Ontario author Karma Brown's novel explores abandoned Adirondack camp get first look at What Wild Women Do

Ontario novelist and journalist Karma Brown is publishing a new novel called What Wild Women Do this October.

The novel follows screenwriter Rowan as she's searching for her purpose and finds an unsolved mystery the disappearance of camp leader Eddie Calloway at an abandoned camp in the Adirondacks.

"I love atmospheric settings in novels, and What Wild Women Do was inspired by childhood visits to a Great Camp in the Adirondacks, which once belonged to the Vanderbilt family," she said in an email to CBC Books.

"This book is in part a love letter to my hippie and nature-infused 1970s upbringing, as well as an exploration of the intersection between female ambition and societal expectation."

"Despite living more than 40 years apart, my protagonistsRowan, the 30-year-old screenwriter and Eddie, the 50-year-old socialite-turned-feminist camp leaderare connected via this wilderness setting, as well as by an unsettling mystery. I related to both, seeing myself in Rowan's aspirations, and Eddie's matured bravery (I turned 50 during edits). While this novel was a joy to write, it was also my most challengingthese women taught me a lot."

Karma Brown is the author of five other novels, including the #1 international bestseller Recipe for a Perfect Wife and has been featured in SELF, Redbook, Today's Parent, Best Health, Canadian Living, Chatelaine and other magazines.

What Wild Women Do will be available on Oct. 24, 2023. You can read an excerpt below.

CAMP CALLAWAY

Some of the lettering on the metal sign is chipped and faded, but all in all, it seems to have weathered well. Since Camp Callaway has been abandoned since 1975, this sign has been here for at least fifty years. I run my fingers over the embossed letters, and feel a similar chill as when I looked over the lake at the cabins.

Seth catches up to me, the soles of his feet slapping against his flip-flops, making a rhythmic sound in the relative quiet.

"Are you okay?" he asks, then, reads the sign I have my fingers resting against. "Huh, look at that."

"Maybe we don't have to hike in after all," I say.

Fencing stretches on both sides of the gate, long grasses swooping in between and over the metal and wood slats. The drivewaygravel, narrowis long overgrown. However, the path of it remains visible through the underbrush, so I know we can walk it on foot.

As he jogs back to the car to grab his phone, I stare down the overgrown driveway, wondering what we're about to find at the other end of it.

"Let me grab my phone, then we'll take a closer look."

"What about the groceries?" It's warm and I imagine the eggs baking hard in the sun, the romaine wilting to become paper-thin and slimy.

"We'll be quick. Now that we know where it is, we can easily come back."

As he jogs back to the car to grab his phone, I stare down the overgrown driveway, wondering what we're about to find at the other end of it.

Not far down what used to be Camp Callaway's driveway is a metal gate, a rusting chain and padlock keeping it closed. A "No Trespassing" sign with bright orange letters is zip-tied to the gate, above which the name "CALLAWAY" is spelled out in a majestic arch, the letters created from bark-stripped sticks held together by something we can't discern from our positionmaybe short nails?

Hopping the gateonly for one brief moment questioning whether we shouldwe continue down the path until we reach a clearing. Nature has taken over, the soft, tall grasses and wildflowers covering what was likely a sizeable lawn at one point. The grasses tickle the bare skin on my ankles as we walk, and though I'm sweltering, I'm glad for my leggings.

Soon we come upon a large building, clearly the centerpiece of the camp. It is wide and impressive, with stacks of logs creating its structure and a massive wraparound porch. It appears mostly intact, at least from the outside, though the glass in the windows is broken. Littering the porch are empty beer cans, liquor bottles and other paraphernalia that prove we aren't the only ones who ignore "No Trespassing" signs. There's also a large cast-iron bell near the door, attached to a metal post protruding from the logs. Seth rings it, swinging the chain that drops from the bell's center, and amazingly it still works. Its metallic yet melodic clang echoes through the emptiness, and I glance around, feeling anxious about disturbing the peace.

"This is sick," he says, and asks me to take a video of him ringing it again.

Then we peek through what remains of the front windows, noting that there's not much inside except for a few errant beams that have fallen and are partially propped up against the walls. It's dark inside, so I cup my hands around my eyes to see better. But the building remains mostly empty, hollowed out at some point between 1975 and now. I catch a glimpse of something tall near the farthest corner of the room, and for a moment I lose my breath, goosebumps rising on my forearms. It looks like a shadowy figure, standing alone in the dark. But upon second glance, I see it's actually a statue. A bear carved out of a tree, standing on its back legs with front paws extended as if to play a game of patty-cake. I laugh at myselfat my jumpinessand take a photo with my phone, but it's too poorly lit and grainy to make out.

I blame it on a mild case of trespassing anxiety, though it likely has more to do with the setting. It's eerie to stand amongst the ruins, to see the ghosts of what used to be.

The front door is also nearly off its hinges, so we could easily go in and poke around more. See what else was left behind. But we decide it doesn't look safe enough (and I invoke Aidan's warning about the buildings' unknown integrity). Instead, we split up to investigate a few of the surrounding cabins and outbuildings, including a barn, with its center entirely collapsed like a failed souffl, and a surprise find: an open air bowling alley that has a tree growing in its center, straight through a hole in the gabled roof. The forest has mostly reclaimed the cabins, and many of the buildings are at least partially obscured by winding vines and branches crowded with leaves.

There's a sudden breeze, which feels inexplicably cool. The hairs on my arms rise with the slight shift in temperature, and with it I feel a hint of apprehension. I blame it on a mild case of trespassing anxiety, though it likely has more to do with the setting. It's eerie to stand amongst the ruins, to see the ghosts of what used to be.

Excerpted from What Wild Women Do by Karma Brown. Copyright 2023 Karma Brown. Published by Viking Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.