Arose to brisk sunlight. We'd slept wet . Seems we'd spent the night in a small rapids. First order of business was to drape our bags and ground cloth on the bushes. Let the sun work its magic.
"Hadn't planned on doing laundry this early in the game. We'll sleep fresh air well tonight. 'Til then there's nowhere we need go but we'll sure go someplace. Maybe a movie? I'm leaning toward an outdoor adventure flick. I can almost smell the popcorn and butter. We'll mull over our options and do what we'll do. Give her some thought Archie me lad and tell me what you think."
'Course I was all hepped up to fish more. I'd have been crazy not to.
"Take my word for it you'd be disappointed compared with our luck last night. A downpour turns the fishing dial down for a few days. Cold water, cold fishing, believe that's in the Bible somewhere. Tonight we'll maybe paddle out, more to be on the water in the peace of the evening than for the fishing. For now we rest. Give our shoulders a break. Tomorrow you'll wish it was yesterday. The morning's agenda? Eat and clean. Let the tent dry some. Maybe wash out my dirty socks. Not exciting but necessary. After lunch we'll putz our way out to see what we'll see. Go ahead and bring your fishing pole should you feel the need."
So that's what we did. Eat, rearrange gear, dry out and read. I threw a few barren casts. Uncle Emil even pulled out the camp axe and a stone. Spit on and ground the blade to a fine edge. Yup, that's all we did as the shadows shortened. We puttered and then puttered some more. Seemed enough like a Sunday to be church-like in the embracing silence of the northwoods.
A swarm of dragonflies paid their respects while we ate. Uncle Emil said they were doing exactly what we were doing, eating breakfast.
"I've heard tell they can eat ten times their body weight each day, kind of like you. And they're doing us a favor at the same time. Dragonflies love skeeters. Wish we'd've had them in the Philippines. If skeeters have a heaven that's where it'd be. Don't know which drained the most blood out of me, the skeeters or the bullet." Emil paused, started to say something then went silent as the morning. He picked up a pot and went to gather water.
Breakfast was walleye filets, eggs and left over pan bread. Never had that combination before. Seemed the whiskey jacks hadn't either. Two of them gave us a head twisting stare while chowing down as though to ask, "What is this wonderful stuff?" Had to admit I agreed with them. It sure ate good.
With the sun still near its zenith we grabbed a handful of snacks and headed out on the lake. Painfully I listened to my uncle and left my pole leaning on the fire pit jack pine.
"We off to any place in particular?"
"Yes and no. The mood strikes me right and the stars line up, it could be an interesting moment. We're off to see a man who isn't there. Should we be in luck he'll not be around."
Didn't quite know what to say about that. Figured if I asked, any answer I got wouldn't be helpful and another roundabout of sidetrack comments. And none anywhere near as much fun as the reality Emil hinted at. At least that's what I hoped.
Brisk air, brilliant sunlight, chop on the water, deep blue from horizon to horizon, off we went toward mid-lake, me in the front as usual. I felt pretty good. Sleeping on an air mattress was an improvement. Beat sleeping on sticks and stones by a country mile.
Emil paddled in a mood of grace. Smile on his face, head pivoting around just like our camp whiskey jacks trying to get a fix on something straight ahead. He said our course was set a couple of degrees south of random.
"Too much to see. And we're in no hurry to gather in any more than we can get a handle on. This land and water gets hold of a man like a lover. Demanding and rewarding at the same time. Don't expect you to understand that yet. But someday, Lord willing, you will. God's pocket, that's exactly where we are."
We leisurely paddled our way along a few of the many mid-lake island shores. Wafts of sunlit pine and spruce filled my lungs. Left a memory there I'll not forget. Doesn't matter where I am, city or forest, when the sun warms those many-green needles it takes me back to that noon hour on Wedge.
Out in the open, between islands, we watched a flock of gulls swoop, skim the chop, then soar straight up only to dive again.
"I can't say for certain but I figure the lake's coming into mayfly season. The little wrigglers that are the mayflies to be, rise from the bottom ooze, float atop the surface skim to shed their skin and crawl out as full fledged mayflies. Kind of like butterflies. No sooner do they lift off, bam!, they turn into gull food. Short life. Hardly worth saving for retirement. Dragonflies dining on skeeters, gulls on mayflies. Always something eating something else. There's a lesson in there somewhere. Bugs of the lake or something like that. And a good one no doubt. Maybe: Blessed are the gulls for they shall suck up a million mayflies, turn them into fertilizer, drop the digested sludge into Wedge Lake so as to make a fertile bottom in which to spawn more mayflies. Amen. Anyhow, that's my sermon for today."
We tucked into a bay with a narrow sand beach backed by a meadow. In the meadow sat a cabin. Nice log cabin. Looked well kept. Blue shutters and trim. Caribou antlers above the door. Two windows faced the water. We crunched ashore on the sand accompanied by the harmony of bird twitter and insect buzz. No one around. Called out with no answer. The cabin door was unlocked but no one came when we knocked. Then Emil edged the door open. Whoever'd lived there had been gone a long time. Thick layer of dust over table and floor. What first caught Emil's eye was the book covered shelving encircling the building above the four windows. Hundreds and hundreds of volumes. It was all we could do to not enter and explore. But it would have felt a violation of privacy. Mice runs and droppings scattered about like they'd claimed ownership. A broken window pain on the west side. A close look at the closed shutters spoke of pealing paint and neglect.
