It turned out that the whole had been planned: our parents had conspired behind my back. We would be going on a trip for two weeks, crossing over to the waterways of Central Québec.

In light of our coming of age just months ago, my mother had made a rare concession. We were allowed to go alone, just the two of us, to the great expanses of the Canadian wilderness.

At dawn, Flare and I set off in my family's battered SUV, Montréal-bound for a small layover.

I was never one for that sort of thing, but the city had an antiquated charm: the European styles of Old Montréal, and the biodome, the expo centre, St. Joseph Cathedral. Taking a wrong turn or two, we found ourselves drifting along the city docks, jostled by hordes of pseudo-Frenchmen.

When we made it to the hotel, it was already late. I remember my embarrassment and Flare's laughter when I checked us into the single room.

That feeling soon faded. Dinner might have been takeout from across the street, but dessert was of a heavenly variant.

We hit the road around noon and was six hours of driving until we reached the shores of Lac Saint-Jean. I recall the moment when the vista broke through the trees, like an ocean I had never known.

Driving along Rivière Saguenay, we reached the city of Saguenay where the river met the St Lawrence Estuary. The city had a romantic, cozy air. It wasn't small although everyone seemed to take things a little slower.

That did not apply to us.

We were the novice canoemen who tried to row across the whole lake; the wayfarers who spent more time off the trails than on them; the rascals who splashed across the beach or built sandcastles; and the lovers who couldn't keep their hands off each other for a single night.

As the joyous days passed, Flare had a brilliant idea.

Rivière Saguenay met with the lake as a fjord, sheer walls of granite topped by a sporadic treeline. Reminiscent of the Gates of Hercules, Flare couldn't advert her awestruck gaze.

"What are you looking at?" I asked her.

"Just a cliff," Flare hummed.

But I knew what that meant. "Shall we climb it?"

"I'm game if you are."

So, the next day, we backpacked up Manitou Mountain Trail and broke off near the top. The forest was easily navigable, and we soon came to a plateau near the Fjord's mouth. It was where we decided to spend the night.

"You think it's fine?" I said as I piled up some kindling.

Flare stretched an arm across my shoulder. "It's fine."

"Might be against park regulation."

She smiled. "We can put it out before dark. Just a small one."

I eventually conceded and Flare struck the flint. Under her care, the spark soon became a modest campfire.

I don't remember much after that, memories muddled by the delicious absurdity of it all. It was the shared sweat from hours of climbing, the perversion of open-air copulation, and the signal flame that seemed to proclaim it all to the dusky world.

And the next morning, we headed to Fitzroy with the satisfaction of weary travellers. Our parents wouldn't be expecting us for a day which gave us time for a detour.

We arrived at our clearing.

It was overgrown from a year of disuse, but we didn't mind. We set up the tent, battered after weeks of continued use. The creek had receded with summer's heat, and we waded through the shallows like days bygone.

Then, the skies broke, and lightning interrupted our romp.

"Oh shoot," Flare called as marble-sized droplets soaked us through. However, her smile only magnified.

I unrolled my pant legs and emerged from the water. "You're happy about this, aren't you?"

"Why would I be?"

"Is it another one of your crazy fantasies?"

Flare's laughter shook the water out of her red hair. "Sex in the sopping rain. That doesn't sound half bad."

I looked her over.

Flare licked her lips. "I'm game if you are."

We shared a chuckle at the little joke.

"Well, what's your actual idea?" I asked.

"Here, I'll show you." Flare brought me away from the clearing and to the side road where we had parked.

She drove us to the gas station up the road. I had an inkling of her thoughts when she filled up the jerry can from the SUV's trunk.

We returned to the clearing.

She handed me the can, and I felt its unexpected weight. "Well, what is it?" I asked.

"You see..."

The whole thing stemmed from an offhand comment Flare had overheard from my father. He was old friends with the Ronsons who owned the four acres that contained our clearing. It was for this reason that we had always been allowed to utilize the area.

It turned out that Mr. Ronson was planning to tear down the old outhouse that had been built in the forest decades ago.

And it just so happened to be within lugging distance of the clearing.

"So." Flare's eyes narrowed. "Let's do the job for Mr. Ronson."

"Flare..." I was just the tiniest bit from agreeing and I stammered.

"That's why I wanted to do it today." Flare pointed skywards. "It won't spread, and they'll blame it on the lightning."

I wiped the hair out of my eyes and focused on Flare's redness through the overcast air.

"It's just some fun, a little magic like old times." Flare took me by the hand.

I felt the softness of her palm and the water that coursed between our intertwined fingers. "...Alright."

It wasn't easy toting around that jerry can. Filled to the brink with gasoline, Flare and I had to share the burden as we pushed through rainfall like a vertical flood.

We soon found the shed, in its own little clearing. It was an old thing, half-collapsed and ramshackle.

I scanned it through the rain. "So, how did you want to do this?"

"I thought you'd know."

I sputtered. "This whole thing was your idea."

"Well." Her expression shrunk. "Perhaps we should just douse it."

