, and then each student made a small booklet to write in during the week away. “We shall do our best to make our observations original, interesting, and accurate.”

In social studies they learned about the Native Americans who had lived in the region, and on a special map Mrs. Farr showed a hilltop at the park that was off-limits to all hikers. Some Abenaki artifacts had been discovered there last year, and over the coming summer there would be a formal archeological survey of the area. Then Mrs. Farr gave each kid a folder with a topographic map of the park. She explained how to
read the map, and how to use the position of the sun or even where the moss was growing on a tree to figure out which way was north. She said, “I want everyone to bring these folders with you to the park next week. On Tuesday and Wednesday afternoon, we'll be doing some trail finding and some orienteering, and I don't want any of you getting lost.”

In math class Mrs. Leghorn had them do some problems about rate and distance.

“All right, class,” she said. “If you walk at six miles an hour, and you hike for three hours and twenty minutes—my goodness! Why
anyone
would want to go tramping around out in the cold for that long is beyond me. But if you
did
go hiking for that long, then how many miles would you have walked? Assuming you were still alive, that is.”

Mark didn't think Mrs. Leghorn was very excited about going to the woods.

In gym class Mr. Harris had turned half of the general purpose room into an obstacle course. The course involved a lot of ducking under things, a lot of climbing over things, and some careful walking across the low balance beam without falling into the fake water. He had also built a small hill out of fifteen or twenty tumbling mats and the pommel horse.

Even the music teacher put preparations for the fifth grade spring concert on hold so everyone could learn some campfire songs.

The whole fifth grade was moving toward the same goal, and of course, Mr. Maxwell was leading the charge.

When science class began on Monday afternoon, Mr. Maxwell smiled broadly and said, “This time next week, we'll all be seventy-five miles away from here, breathing in some cool mountain air. So let's talk a little bit about air quality, shall we? First of all, what is air made up of?”

A girl named Chelsea raised her hand, and Mr. Maxwell nodded at her. She said, “Oxygen? And nitrogen?”

Mr. Maxwell nodded. “Yup. Anything else? Anyone?”

No other hands went up.

Mark knew something about this because he'd done a science fair project in third grade about air pollution. So he raised his hand. His was the only hand in the air.

Mr. Maxwell looked around the room. It was impossible to miss Mark's hand.

“Anyone?” Mr. Maxwell asked again. “No? Well, air is actually made up of a number of gases, and oxygen and nitrogen are two of them, just as Chelsea said.”

Mark brought his hand down, and he felt his face start to get warm. He felt like he'd been smacked on the cheek.

He wouldn't have been able to put it into words
very well, but Mark knew what was going on. He knew what this thing with Mr. Maxwell was about. And Mark felt like it was pretty much his own fault. He knew he had been unpleasant and rude to Mr. Maxwell during his first couple of weeks. Mark knew he had offended the man, especially by not getting excited about the big trip.

But Mark also knew that for his part, he'd let all that go. All of it. He wanted to be part of the class now, he wanted in. And he thought he'd been sending clear signals to Mr. Maxwell, friendly signals.

For a while Mark had thought that the science teacher wasn't getting the message. And then for a couple of weeks Mark had felt that maybe Mr. Maxwell had a right to ignore him, to keep him out in the cold, test him to be sure he was sincere.

But today Mark felt hurt. And embarrassed. Today he got the point. And the point was that Mr. Maxwell was punishing him. Mark wanted in, and Mr. Maxwell knew it, but he had just slammed the door in Mark's face.

To his credit, Mark didn't get angry. He didn't tune out the class and stare at the floor or look out the window. Instead he swallowed hard and tried to keep listening. He didn't let himself brood about the way Mr. Maxwell was treating him. He kept his mind focused on what the teacher was saying.

Because Mark truly wanted to learn about the
woods and the mountains and the air and the weather—all of it. And whatever else he was, Mark had to admit that Mr. Maxwell was an expert.

He just wasn't a very nice expert.

* * *

When Mark got home from school Tuesday there were four large cardboard boxes from REI waiting for him in the garage. Leon helped him unpack everything, whistling softly now and then in appreciation, sometimes asking Mark to explain a piece of equipment.

“Very fancy,” he said as Mark unrolled the bright orange sleeping bag to get a better look at it. “When I was a boy, I had an iron frying pan, a blanket roll tied with a piece of rope, a penknife, and a small axe. That was camping.”

Mark tucked the smaller gear like the magnesium block and the iodine drops and the flashlights right into the outer pockets on his new framepack. He stuffed the sleeping bag inside the pack to give it some shape and weight, and then Leon helped him to move and adjust the shoulder straps so that it fit on his back correctly. Standing there with the straps fastened and the buckles clipped, Mark imagined himself at summer camp, all set for a ten-day hike. It made him feel strong and independent.

