by Sandra Phinney

It is day five of a wilderness camping experience. We’ve had four glorious, sun-filled, balmy days of canoeing, hiking and some scenic portages. It’s been quite an adventure—but the temperature dropped last night and it started to rain. I don’t like cold. I don’t like wet. A short hike before breakfast left me with soggy sneakers and wrinkled toes. It’s not likely that I’ll venture into the woods again today. The thought of hanging around base camp on a wet day under a windy tarp and dripping trees is not my notion of fun. After breakfast, I go back to the tent and hunker down for a long snooze. That brings me as far as lunch. So far so good.

After lunch everyone trundles his own way. As I sit close to the struggling fire nursing a coffee, I grumble out loud for not bringing a good book to read. A voice pipes up.

"Never mind. There’s lots to do here."

I smiled. I wondered when the old crone would show up. Fancy she would choose today. As I ready to argue with my invisible mentor, I’m distracted by a short and straggly spruce tree, close to the river, loaded with raindrops. The droplets seem to be hanging on for dear life and I become totally mesmerized.

Aha! That’s what I’ll do—I’ll count them!

Now you have to understand that by times I behave as if I am possessed. My husband once gave me a T-shirt that said, "A driven woman lives here." I wore the T shirt out.

I also like a challenge, so immediately my brain starts to compute the best way to tackle the big count. I mean, time is of the essence, n’est-çe pas? If there’s a fast and efficient way of doing something, I’ll find it. Swiftly, I beam in on the left hand side half way up the tree and figure that this is the average branch size. Methodically I count from the outer edge to the center, 47- 48 - 49 and round it off to 50. Aha! A speedy scan determines there are ten branches per side. My brain computes again. Twenty times 50 ... and if I turned the tree around 90 degrees there would be another 20 branches ... so there are 2000 droplets on that tree, give or take five percent.

There. That’s done. I heave a satisfied sigh, knowing I’ve done this in less than two minutes. I pause for another sip of coffee. The voice pipes up. This time, with an attitude.

"You missed a few. In a hurry?"

Just what I need. A meddling angel in the middle of the woods. I think, OK, so I took a few shortcuts. You win. I’ll go back and to do it your way.

I focus on the top of this puny little tree and start to count.

I’m bored by the time I hit number 40 but giving up is not my style. Around 800 the counts are coming along—dum dum dum dum—eight hundred and four. I’m fending off droopy eyelid syndrome when the voice seeps in again.

"So what?"

So I’m taking the time to actually count them old woman.

But the voice, exasperated, fairly shouts: "But what do you see?"

See? Well, I see a lot of droplets.

"But what do they look like?"

Spare me. A drop of water is a drop of water old girl. In spite of the condescending note in her voice I decide to humor her and move closer to the tree.

Wow. There is something going on here. The shapes! Some are like miniature eggs. Others are like giant children’s play balls. The colors! Some have a gray glue-like density while others sport the hues of the rainbow. A few hover hauntingly like the mists on the lake while others shiver and shake, readying for the plunge. One in particular catches my eye. It is pale blue and has patterns of lace imbedded in its womb. The variety is endless. I am spellbound. A couple of hours slip by.

Gradually I realize that I have been gifted a profound lesson. It’s like a chimera yet as real as the angel’s kiss that brushed my cheek as I reached over to put more wood on the fire.

Sandra Phinney is a freelance writer with over 50 articles in Canadian and U.S. magazines. She also writes short documentaries for CBC radio and delivers freelance and creative writing workshops. In her spare time she teaches Tai Chi, volunteers at the Y and loves to canoe.

NOTE: This story first appeared in Canadian Stories, Vol. 4 No. 20, 2001.