His name was Jean Moreau. He was fifty years old and lived in Becancour, Quebec. I know because I still have the newspaper clipping about him taped into a scrapbook. Below I wrote “Tough day at the office.” Reading the clipping now makes me cringe. Reading my own line helps me deal with it.
I was napping when he died. My shoes lay beside my bed, still muddy and damp from my day’s hike. Katherine burst into our crew bunkroom, yelling about something, someone. Part of the job is search and rescue—we help with a number each summer—so Brian, my brother Malcolm, and I leapt out of bed, still drowsy from our pre-dinner, post-hike naps. Another sprained ankle somewhere down the trail? No, something worse. Katherine wasn’t sure. The two French Canadian women that reported the incident weren’t either. Where? When? We got vague directions and prepared to leave. I grabbed my backpack; Brian got the handheld radio; Malcolm tied his shoes and started sprinting uphill, towards Mount Washington. Continue reading