And at that moment Anya called from the kitchen door, “Both of you, come inside now. Mark, change
your clothes and eat before you play with your new toys. Come.”

Later on Mark took his new compass out into the woods. He sat on a fallen tree and read the instruction booklet from beginning to end. Then he did some of the recommended training exercises. He learned how to sight on a distant object, and he learned to count his steps so he could estimate how far he'd traveled in one direction. He didn't have a map to test it on, but he understood how to put the clear plastic base of the compass onto a map and then turn the map to line it up and get a true idea about the lay of the land.

Then Mark laid out a simple course for himself, a big triangle: first east, then northwest, then southeast. With his eyes glued to the red and black needle of the compass, Mark paced off his course. Thirty minutes later he ended up back within fifty feet of his starting point. Mark felt like he'd just sailed around the globe.

After dinner Mark carried all his new equipment up to his room. He laid it out on the floor and on his bed. Then he got his Week in the Woods packet and found the packing list. Item by item, Mark laid out what he needed to take. Then he refolded all his clothes. Carefully he laid his belongings into his new pack. It all fit in easily, even his hiking boots.

Mark took another look at the packing list, and in the section about what not to bring he saw, “No knives of any kind.” So he dug into the outside pocket of his
backpack, found his new knife and walked across the room and dropped it into his desk drawer. The list also said, “No matches or lighters.” But it didn't say no magnesium striker blocks, so Mark left that in his backpack pocket.

Then Mark sat at his desk and made a list of things he still needed, especially things that Mr. Survival said he ought to have.

He still needed a space blanket, a piece of hacksaw blade, two zip-seal plastic bags, some candy bars, a whistle, Band-Aids, some duct tape, some extra batteries, a magnifying glass, and some dental floss. And a heavy-duty sewing needle. The things he couldn't find around the house he'd get at Wal-Mart, and Leon could take him there after school tomorrow or the next day.

Mark pushed his new sleeping bag into its stuff sack—a waterproof nylon bag with a drawstring at the open end. There were special straps on the bottom of his framepack, and after a little fiddling Mark got the bag fastened into position.

Then came the moment of truth. Mark took hold of the pack and swung it around and up onto his back. He slipped the shoulder bands into place, fastened the chest strap, settled the waist belt onto his hips and then pulled it tight and snapped the buckle. Taking a few strides around his room, he tested the weight. Felt like about twenty-five pounds. Not too bad. Very doable.

And again Mark had that feeling of strength and independence. Still, he had to admit, it felt good when he took the pack off his back. But he knew he'd have plenty of time before summer to get used to hauling it around. He would start tomorrow. He'd wear the pack when he went out walking after school. Before long he'd hardly notice it. He could even add a tent—the little ones were only about five or six more pounds. By summertime he'd be ready to take the long hiking trip with the big guys at camp.

Of course, for next week, his framepack would just be like a medium-sized suitcase, just an easy way to carry stuff to his cabin at the state park.

Then Mark had a satisfying thought: When Mr. Maxwell saw him show up with all his gear, maybe the guy would know he wasn't looking at some little dork. Mr. Maxwell would see he was dealing with a kid who knew a thing or two about being outdoors.

There was another thought, a thought that Mark didn't even put into words. It was more like a hope that he kept hidden from himself. Because Mark hoped that when Mr. Maxwell saw him so pulled together, so serious, so well prepared, then the man would ease up, cut him some slack. He hoped the man would show him some respect.

Because Mark knew he deserved that.

As the black Mercedes pulled into the school driveway at seven o'clock on Monday morning, Mark wished that he'd gotten up earlier, or maybe Leon should have driven faster. Because tons of other fifth-graders were already at the school.

Three big yellow buses sat at the curb, their doors open wide. Parked behind the buses there were five pickup trucks and four minivans. The cargo beds of the first two pickups were already loaded with luggage.

Mark saw a tall, rough-looking man talking with the principal. He had a clipboard, and so did Mrs. Gibson. She was pointing at the first bus, and the man was pointing at the second one.

With a start Mark realized what he was seeing.
That tall guy? That's Mr. Maxwell!

He was wearing dark brown trousers, tan lace-up
hunting boots, a red flannel shirt, and a dark green jacket. His blaze orange cap was pulled down over a wild mess of graying brown hair, and it was plain to see that Mr. Maxwell had not shaved all weekend. He was headed for the woods.

A group of other cars pulled up behind them, and Leon said, “Out you go now. You have a good time, Mark. Or, how about
you
drive home, and
I
will go to the state park, eh?”

Mark grinned. “Sometime we'll go together, okay? And do some
real
camping. See you, Leon.”