The police separated us into two cop cars. One car contains Stephen and Hugh; my boyfriend Matthew and I ride in a separate car. They didn’t handcuff us, but they certainly looked me up and down with disdain. I’m feeling overwhelmed and lightheaded because just before the police came, Hugh shoved his marijuana on me. He told me to hide it in my underwear because “they won’t search a girl.” I complied but questioned my judgement. And now I’m on my way to the police station feeling like a captured bird.

Matthew glances at me and puts his hand over my arm and squeezes signally it will be okay. I’m not so sure. He doesn’t know about the marijuana, and I can’t tell him now. My mind races as my thoughts drift. How could I have been so naïve? Weed is illegal. People go to prison for possession. And I don’t even smoke pot! I need to get rid of it. Matthew touches my hand in a gesture of tenderness. He recognizes my anguish. I lean my head against his shoulder, swallow hard, and hold back from crying. I think back to the guy that was blocking Hugh’s truck and saying he was making a citizen’s arrest. That was the same guy that hassled Matthew about his long hair in the diner this morning. The same one that sneered at me, likely because I was the only girl with three boys. Mr. CB radio.

We arrive at the police station, and I’m separated from the boys. Matthew turns to me and gently sweeps his hand over my shoulder just before he’s directed in the opposite direction with Stephen and Hugh. An officer takes my driver’s license and points for me to sit on a long wooden bench in another room. I blink back a tear as I sit alone.

An hour passes. I shuffle and squirm on the uncomfortable wooden seat. My stomach feels off like it did earlier when I ran across the street, just before we got jammed into the police cars. I don't understand why the police arrested us. One thing’s for sure; I will not let this event overshadow what has otherwise been a phenomenal trip. We should be on our way home, not here. If Mom and Dad hear about this, they’d never understand. And after all, I assured them I could handle everything now that I’m eighteen and already done with my first year of college. Instead, I’m arrested in the Adirondacks. My stomach feels queasy again, and I get a sinking feeling.

I think of Winnie the Pooh and know what Pooh bear would say. Oh bother! I smile at my reference. I didn’t know about Winnie the Pooh growing up, and I’ll forever thank Matthew for his playful introduction. Every evening of our trip, just before dark, Matthew makes us all tea with honey in a large pot he calls a billy. Then we sit in a circle as he reads us a chapter from the Winnie the Pooh book while we sip our tea. Matthew’s Australian accent, along with his comical voices, enhance the delivery. I think about the timid character called Piglet, a friend of Pooh in the book. Piglet appears timid but is quite brave. In moments of fear, Piglet often says, it’s much more friendly with two. I can relate and wish Matthew was here right now.

When listening to Matthew read, I’d daydream about which character each of us resembled most. I’ve already nicknamed Matthew Pooh. It’s not because he loves breakfast, likes to make up silly rhymes and puts lots of honey in his tea, which he does or that he’s naïve, because he isn’t, but because he is thoughtful, and kind, like Pooh Bear. There’s no question, Stephen is Eeyore. Although he’s playful and has a unique ability to find joy amidst sadness, he’s often burdened by a dark cloud. Hugh sometimes reminds me of Owl in that he is quite verbose, but I’m unsure of how wise he is. Perhaps I’ll give Hugh the benefit of the doubt if I get out of this predicament. Me? Hmmm, I’m not sure yet.

My mood lightens. Yesterday was the last day and perhaps the most eventful of our Adirondack trip. Dinner plans, or the lead-up to it, were an unpredictable folly. I chuckle to myself. Matthew proposed freshwater clams for dinner. All four of us waded near the shore in the knee-deep water of Long Lake. We dug up a few dozen clams and afterward set our clam-catch buckets on the sandy beach. Stephen spotted a huge leech feeding on his ankle. He looked down at the leech, gawking for a few moments, mesmerized. The leech did not faze Stephen, and he finally tugged it from his skin. The bloody red trail left behind dripped, running down Stephen’s ankle. Deep down, it horrified me, but I kept that to myself as I watched in anticipation. Stephen held the leech up like he was in science class. He was gleeful as the leech dangled between his fingers as he described the unusual organism. “Check this big guy out. He’s over two inches long and his sucker mouth is crazy looking.” I walked over and peered up close at the black slimy creature and timidly stepped backward, quietly appalled. Matthew scurried and emptied the remaining pickles from a jar and rinsed and filled the bottle with lake water and handed it to Stephen. Stephen placed the leech inside his new aquarium home. Then he made several holes in the screw top and secured the lid.