That's what we did in the end. In the absolute downpour, we took turns heaving the can, washing the walls in petrol. Its iridescence flowed with the rain and drowned the building in a chemical fume.

The whole time, butterflies fluttered in my stomach—and not due to the unleaded stench.

Flare must have noticed. "Are you nervous?"

"A bit."

"Want me to light it?"

"Yeah." I passed the matches to her.

The unknown feeling welled up as Flare struck a match, cupped against the rain. It nearly came out as she cast the match...

Then it was gone, as quick as a dismissed child.

The outhouse caught alight.

And it was the biggest fire I had yet seen.

Twenty litres of gasoline must have been quite a bit for such a small building, as the conflagration guzzled the walls in the blink of an eye. The wood might have been wet, but months of Canadian summer had baked the inside dry, forming a ball of hell-orange in the downpour.

My jaw dropped completely open. I probably shouldn't have been laughing but I could make no other reaction than a hysteric fit—rivalled only by the roars from the girl to my left.

Flare laughs formed into words. "You were right!" Her ruby eyes were as animated as the flames which lit them. "Maybe it's a bit of a crazy fantasy."

Before I could respond, Flare's open mouth met mine.

The next morning, Flare and I arrived at my house, filthy and slightly worse for wear.

When Mrs. Ronson popped by, excited by a lightning strike that had incinerated the old outhouse, no one suspected our involvement. Across the breakfast table, we shared mischievous stares like the incident from sixth grade.

The next time I saw Flare was at summer's end. Her family help me move into the Trinity College Student Residence.

St. George's campus of the University of Toronto was where the engineering, arts, and science folks amassed. If not for hordes of dreary-eyed students, it would have been a sanctuary within Toronto's bustling downtown.

Here, students were designated into one of seven colleges—the remnants of some sort of religious segregation. I had applied to Trinity on a whim, mostly because it was the hardest to get into. They had these odd traditions like formal banquets in Strachan Hall, where we had to wear gowns—I found it uninspiring.

I remember arriving on move-in day, running behind the allotted timeslot. The residence was this great construction of towers and masonry—Jacobethan style apparently. I remember struggling through the smallish hallways, trying to outfit my new abode.

Classes were about as expected. There were two hundred some students in a section, all packed into an auditorium that had the air conditioning turned far too cold. Professors were hit or miss when it came to teaching, especially the statistics courses.

But regardless of the material, I was in the back of the class with half a mind to pay attention. I was hundreds of kilometres from my parents and had enrolled in the bare minimum for my year. I had learnt most of it already and ended up bored out of my mind.

As for Flare, she lived in a small apartment on the corner of Yonge and Bloor. She studied Visual Arts and seemed to love it. I must have too because I would finish my schoolwork at my best speed, and run over to partake in whatever she was working on.

We also started painting again although it was digitally. Flare had gotten this drawing tablet for her coursework, and we mess around on Photoshop, reviving our middle school legacy.

I was like abused dishware, caught in a cycle of hot and cold. Days were monotonous, sitting in lecture halls and classrooms with little conscious thought; the nights were rejuvenating, sharing both Flare's passion for her study and her wonderful presence.

Weekends were like extended nights. We'd get away from the city in her little sub-compact to visit whatever campground we could find.

Then, during reading week, we headed to Algonquin Park.

It was this network of waterways cutting through swaths of pine and poplar. And it was the perfect escape, with a maze-like array of canoe routes and backcountry campsites.

We launched from Openega, canoed northwards, and covered a dozen kilometres towards the lake's north arm. The next few days were spent snaking up Proulx and Big Crow Lakes. This involved a fair bit of portaging and camping, but we soon made it to Hogan Lake, an S-shaped body in Algonquin's heart.

The late October weather was marking the end of the backcountry season, and we only saw two other watercraft the entire day. In this perfect isolation, we set up camp.

I shook Flare awake on the morning of the third day.

She groaned. "Www-hat timee?"

I flashed my watch. "A bit before seven."

"Ssoo early?"

"I thought you'd want to see the sunrise."

Flare slapped me on the chest. "And I thought you'd want to sleep."

I pushed open the tent flap, causing the bare-skinned Flare to shiver. "See you by the waterside."

Dawn within the Canadian deciduous woodlands had a quiet charm. Autumn was also nearing its end, and I treaded through mounds of leaves that started to glow. At the campsite cooktop, I heated two cups of coffee—Flare liked two cream, one sugar—and descended the steps to the waterline.

An outcropping extended a dozen meters into the lake atop which I made myself comfortable. Flare soon lumbered over, looking quite lovable with her messy red hair.

"Good morning," she yawned.

I passed her a cup.

"Thanks." She sipped and buried her cheek into my jacket.

We watched as sunlight stirred Lake Hogan from its slumber.

I remember the land became of vehement warmth, of reds and oranges that dotted the trees like a benign wildfire. So too did the waters, inheriting the blush of morning sun.

But I remember something far prettier.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Flare chirped. That could not be further from the truth. She was taking off her jacket, then her sports bra, leaving.... nothing.

