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literary Writers Compete in Short Short-Story Contest A quiet the North to enter the North room Shore the short Shore was provided short-story Writers' story for anyone 2001 who contest, organized it was come up with time attending wished by meant and the stories "precipitation" They came expressions in an agony the difficult prize, or poems and had to contain "duck." and from the of the writers The judges in Arts Alive were First magazine, then had the words went Colleen publication Honorable Fiona Coupar to Christina Heinrich mention Danks for "The Day prize ($50 Trip to for "Last Life." Hike." and London.' to Arts Symposium Association, won second and they wrote, in Arts Alive) for "A Bird's on their faces, some of concentration. task of selecting and a prize of $25 went to he a fun event the best S00- word allotment. to see who could was "Things in the three-hour the best efforts. The theme lost and found," $75 plus publication THE by Christina Danks D A Y HIKE L A S T TRIP T O L O N D O N by Colleen Heinrich "Shall we go to London this year?" Lila asked in July 2000. I remembered our last trip in 1985. Lila, my stepmother, and I had had a wonderful two-week tour. Day trips to Bath, Stonehenge, Greenwich, followed by evenings at the theatre. Cats, Phaedra, When he set out that day, Greg wasn't sure exactly where he was headed. He parked his car in the ski area parking lot and strapped his crampon snowshoes to his hiking boots. The crisp, cold air made his skin tingle, and his breath misted before him as he set out on the hiking trail. It had been seven years since he had come to this mountain. The last time was the year his biother Joe had gone out for a day hike and had never returned. It had been Christmas time and Joe had agreed to come for a visit from Washington. At 22, he was fit, an avid skier and hiker, even had his own custom-made hiking boots. The winter had been a bad one, with record amounts of precipitation. Avalanche warnings had been issued throughout the whole province, and roads in some areas were closed. "Don't go up there," his mother had begged Joe. "It's far too risky." "Ma, worry!" Of course, there had been searches, first by the rescue teams, and then by family and friends, but there was no trace, not a clue. Greg plodded on, his mind going back to their childhood, when Joe would burst out of school each day like a prisoner being released, and how he ran and ran until he was gasping for breath before throwing himself down on the ground beneath the maple tree, staring up through its branches at the sky. How Greg missed his brother's enthusiasm and love of life. Stopping to catch his breath, Greg looked around and realized that he had lost the trail. He had been so engrossed in thought that he had forgotten to look for the markers. To his left, a large cedar stood, and to the right, the ground dropped away in a steep embankment. Choosing to go left, he had to duck under the branches of the cedar. Unexpectedly, the ground fell away again and he lost his balance and tumbled a distance of 15 feet onto an exposed ledge. It was then he saw the boots. Those unmistakable boots. He lay in the snow and wept. I have to get out of here. You know me; I'm a wild and crazy kind of guy and those mountains are calling. I'll be careful, don't Noises Off are a few I remember. Harrods, the British Museum, The Albert and Victoria; memories of our previous trip flooded my memory. Lila had been in her element; a frequent traveller, she was my guide and mentor. Sloshing through the ubiquitous precipitation with enthusiasm, she always forged ahead. I had struggled to keep up. "I'd love to go," I answered. My daughter and I picked her up on the way to the airport. She seemed vaguely disoriented. "I don't have my ticket," she complained. "I have it, remember?" "Have you really? Well where's my passport?" "Look in your purse. I'm sure you'll find it." We had renewed our passports together. When we were finally seated on the airplane, she seemed restless, uncertain. When we landed at Heathrow Airport, she was visibly confused. She waited for me to get the luggage, find a cart, the tour guide, and transportation. Several times she searched her purse again, for her return ticket and her passport, until I volunteered to keep them for her. When we were finally ensconced in our miniscule room, with our luggage stored, Lila began to look again for her passport. Gone was the intelligent, vibrant woman who had taken to travelling like the proverbial duck to water. Gone the independent woman who strode ahead, eager to show me her favourite museum or cathedral. Lila had dementia, and now lagged behind our group, constantly in danger of being run over when crossing the street. She lost her tube pass between boarding at Russell Square and getting off at Covent Garden, two stops away. On the morning of the eighth day, she smiled at me at breakfast and asked, "Have we been here two days yet?" I mourned the loss of my lovely intelligent friend and travelling companion. I felt sorry for her in her confusion and inability to cope. I mourned her loss and the new knowledge that some day in the future my daughter could be watching me, searching endlessly in my handbag for that which can never be found. M a r c h | A p r i l