Afterward, Stephen held the jar aloft and introduced us to his new friend.

“Meet Leech Erikson!”

We all roared.

Afterward, we cleaned and boiled the clams and attempted to eat them. They were rubbery and tasted like dirt. The funny thing is none of us cared. We agreed it was an important learning adventure on how to never eat freshwater clams harvested out of Long Lake. We ended up eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner. Growing up in Australia, Matthew had never experienced this delicacy before, and he liked it. I think it was the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’ve ever eaten.

It’s now almost two hours since my introduction to this bench. What is going on? I rise, stretch, and look around. There is no one in sight. I pace back and forth for a few minutes, trying to decide if I should look for someone and conclude it’s best to remain invisible. I sit back down and try to relax using self-hypnosis. First, I close my eyes. Then, I inhale one deep breath through my nose and exhale out slowly through my mouth. I’m relaxed and feel weightless as I venture back to last night.

Like covert operators under the cover of darkness, Stephen climbs into his canoe, and Matthew and I do the same in ours. Hugh stays behind on the beach to smoke. I’m relieved because I don’t want his smoke to foul the freshness of the virgin air. I breathe in and listen. Only the oars break the water’s silence as we row toward the middle of Long Lake. There is not another soul around.

 A veiled fog rolls over us and its cool vapor gives me goosebumps just as our canoe shudders and recovers itself from tipping over. I’m not a swimmer and not wearing a lifejacket, but for once, I’m unafraid as the hypnotic sound of the oars seems to permeate my psyche with a calm aura. As our oars whisk across the water, it’s as if nature is pulling us deep into her coil of unending vastness. We reach the center of the massive lake. Choreographed perfection, the sienna-red sun parallels the infinite watercolor horizon in front of us. I’m transfixed and assume the boys are feeling the same way I am, as we are all dead silent.

I watch as Stephen takes out his flute. His body and the flute, highlighted by the backdrop of the darkening light, are a perfect silhouette. He plays a solemn yet majestic tune. There is a holiness in it. Ironically, this moment feels like an idyllic end-of-life experience, an ethereal understanding of pure bliss and unworldliness.

Our boat drifts backward as the current carries us farther away from Stephen’s boat. The obscure silhouette of Stephen, the flute and his canoe look to be floating free above as the water disappears below him. A warm heaviness blankets me as the echo of the flute reverberates and wafts. Back and forth. Matthew and I curve our canoe around and head back to shore. As Stephen’s playing softens to a muted echo dissipating behind us, I twist my body to turn around and look back one last time. Stephen’s silhouette disappears, devoured into the abyss. It’s pure magic.

I awaken from my daydream as a policewoman enters the room. It alarms me and cements the idea of a body search in my mind. My head aches, and my body tenses. I ask if I can use the restroom. She shakes her head no and instructs me to follow her. I’m panicked, fixated on the marijuana that’s tucked into my underwear. Is she going to search me?

We enter a small room, and I’m told to empty my backpack. My hands are trembling, and my face is hot. I worry I look guilty and think of Winnie the Pooh. Yes. Just the sheer idea of the sweet Pooh Bear gives me solace. The policewoman then stands on the sidelines as a male officer enters and supervises. He rummages through my belongings. When he comes across a box of tampons, picks it up, pauses and looks straight into my eyes. I’m embarrassed. This is what he wants. He’s trying to intimidate and humiliate me, and it’s working. He continues rummaging through now my underwear. Regardless, my focus is on staying calm and acting confident.

My head is throbbing as the tension in my forehead and neck grows. My heart feels like it will beat out of my chest. I’m escorted back to the bench. On the way over, I see Matthew and Stephen standing outside a doorway and feel somewhat relieved. Then Hugh walks out of a door and stands next to Matthew. Seeing Hugh makes me feel desperate again, and I again focus on the marijuana. Then all three boys, in unison, make silly faces. It gives me a needed lift, and I smile back. These are not three criminals. These are three eighteen-year-old kids. After all, people considered us kids just last year. I call them the lost boys, and just like Peter Pan, they will never grow up.