It took me a moment to realize her plan. "I thought we said it would be too cold to swim. That's why we didn't bring any swimwear."

"Oh, it's fine." Flare dropped into the waist-deep water. She waded across the rocks, shivering but otherwise unfazed.

I stripped down and followed after her. The water might have been as bright as lava, but it was downright glacial. By the time I made it to her side, twenty meters from the shore, my teeth were chattering.

"Doing alright?" she asked.

I latched onto her and relished her heat. I exhaled: "Could be better."

Flare laughed. "We can huddle for a minute."

And we did for so long that I actually felt decent.

Then, Flare had another idea. "Shall try swimming?"

For whatever reason, I nodded, and we kicked off, swimming along the shoreline. It must have been the movement, but I remember I felt quite a bit warmer as I chased after her toe tips.

Afterwards, we returned to the camp, dripping wet and shivering up a storm. We crashed by the remnants of the cookfire and huddled together, trying our best to warm up. The swim had been an idiotic impulse.

It wasn't the day's only impulse.

Our swim had taken us by a minor tributary. It made an easy path deeper into the forest and we were determined to follow it upstream. With warm clothes on our backs and food in our bellies, we returned to the point where the brook met the lake.

The journey started out calm, but the path soon wound uphill. It became rocky and we reached the hills of Hogan's southern face. Here, by the granite cliffs, the brook became a modest waterfall.

Flare and I appreciated the scene and were about to return when I noticed something. There was a depression in the ground, with sheer drops on three sides.

I was focused on the hole's contents. "What's that down there?"

Flare peered over the edge. "Just some dry leaves, and some black stuf—"

"You see it?"

"That's a bear?"

Indeed, it was the carcass of a great black bear sprawled on a bed of leaves and covered by a blanket of ravens.

"Hey!" Flare shooed away the feasting birds. "That's so awful."

"Yeah."

We stared for a moment, and I eventually went to gather our things.

Flare was still stunned.

I gave her a second but soon called to her. "We should be going back."

But when she looked up, I knew it wouldn't be so simple. Her eyes met mine, and I knew I would not be able to resist.

"Can't we do anything?" she whispered. "At least give him a proper send-off."

I don't even remember agreeing. I just remember following along with giddy excitement in my heart. It was a thoughtless thing, like how I had followed her into the lake that morning.

Under her direction, we spent a few hours tearing apart the forest floor. That fall had been particularly dry, and it made our goal easier. We pooled our spoils—the driest of twigs and branches and leaves—into the pit.

"Think that's enough?"

"I'd think so."

By the time we were done, the weather had taken a turn for the colder. However, our work had already made the depression into a makeshift crematorium. Flare raised a fire on the depression's edge.

"Want to?" Flare asked.

I nodded. With bated breath, I kicked the cinders over the edge.

I half-expected it to erupt, but of course, a natural fire would never be that extreme. Instead, the leaves caught alight first, followed by the twigs and finally, a few of the logs.

We watched in quiet marvel.

Soon, the carcass caught alight and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. This was a different kind of flame than the one that had consumed Ronson's outhouse. This was a purifying, magical flame that warmed rather than burnt.

I grabbed Flare by the hand and, pulling her close, we shared a round of laughter. I had been a bit nervous the whole time, but now, it was reminiscent of the nights in the clearing.

Then, something shifted in the fire pit, in the corner, behind a fork-shaped branch. At first, I thought that the bear might have been still alive...

I froze. "Flare!"

She saw it too. "Oh shoot!"

A pair of cubs were whimpering in the granite hearth. They must have been hidden beneath the leaves, in mourning of their departed. Now, trapped beneath a burning blanket of foliage, they were part of the ceremony.

I dashed to the edge and a wave of heat pushed me back—it had not been so hot before. Black smoke filled my eyes, but I still tried to advance.

Flare was on me in an instant. "Orson! No!" Her arms wrapped around me and pulled me back. "It's too late! You're going to hurt yourself!"

Flare was right—the conclusion had been written the moment I kicked those cinders. I let her drag me back and we collapsed, surrounded by the heat of the fire.

Flare's face was pressed into mine. "Orson! Orson!" She repeated over and over, her breath tickling my cheek.

However, her words only seemed to mesh together, forming an incomprehensible mess. It might have been the heat and the smoke that got to my head, or maybe the ursine squeals that overpowered the crackling blaze.

In that state, I realized.

I really didn't care—I had acted because it's what I should do, not what I wanted to do.

Rather, I was transfixed on something else—Flare was just so damn beautiful, in the smoke that served to mystify; in the firelight that served to carnalize; in the heat that awoke all the wrong feelings.

I could swear she was smiling, as simply as if we had burnt another leaf.

"Orson..." I saw the grin become increasingly seductive.

It was all so blurry. I thought that her lips came against mine and... had she been laughing?

I might have been hallucinating because before I knew it, I was on my feet and I was running.

The early winter enveloped me, as cold as the waters of the lake. The wind picked up from behind, sounding like laughter. I reached the tent, dove under the sheets, and grasped for warmth.

Flare had not given chase.