Emil knelt and thumbed the floor, "Take a look Archie. This planking, the front door and shutters, all was made by hand. No doubt sawn and planed by the person who raised this building. Even the wood door hinges. Lord almighty, whoever lived here was an artist in wood from the log walls to the hand split roof shingles and stone fireplace. And all this built in a place where no one'd ever see it. Reminds me of a Mark Twain short story. Man goes to heaven and asks St. Peter who the two greatest writers were. St. Peter says Shakespeare and a man in Kentucky who never published a word. Kind of fits this cabin. Wonder what happened to the man - or maybe a woman?"
"Could've sworn there was someone here the last time. Sure felt like it. But I never went so far as to peek inside. Dust, dirt and peeling paint aside, this remains a fine building. Solid. And surely worth repairing. Lot of sweat and thought went into raising it from the ground. Seems a shame to let it rot to soil. Would've been a pleasure to meet the hands that'd swung the axe and drawn the saw. Yeah, a man could live well in a place like this. Something to consider."
We returned to the breezes and dragonflies of the beach. Sat on the grass edging the cobbles and snacked on sausage, cheese and chocolate.
It was there I first began to feel a part of the land and water we were traveling. Seemed so normal, so comfortable sitting on the ground in the sunlight. Not odd at all we were on an island in a lake five hundred miles north of the border with no one else for miles. Alone as I'd ever been even though I sat beside my uncle. Would have felt a little crowded had the owners shown up.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Canada XXXII - Stone Canoe
No doubt about it our campsite island was tiny, cozy, snug, boat-sized. But it was perfect. Slide-in landing onto a sofa sized patch of grass, open, rock slab tent and kitchen spot, little woods to do our business. And fishing. Oh yeah, fishing. I could have spent weeks there. Always something to do. While there broke out a well thumbed paperback to read aloud when the time came for me to cast my spinner toward the nearby mainland. Our leisure hours ashore were passed along the boundaries of our paradise, me with rod, Emil with Treasure Island.
"Archie me lad you've made a good choose. Doubt we'll finish it but she's a good read." Great way to pass the time whether in the daylight of camp or by flashlight in the tent. "Not often I get to read aloud. 'Specially a story as well told as this. Should you get tired of my voice, let me know."
Once ashore the packs were quickly hauled uphill, tent went up with poles Emil'd sawed on his last trip, tarp went down, air mattresses inflated and sleeping bags laid out. Homey. Cooking gear appeared, stove pumped and fired up, butter slabbed in the big pan, melted and foamed. You have to remember this was 1961. And keep in mind that Emil had been in the Army during the war. Spam it was, sliced thin and fried crisp on the outside, steamy within. The heart of the grilled cheese sandwiches he made. Slid down hot and easy followed by gulpings of lemonade to cool our blistered gums. Hungry? You bet.
Then we did what we did best. Nothing. Except for me, I was orbiting the island's shore like a satellite accompanied by the serenade of walleye and pike. Not on every cast but the numbers totaled in the dozens that afternoon under the slowly darkening sky. And not all the fish were small. My first ten pound pike put my wrists to the test and taught me to respect its brush-like teeth.
"You'll someday come to feel the same about jackfish as do the Canucks. A hundred pike equals bloody, raw fingertips. They're good to eat if you're up to the misery of slicing around all the bones but, oh my, those teeth."
Struck me as odd Emil didn't fish much while ashore. Mostly he seemed to enjoy my hoots and would wander over now and then to check out my latest big one. Then he'd fire up his pipe, pull out the dogeared paperback from a back pocket and read to me of Jake and the boys catching trout in Spain.
Biggest thing I caught was a jack pine. Happened in mid-cast and nearly pulled me off the ground. I was so intent on firing my lure all the way across the hundred foot channel I completely forgot what was right above my head. But my spinner sure didn't.
While I was staring to the blue sky and red of face, Emil strolled up. Crap. Here comes the riding. But no. My uncle simply gave the situation an up and down, then said, "Set the bail and let 'er hang. This is a moment to remember and savor for a few minutes. Archie me lad, I once did near the same thing, except I was in a canoe at the time, tucked to shore and working a channel much the same as this. And casting out for all I was worth. The jack pine wasn't big, doubt it topped forty feet. Probably the reason I was able to uproot it. This was back when I used to fish for muskies with a stout, four-sided, steel rod. Pretty much a six foot length of rebar with a reel holder and guides. Anyhow, the pine ripped loose and summersaulted into the bow of the canoe. Came down so hard it bent the boat and catapulted me near the top of a birch across the channel. Talk about embarrassing. Good thing there was nobody around to give me the grief I deserved. So I won't pass on any to you. Though I wish I'd brought a camera."
So it went. And so too was the sky invaded by an army of clouds. Finally the darkness above stopped dead as though resting up before the big show. Wedge glassed out, the water pitch black.
"She'll be a blow tonight. Maybe a good one."