As I’m led away, I glance over at Matthew as his golden curls catch the light from the window, and his long hair drapes over his shoulders. His lightly toasted skin from the weekend sun glows. I think of Piglet’s statement again. It’s much more friendly with two. Matthew winks at me. It’s just the encouragement I need.

Sitting alone again on the long wooden bench, I feel self-assured. After a few minutes, the policewoman returns. I clear my throat. I ask, “Would it be possible to use the restroom? We ate freshwater clams last night and I’m feeling nauseous.”

She looks at me, and her smile surprises me. She asks, “Whose idea was that? Freshwater clams?”

She laughs and gestures toward a door.

“Don’t take too long; we’re taking you to the courtroom.”

I stand up. What does she mean, taking us to the courtroom? Worried, I enter through the door and into the restroom, shocked she is not following me. I enter a stall and latch the door. My hands tremble as I take the marijuana out of my underwear. I stand in front of the toilet, drop the bag into the bowl, and flush. As I observe it pool down, I wait and watch to be sure. I flush a second time. It’s gone. My head pounds. I should feel relieved, but I’m still stressed. On the verge of tears, I use my breathing technique to calm myself while repeating, I’m safe. I head back to the bench.

The police officers from earlier lean into the room and wave me over. Matthew, Stephen and Hugh are following another police officer up ahead. I assume they are taking us to the courthouse. We follow the police officers across the street. I am confused. Where is the courthouse? We enter a building. Is this a hardware store? I look around. It is a hardware store. The scene grows stranger; shoppers watch, some stare. We walk past the fishing department and a guy in the aisle asks one officer if he bought his night crawlers yet as the fishing was great this morning. This entire scenario gives me mixed feelings of dread and amusement, as this looks like something out of Mayberry, a fictional town in a television show I watched growing up. We enter a door in the back of the store. I see an elderly officious looking man seated at a long table facing us. He, I assume is the judge, seems annoyed by us or perhaps some other issue. It becomes apparent that this town doesn’t have a real courthouse, so this is it, no jury, just a judge. A woman standing next to the judge’s table directs us to take a seat and when our name is called to stand.

Stephen is called first. The court reads Stephen his rights and announces that the State of New York vs. Stephen…blah, blah, blah. The judge treats us the same as he determines our plea. Each of the boys plead guilty as charged on one count of criminal trespass. They must each pay twenty-five dollars in fines. It turns out they pulled their truck onto private property and, never mind the fact, they started exploring the abandoned building there. I didn’t know about their additional activity, just the parking and agree that wasn’t a good idea even though I’ve done it before. I too find abandoned buildings intriguing.

It’s my turn and I stand up as the judge reads me my rights and asks how I plead. I stand tall.

I plead not guilty.

The judge looks perturbed and asks me to elaborate.

I explain.

“I was running from across the street after using the gas station restroom. I saw the angry man that hassled us earlier this morning in the diner blocking our truck with his truck, preventing us from leaving. He was yelling and said he already called the police on his CB radio and was making a citizen’s arrest.”

The judge’s anger is palpable. “Why did you waste everyone’s time and effort and not mention this?”

I glance over at the police officers, who look annoyed.

“No one asked me.”

The judge bangs his gavel.

“Dismissed, no charges. Court adjourned.”

Leech Erikson made it to Philadelphia, and Stephen has been a lifelong friend. Hugh went off to discover his own adventures without us. And to this day, decades later, I still affectionately call Matthew Pooh.

In fact, Matthew and I have read Winnie the Pooh to our children and plan to do the same with our first grandchild, Cameron, born a few days ago. And whenever I reflect on my Adirondack story, I think of the boys’ humorous antics and how fortunate I was to be a part of it all and escape unscathed. I also recognize that A. A. Milne’s creative genius helped me cope that day, and perhaps I know the character that resembles me most, after all. And one thing is for certain; I will always believe in the magic of Winnie the Pooh.

“Later on, when they had all said "Good-bye" and "Thank-you" to Christopher Robin, Pooh and Piglet walked home thoughtfully together in the golden evening, and for a long time they were silent.

"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"

"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"

"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.

Pooh nodded thoughtfully.

"It's the same thing," he said.” ¹