Backpacks and Bra Straps by Savannah Grace

finally located a plastic bag for Bree to use, Mom rolled up the blanket and threw it outside, which is where we eventually had to send Bree, partly so she could get some fresh air, but mostly so we could get some sleep.

    As relieved as I’d felt when Bree had finally left the yurt, I felt equally bad when we climbed out from our warm little cubbyhole into the early light to see her still there, shivering on the cold ground with her arms wrapped around her knees. We’d grown accustomed to the humid 30 degrees Celsius (86°F) temperatures, but up here, at an elevation of over three thousand metres (10,000 ft), the nights cooled to as low as zero degrees Celsius (32°F).
    Our lakeside “camp” had just two yurts that were rented out to visitors, and the host family lived in two rusted-out shacks with a shed out back. Laundry lines stretched between their two shacks, but they were already being used to dry sheets and woollen clothes in the gentle, chilly breeze, so the fouled sheets and quilts had already been washed and laid out on the grass to dry.
    “Yeah, she came by and started doing laundry in the lake,” Bree told us, looking up from the ground where she sat, still shivering. “I was so embarrassed, ‘cause I was here when she came and collected them. I probably kept their whole family up, too, making all that noise all night.”
    “Oh, I feel so bad,” Mom said.
    “It’s fine. I’m okay-ish now,” Bree said, exhaling deeply after her long night.
    “Not about you, silly. About her! That poor lady had to wash her beautiful white quilt by hand in that icy cold water.” Bree gave Mom the best raised-eyebrow look she could manage in her weakened state, a look that questioned whether she’d really just said what she thought she’d said. I had to laugh at how very unsympathetic Mom could be sometimes.
    “What?” Our mother asked, seeing our disapproving expressions. “I know you’ll survive. You’re strong.” She raised us to be tough, and her style of nursing was most often limited to, “Suck it up. You’ll be fine. Take lots of Vitamin C and eat more garlic.” I doubt she’d win any “doting parent” awards, but she had other strengths, and so far, we’d survived reasonably well.
    Bree was still feeling woozy, so the two of us spent some time by the lake, idly skipping rocks across the tranquil waters. We sat on the pebbly shore, aimlessly picking out the flattest stones. The lake was so crystal clear and still, you would hardly know it was even there, but for the reflective shimmer of light piercing the water and the ripples from our skipping stones.
    We eventually coaxed Bree back inside the yurt and decided we’d all just take it easy. Despite the light that came in through the open door, it was a bit too dark for reading or writing, so we pretty much stuck to playing Jerk. Though it was comfy within, our yurt was often rented out as a “guest bedroom” as opposed to being someone’s home. Some of its authentic feel was lost, but the structure itself was very traditional and cozy. Lined with red wooden lattice work and insulated with felt, the back wall sported an intricately hand-woven tapestry.
    When the daily rains settled in, we could open the wooden door and see the dreamy blue lake from our bed. With nothing blocking the scenery except the occasional horse roaming by, we were often gifted with remarkable views of rainbows. It felt as though we were on top of the world.
    There was a short table on which the homestay family placed our food and where we sat cross-legged to eat. For breakfast, we enjoyed warm bread with homemade butter and jam, and we ate freshly caught fish from the lake for dinner. We felt really well taken care of, especially given that we were only paying two hundred and fifty som a night, and then another ninety som for meals. This three hundred and forty som per night came to about ten Canadian dollars apiece, which was about the average price we paid for food and