We set to work tying down the tent from every angle to every conceivable nearby point. Rock, root, brush and tree. No tent pegs for the ground was nothing but slab rock. Dinner was chili and rice. Uncle Emil even baked up some pan bread out of bisquick, sugar, cinnamon and raisins afloat in butter. A feast in the wilderness.
"A full stomach is a warm and happy one. Tonight we fish 'til I say it's time to head in. When I say go, we go."
Under the heavy gray of the Canadian evening, reflected double on a sheet of glass, we fished. Endless streams of fish came to our canoe. All walleye and pike. No matter where our spinners landed in the bays they were greeted by 'v's of hungry pike slicing through fresh green reed tips. Or off the points in the rocks, the slam and chaotic run of walleyes.
Our spinners were hammered, tails shredded and shafts bent and restraightened 'til the wire flimsied or broke. My hands bled and fingers stunk of pike slime. The Grumman's gunwales were slowly painted by scale and speckled by blood. My spotted red blended with that of the fish, brothers in the hunt.
Most were small but every now and then it'd be time to hang on and go for a ride out of the bay toward the islands. Laugh? Lordy did we howl. Catching my share made me bold. I even began to deride the old man to my rear when he'd gone a few casts with nothing to show for his effort. And when it came to insult, Uncle Emil was no slouch.
"I'd call down on your manhood Archie me lad, if you weren't but a wee slip of a child only days apart from diapers. Throw another fishless cast and I'll be forced to call your mother to come get you. Tuck you in with your blankie to protect you from the big, bad walleyes of Wedge Lake."
And on it went. Fish on the line and weather settling down.
My last pike was a fitting end to our float. Seemed like it took me hours to reel her in. I'd get the fish to the canoe and she'd simply suspend there, finning, resting, eyeballing me with hate and fear. I'd make a move with my pliers to twist the spinner loose and off she'd go, motor boating and wiggling her tail at me in distain.
The treble wasn't sunk deep. Nothing but a single hook pierced the side of the pike's jaw. Didn't want to lose her but what the heck could I have done with something that size anyhow? Seemed a shame to kill a true beast of a fish simply because I could.
While I worked the pike, Emil worked the canoe. Kept the pressure on the fish but not too much. Emil used the canoe as my drag, fatiguing the pike at just the right rate. One last run and my line went limp. No pike, no spinner. What once was a snap swivel on the end of my leader was now a straightened length of wire. She was too much fish.
I sat there panting, exhilarated to the point of breathlessness.
"Now that's what I call fun Archie. And you might wanta to take a moment and look around, see where we are. Where your finny old lady dragged us over the last fifteen minutes."
What I took to be the bay's shore turned out to be an island. The hookup was a city block to our rear. Lost in concentration, for the duration of the fight all I'd seen was the pike, my line and the water.
"Where we are doesn't do justice to the route she hauled us. We zig-zagged half of this bay. Had some fish on in my life but nothing like that one. She was a wall-hanger and a half. Four foot or more."
"And that's all she wrote for tonight. Figure we've just enough time to brush our teeth, take a leak and batten down the hatches. She's nigh upon us."
So that's what we did. Before turning in, Emil stoked his pipe one last time. Above us passed a black roiling. Tobacco clouds swirled around and above Emil's Stetson. Once aloft they drifted slowly down lake, then paused. In the distance a soft, deep-throated roar arose. At the same time the stagnant pipe smoke reversed direction, drawn to the tumult.
Emil tapped his pipe dregs in the fire circle. "Here she comes. Don't know about you but I've no fondness for a soaking or to be turned into a kite. Let's skedaddle."
Started slow and cranked up to what Emil called a good old fashioned gully washer. It hammered down. Hard as steel. Hard enough to raise my hackles from fear. Don't know what I was afraid of outside of where we were, the black and deluge outside and the thin layer of cotton between us and the flood. Never'd heard a rain roar before but this downpour did. And not a wisp of wind to drive the storm on. I've yet to hear or smell a rain like that one on Wedge Lake.
"Shoulda brought us an ark. And would've had I known what a cubit was."
"Archie me lad you've made a good choose. Doubt we'll finish it but she's a good read." Great way to pass the time whether in the daylight of camp or by flashlight in the tent. "Not often I get to read aloud. 'Specially a story as well told as this. Should you get tired of my voice, let me know."
Once ashore the packs were quickly hauled uphill, tent went up with poles Emil'd sawed on his last trip, tarp went down, air mattresses inflated and sleeping bags laid out. Homey. Cooking gear appeared, stove pumped and fired up, butter slabbed in the big pan, melted and foamed. You have to remember this was 1961. And keep in mind that Emil had been in the Army during the war. Spam it was, sliced thin and fried crisp on the outside, steamy within. The heart of the grilled cheese sandwiches he made. Slid down hot and easy followed by gulpings of lemonade to cool our blistered gums. Hungry? You bet.
Then we did what we did best. Nothing. Except for me, I was orbiting the island's shore like a satellite accompanied by the serenade of walleye and pike. Not on every cast but the numbers totaled in the dozens that afternoon under the slowly darkening sky. And not all the fish were small. My first ten pound pike put my wrists to the test and taught me to respect its brush-like teeth.
"You'll someday come to feel the same about jackfish as do the Canucks. A hundred pike equals bloody, raw fingertips. They're good to eat if you're up to the misery of slicing around all the bones but, oh my, those teeth."
Struck me as odd Emil didn't fish much while ashore. Mostly he seemed to enjoy my hoots and would wander over now and then to check out my latest big one. Then he'd fire up his pipe, pull out the dogeared paperback from a back pocket and read to me of Jake and the boys catching trout in Spain.
Biggest thing I caught was a jack pine. Happened in mid-cast and nearly pulled me off the ground. I was so intent on firing my lure all the way across the hundred foot channel I completely forgot what was right above my head. But my spinner sure didn't.
While I was staring to the blue sky and red of face, Emil strolled up. Crap. Here comes the riding. But no. My uncle simply gave the situation an up and down, then said, "Set the bail and let 'er hang. This is a moment to remember and savor for a few minutes. Archie me lad, I once did near the same thing, except I was in a canoe at the time, tucked to shore and working a channel much the same as this. And casting out for all I was worth. The jack pine wasn't big, doubt it topped forty feet. Probably the reason I was able to uproot it. This was back when I used to fish for muskies with a stout, four-sided, steel rod. Pretty much a six foot length of rebar with a reel holder and guides. Anyhow, the pine ripped loose and summersaulted into the bow of the canoe. Came down so hard it bent the boat and catapulted me near the top of a birch across the channel. Talk about embarrassing. Good thing there was nobody around to give me the grief I deserved. So I won't pass on any to you. Though I wish I'd brought a camera."
So it went. And so too was the sky invaded by an army of clouds. Finally the darkness above stopped dead as though resting up before the big show. Wedge glassed out, the water pitch black.
"She'll be a blow tonight. Maybe a good one."
We set to work tying down the tent from every angle to every conceivable nearby point. Rock, root, brush and tree. No tent pegs for the ground was nothing but slab rock. Dinner was chili and rice. Uncle Emil even baked up some pan bread out of bisquick, sugar, cinnamon and raisins afloat in butter. A feast in the wilderness.
"A full stomach is a warm and happy one. Tonight we fish 'til I say it's time to head in. When I say go, we go."
Under the heavy gray of the Canadian evening, reflected double on a sheet of glass, we fished. Endless streams of fish came to our canoe. All walleye and pike. No matter where our spinners landed in the bays they were greeted by 'v's of hungry pike slicing through fresh green reed tips. Or off the points in the rocks, the slam and chaotic run of walleyes.
Our spinners were hammered, tails shredded and shafts bent and restraightened 'til the wire flimsied or broke. My hands bled and fingers stunk of pike slime. The Grumman's gunwales were slowly painted by scale and speckled by blood. My spotted red blended with that of the fish, brothers in the hunt.
Most were small but every now and then it'd be time to hang on and go for a ride out of the bay toward the islands. Laugh? Lordy did we howl. Catching my share made me bold. I even began to deride the old man to my rear when he'd gone a few casts with nothing to show for his effort. And when it came to insult, Uncle Emil was no slouch.
"I'd call down on your manhood Archie me lad, if you weren't but a wee slip of a child only days apart from diapers. Throw another fishless cast and I'll be forced to call your mother to come get you. Tuck you in with your blankie to protect you from the big, bad walleyes of Wedge Lake."
And on it went. Fish on the line and weather settling down.
My last pike was a fitting end to our float. Seemed like it took me hours to reel her in. I'd get the fish to the canoe and she'd simply suspend there, finning, resting, eyeballing me with hate and fear. I'd make a move with my pliers to twist the spinner loose and off she'd go, motor boating and wiggling her tail at me in distain.
The treble wasn't sunk deep. Nothing but a single hook pierced the side of the pike's jaw. Didn't want to lose her but what the heck could I have done with something that size anyhow? Seemed a shame to kill a true beast of a fish simply because I could.
While I worked the pike, Emil worked the canoe. Kept the pressure on the fish but not too much. Emil used the canoe as my drag, fatiguing the pike at just the right rate. One last run and my line went limp. No pike, no spinner. What once was a snap swivel on the end of my leader was now a straightened length of wire. She was too much fish.
I sat there panting, exhilarated to the point of breathlessness.
"Now that's what I call fun Archie. And you might wanta to take a moment and look around, see where we are. Where your finny old lady dragged us over the last fifteen minutes."
What I took to be the bay's shore turned out to be an island. The hookup was a city block to our rear. Lost in concentration, for the duration of the fight all I'd seen was the pike, my line and the water.
"Where we are doesn't do justice to the route she hauled us. We zig-zagged half of this bay. Had some fish on in my life but nothing like that one. She was a wall-hanger and a half. Four foot or more."
"And that's all she wrote for tonight. Figure we've just enough time to brush our teeth, take a leak and batten down the hatches. She's nigh upon us."
So that's what we did. Before turning in, Emil stoked his pipe one last time. Above us passed a black roiling. Tobacco clouds swirled around and above Emil's Stetson. Once aloft they drifted slowly down lake, then paused. In the distance a soft, deep-throated roar arose. At the same time the stagnant pipe smoke reversed direction, drawn to the tumult.
Emil tapped his pipe dregs in the fire circle. "Here she comes. Don't know about you but I've no fondness for a soaking or to be turned into a kite. Let's skedaddle."
Started slow and cranked up to what Emil called a good old fashioned gully washer. It hammered down. Hard as steel. Hard enough to raise my hackles from fear. Don't know what I was afraid of outside of where we were, the black and deluge outside and the thin layer of cotton between us and the flood. Never'd heard a rain roar before but this downpour did. And not a wisp of wind to drive the storm on. I've yet to hear or smell a rain like that one on Wedge Lake.
"Shoulda brought us an ark. And would've had I known what a cubit was."
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Canada XXXI - Land O' Pike
We shared the trail the second time over. Emil grabbed the food pack and cooler, I toted the much smaller gear pack and stove. Might have been smaller but hurt even more than the first, 'specially the stove. Its eleven pounds started out light and gathered weight quickly. But like a lot of things I learned later in life, it was tolerable pain under which I could shut my mind off and gut out. Like getting used to not getting used to something.
"You know Archie me lad, this isn't a real portage, though in a convoluted way, I suppose it is. But there's no history to it. Way back when, the Voyageurs used the Grass River as one of their side routes to and from Hudson Bay. Probably didn't even know Wedge Lake was here. No doubt didn't care either. They were moving fur and in no mood to take a wasted side trip. The trail we're on was cut for the sports at the lodge and the locals who hike into Wedge to catch pike. Big, big pike!"
We set our packs next to the rest of our gear. Time for a break.
" Guess it's time I let the cat out of the bag. The plan for today and tomorrow is to set up camp and fish. Maybe talk about life or whatever comes to mind. After we're rested, we're off to fish and camp on a nameless lake lying to the south of Wedge. As lakes go up here she's nowhere near a big one but big enough to hold some good sized fish. Mile long and half a mile wide, handful of islands. I doubt anyone has ever wet a line in those waters. Except for me."
"Two years ago I bushwhacked in with a rod and some lunch. I'd have been a fool to sweat my way though a mile and a half of thicket and swamp without taking a cast or two. So that's what I did. Didn't catch squat but a small pickerel. But that was enough to tell me there's fish in those waters. Took the better part of three hours to bushwhack to and from. Dead-ended and backtracked a few times because of swamp and slough. But this time I'm ready. Or should I say, we're ready? Where we're heading is not for the weak of heart. And will be the toughest thing you've ever done. Maybe ever will do. But if you're up for it, I can absolutely guarantee it's something you'll never forget. Call it Emil's gift."
What could I say? There was only one answer and the lake did sound exciting as all get out. Had I known what we were in for I might have said, "No sir, Uncle Emil sir, I'm a citified weenie and would rather go home and watch 'Leave it to Beaver.'" Nah, there was no way I could have said that. And didn't actually want to anyhow.
"Sounds like fun to me."
"Let's you and me shake on it Archie me lad, man to man." I was committed and happy about it. "Now, let's load the canoe and go find us a home for a couple of nights."
Wedge felt different than the other lakes we'd paddled through. Trees were the same, water choppy, clouds floating above and islands. Lots of islands. Looked like the islands even had islands. And the lake was smaller than the Cranberries. That could have been it. Nah, had to be more than that. Maybe it was the quiet? Or the mile we'd hiked off the main lakes. Or maybe the sweat we'd payed out to be where we were. Could have been the thinner veil between us and Mother Nature. That was more like it. Nothing man-made about where we were once we paddled onto Wedge and left the lodge boats behind.
While Uncle Emil paddled he kept up his palaver, "Archie, this be the second step on the way to what's waiting for us. Back on the main lakes we could hear the sound of motors off in the distance. Now they're in our past. The water we're gliding is ours and ours alone (Emil deftly flicked a paddle splash to the back of my head). I very much doubt anyone will come use the lodge boats this week. The pickerel are on the bite back on the Cranberries and no self respecting Canuck is gonna leave that sweet, white meat for the teeth of pike. Yup, we're finally on the doorstep and ringing the bell of God's country."
Then nothing but the fresh of breeze, dig of paddle and slap of waves on aluminum remained. My head continually pivoted, taking in every foot of shore and water. Now and then the white of a gull flashed by. A pair of loons, yeah there's always loons, with little concern for us slid beneath the small rollers for minutes at a time. We moved on.
A channel opened to our left. Beckoned us to enter. One moment it wasn't there and then it was. Almost like Emil pulled it out of his fedora.
"Wedge is like two lakes in one. We're leaving the small side and opening onto the main body. That'll be our home for a couple of days."
The Grumman hugged the left shore of the channel. It was there I first came to see the shoreline as a thing with no end. Almost infinite. No matter how small, each bay had little bays within. Eventually shrinking to pebble size. So tiny a person could get lost thinking about it.
When I brought it up, Uncle Emil agreed, "Had the same thought myself. Don't know when the first time was. Maybe back when I was your age."
"Sailing the ocean has the same effect on a body. No matter the color of the water you can look down into it 'til you get lost in thought. Sometimes I'd think if I could see down far enough I'd be looking at the back of my own head."
"As far as the shore of Wedge is concerned and the pike we'll be searching out, those little pockets we're passing with the overhanging brush are about as far down in size as we'll go in our search. Any smaller and we'd be in another realm. There's a time to dream and a time to fish. And a time to dream of fish. Maybe we'll catch some dream fish. Probably not here though. That'll come in two days."
"You know Archie me lad, this isn't a real portage, though in a convoluted way, I suppose it is. But there's no history to it. Way back when, the Voyageurs used the Grass River as one of their side routes to and from Hudson Bay. Probably didn't even know Wedge Lake was here. No doubt didn't care either. They were moving fur and in no mood to take a wasted side trip. The trail we're on was cut for the sports at the lodge and the locals who hike into Wedge to catch pike. Big, big pike!"
We set our packs next to the rest of our gear. Time for a break.
" Guess it's time I let the cat out of the bag. The plan for today and tomorrow is to set up camp and fish. Maybe talk about life or whatever comes to mind. After we're rested, we're off to fish and camp on a nameless lake lying to the south of Wedge. As lakes go up here she's nowhere near a big one but big enough to hold some good sized fish. Mile long and half a mile wide, handful of islands. I doubt anyone has ever wet a line in those waters. Except for me."
"Two years ago I bushwhacked in with a rod and some lunch. I'd have been a fool to sweat my way though a mile and a half of thicket and swamp without taking a cast or two. So that's what I did. Didn't catch squat but a small pickerel. But that was enough to tell me there's fish in those waters. Took the better part of three hours to bushwhack to and from. Dead-ended and backtracked a few times because of swamp and slough. But this time I'm ready. Or should I say, we're ready? Where we're heading is not for the weak of heart. And will be the toughest thing you've ever done. Maybe ever will do. But if you're up for it, I can absolutely guarantee it's something you'll never forget. Call it Emil's gift."
What could I say? There was only one answer and the lake did sound exciting as all get out. Had I known what we were in for I might have said, "No sir, Uncle Emil sir, I'm a citified weenie and would rather go home and watch 'Leave it to Beaver.'" Nah, there was no way I could have said that. And didn't actually want to anyhow.
"Sounds like fun to me."
"Let's you and me shake on it Archie me lad, man to man." I was committed and happy about it. "Now, let's load the canoe and go find us a home for a couple of nights."
Wedge felt different than the other lakes we'd paddled through. Trees were the same, water choppy, clouds floating above and islands. Lots of islands. Looked like the islands even had islands. And the lake was smaller than the Cranberries. That could have been it. Nah, had to be more than that. Maybe it was the quiet? Or the mile we'd hiked off the main lakes. Or maybe the sweat we'd payed out to be where we were. Could have been the thinner veil between us and Mother Nature. That was more like it. Nothing man-made about where we were once we paddled onto Wedge and left the lodge boats behind.
While Uncle Emil paddled he kept up his palaver, "Archie, this be the second step on the way to what's waiting for us. Back on the main lakes we could hear the sound of motors off in the distance. Now they're in our past. The water we're gliding is ours and ours alone (Emil deftly flicked a paddle splash to the back of my head). I very much doubt anyone will come use the lodge boats this week. The pickerel are on the bite back on the Cranberries and no self respecting Canuck is gonna leave that sweet, white meat for the teeth of pike. Yup, we're finally on the doorstep and ringing the bell of God's country."
Then nothing but the fresh of breeze, dig of paddle and slap of waves on aluminum remained. My head continually pivoted, taking in every foot of shore and water. Now and then the white of a gull flashed by. A pair of loons, yeah there's always loons, with little concern for us slid beneath the small rollers for minutes at a time. We moved on.
A channel opened to our left. Beckoned us to enter. One moment it wasn't there and then it was. Almost like Emil pulled it out of his fedora.
"Wedge is like two lakes in one. We're leaving the small side and opening onto the main body. That'll be our home for a couple of days."
The Grumman hugged the left shore of the channel. It was there I first came to see the shoreline as a thing with no end. Almost infinite. No matter how small, each bay had little bays within. Eventually shrinking to pebble size. So tiny a person could get lost thinking about it.
When I brought it up, Uncle Emil agreed, "Had the same thought myself. Don't know when the first time was. Maybe back when I was your age."
"Sailing the ocean has the same effect on a body. No matter the color of the water you can look down into it 'til you get lost in thought. Sometimes I'd think if I could see down far enough I'd be looking at the back of my own head."
"As far as the shore of Wedge is concerned and the pike we'll be searching out, those little pockets we're passing with the overhanging brush are about as far down in size as we'll go in our search. Any smaller and we'd be in another realm. There's a time to dream and a time to fish. And a time to dream of fish. Maybe we'll catch some dream fish. Probably not here though. That'll come in two days."
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Canada XXX - Saddle Up
"Archie me lad, the fun's over. Or just beginning depending on your point of view or the state of your back. I'll give you a hand with your pack."
Emil hoisted one of the smaller packs and I squirmed my way into the straps. Didn't actually feel too heavy 'til he let go. Then I sunk at least two inches into the rocky soil. Maybe split the continental shield.
"Grab a pair of paddles and you're off. Stay on the path. When you come to a fork, go right. Eventually you might come to a big puddle. By big I mean bigger than a house big. Wait for me there. If the puddle's not there or you can find a way around and still keep your feet dry, head on 'til you run into the lake. Any doubts anywhere, give out a yell. I won't be but a half minute behind. See you when I see you."
I was off. Stumblingly off. Into the woods. No one anywhere but me and Emil. Holy smokes Rocky. Lions and tigers and bears. But the path was wide. Easy to follow. Five minutes along and sure enough, there was the fork.
All was fine and dandy. Except for the pack. That bugger was mean heavy. Made my legs feel like rubber. By the time I hit the fork the straps were beginning to separate my shoulders from my neck. Oh me, oh my. When I felt the first trickle of sweat I feared it was blood from my torn flesh.
Traipsing through the forest the only sounds I heard were the hollow thumps of my footfalls, my wheezing and the creaking of the leather straps. Under foot passed dirt, rock and root for as far as I cared to look, which was about a stumble's distance. Little puddles now and then. 'Cause I had the duck boots I saw no sense in going around any stinking puddles. Trudged through. Uncle Emil said most of the portages had started out as animal trails. Seemed right to me since the portage we were on didn't shoot a straight line but wound around like a squirrel looking for acorns in a woods without an oak tree. No sir, this was nothing like a highway or sidewalk built by anything with a lick of sense.
Since I had time to think and thinking took my mind off the pack, I came to the conclusion nothing in the world before the arrival of pen and pencil, followed the straight lines we draw on maps. Mostly nature's trails take the easy way. Goes around the lake, avoids the hill, has no need of swamp, doesn't run into the tree. It seemed the paths were made by people and animals smart enough to know the right way to travel. Could be what seemed roundabout to me was actually the quickest way to get where we were going.
Above, thin patches of blue sky peeked through the bower of needle and leaf. So much green above, around and below even the air was tinted jade. In a way it felt like being in church, a big one like a cathedral with ornate pillars and all.
Now and then I had to work my way over or around a deadfall. Simple, hard work. When necessary, I broke my way through the side brush. My slow and surely inevitable death from terminal strap pain was interrupted by a loud, hollow bang to my rear. And a mumbled cursing that sounded like it was coming from inside a barrel. Turned out Uncle Emil had thumped square into one of the spruces angling over the path. Made me feel good I wasn't alone. But at the moment I wasn't sure Emil felt the same way.
Around the next bend waited the puddle, just like Emil said. Turned out to be more of a pond than a puddle. Time to pause for the thumper to show up. Paddles went down on a tussock, followed immediately by the thump of my pack. In a few seconds my body began to rise to its full length. Felt like I could float and rise to the treetops. Weird indeed.
Emil arrived a minute later. Wasn't huffing as much as puffing. A cloud billowed its way out from beneath the overturned Grumman. "I tell you Archie and it's the gospel truth, don't ever fire up a pipe and throw a canoe over your head. It was like a gas chamber in there."
While gasping that out he rolled the canoe off his shoulders and wormed out of the day pack. Quite a load for an old man.
He checked the pond in both directions. "Let's you and me have us a look-see before committing ourselves to what might turn out to be sheer stupidity." Off to the right we went, spreading our way through the brush and stomping over jackstrawed deadfall. Emil stopped midway around and scoped the remainder. "This'll do."
"I'll lead the way. Best you follow a ways behind so I don't whack you with seventeen feet of aluminum. And pay no heed to what I might say should I again ram one of these spruces. And no doubt I will."
This time I shouldered my own pack. Emil loaded, snapped the canoe to his thighs, then his shoulders with two quick moves. Tough old buzzard. Once again we were off, Emil thumping trunks and grinding his way through the thicket. For me it was an up and over slog with a touch of branch in the butt as I straddled over the barky deadfalls. Finally we were back on the blessed portage trail. What ten minutes earlier had seemed a misery was now a walk in the park.
Slowly the air brightened. A glimpse above told me there was a break in the tree cover not far ahead. The lake. Wedge Lake as it turned out. Along the shore slept three aluminum fishing boats waiting patiently to be overturned and hit the water.
"Lodge boats," said Emil to the question I hadn't asked. "They're for the sports who rent the cabins but want a few hours in the bush. Makes their whiskey and soda go down more manly about the time they belly up to the dinner table. Did it a few times myself 'til I realized where I truly wanted to be, out here under the stars and canvas with the loons to sing me to sleep."
When Uncle Emil wanted to make a point, when he wanted me to listen up, he'd slow down his cadence of words. Pause now and then to search for the right one so I'd get his drift. But he never nailed the lesson down. Kinda worked his way around it. Left a hole in the middle I was supposed to fill in myself. Sometimes it'd take me a while to get the meat. Minutes, weeks, years, decades even. Most of all he wanted me to mull things over. Dig a little deeper. Never accept any thing or idea as the complete truth. Keep searching 'til the day I sprouted lilies. And maybe catch a few pickerel on the way.
"There's a couple of packs wanting our company at the other end of the portage. Figure they might come in handy so let's you and me head back that way." Turned out our unfettered return for a reload was enough break to refresh us.
Emil hoisted one of the smaller packs and I squirmed my way into the straps. Didn't actually feel too heavy 'til he let go. Then I sunk at least two inches into the rocky soil. Maybe split the continental shield.
"Grab a pair of paddles and you're off. Stay on the path. When you come to a fork, go right. Eventually you might come to a big puddle. By big I mean bigger than a house big. Wait for me there. If the puddle's not there or you can find a way around and still keep your feet dry, head on 'til you run into the lake. Any doubts anywhere, give out a yell. I won't be but a half minute behind. See you when I see you."
I was off. Stumblingly off. Into the woods. No one anywhere but me and Emil. Holy smokes Rocky. Lions and tigers and bears. But the path was wide. Easy to follow. Five minutes along and sure enough, there was the fork.
All was fine and dandy. Except for the pack. That bugger was mean heavy. Made my legs feel like rubber. By the time I hit the fork the straps were beginning to separate my shoulders from my neck. Oh me, oh my. When I felt the first trickle of sweat I feared it was blood from my torn flesh.
Traipsing through the forest the only sounds I heard were the hollow thumps of my footfalls, my wheezing and the creaking of the leather straps. Under foot passed dirt, rock and root for as far as I cared to look, which was about a stumble's distance. Little puddles now and then. 'Cause I had the duck boots I saw no sense in going around any stinking puddles. Trudged through. Uncle Emil said most of the portages had started out as animal trails. Seemed right to me since the portage we were on didn't shoot a straight line but wound around like a squirrel looking for acorns in a woods without an oak tree. No sir, this was nothing like a highway or sidewalk built by anything with a lick of sense.
Since I had time to think and thinking took my mind off the pack, I came to the conclusion nothing in the world before the arrival of pen and pencil, followed the straight lines we draw on maps. Mostly nature's trails take the easy way. Goes around the lake, avoids the hill, has no need of swamp, doesn't run into the tree. It seemed the paths were made by people and animals smart enough to know the right way to travel. Could be what seemed roundabout to me was actually the quickest way to get where we were going.
Above, thin patches of blue sky peeked through the bower of needle and leaf. So much green above, around and below even the air was tinted jade. In a way it felt like being in church, a big one like a cathedral with ornate pillars and all.
Now and then I had to work my way over or around a deadfall. Simple, hard work. When necessary, I broke my way through the side brush. My slow and surely inevitable death from terminal strap pain was interrupted by a loud, hollow bang to my rear. And a mumbled cursing that sounded like it was coming from inside a barrel. Turned out Uncle Emil had thumped square into one of the spruces angling over the path. Made me feel good I wasn't alone. But at the moment I wasn't sure Emil felt the same way.
Around the next bend waited the puddle, just like Emil said. Turned out to be more of a pond than a puddle. Time to pause for the thumper to show up. Paddles went down on a tussock, followed immediately by the thump of my pack. In a few seconds my body began to rise to its full length. Felt like I could float and rise to the treetops. Weird indeed.
Emil arrived a minute later. Wasn't huffing as much as puffing. A cloud billowed its way out from beneath the overturned Grumman. "I tell you Archie and it's the gospel truth, don't ever fire up a pipe and throw a canoe over your head. It was like a gas chamber in there."
While gasping that out he rolled the canoe off his shoulders and wormed out of the day pack. Quite a load for an old man.
He checked the pond in both directions. "Let's you and me have us a look-see before committing ourselves to what might turn out to be sheer stupidity." Off to the right we went, spreading our way through the brush and stomping over jackstrawed deadfall. Emil stopped midway around and scoped the remainder. "This'll do."
"I'll lead the way. Best you follow a ways behind so I don't whack you with seventeen feet of aluminum. And pay no heed to what I might say should I again ram one of these spruces. And no doubt I will."
This time I shouldered my own pack. Emil loaded, snapped the canoe to his thighs, then his shoulders with two quick moves. Tough old buzzard. Once again we were off, Emil thumping trunks and grinding his way through the thicket. For me it was an up and over slog with a touch of branch in the butt as I straddled over the barky deadfalls. Finally we were back on the blessed portage trail. What ten minutes earlier had seemed a misery was now a walk in the park.
Slowly the air brightened. A glimpse above told me there was a break in the tree cover not far ahead. The lake. Wedge Lake as it turned out. Along the shore slept three aluminum fishing boats waiting patiently to be overturned and hit the water.
"Lodge boats," said Emil to the question I hadn't asked. "They're for the sports who rent the cabins but want a few hours in the bush. Makes their whiskey and soda go down more manly about the time they belly up to the dinner table. Did it a few times myself 'til I realized where I truly wanted to be, out here under the stars and canvas with the loons to sing me to sleep."
When Uncle Emil wanted to make a point, when he wanted me to listen up, he'd slow down his cadence of words. Pause now and then to search for the right one so I'd get his drift. But he never nailed the lesson down. Kinda worked his way around it. Left a hole in the middle I was supposed to fill in myself. Sometimes it'd take me a while to get the meat. Minutes, weeks, years, decades even. Most of all he wanted me to mull things over. Dig a little deeper. Never accept any thing or idea as the complete truth. Keep searching 'til the day I sprouted lilies. And maybe catch a few pickerel on the way.
"There's a couple of packs wanting our company at the other end of the portage. Figure they might come in handy so let's you and me head back that way." Turned out our unfettered return for a reload was enough break to refresh us.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Canada XXIX - I Hurt
Boy it sure felt good to be back on the water. For about five minutes.
"Good morning Archie baby," said my muscles. "Remember us? We're the guys you beat up yesterday. You didn't think we'd forget you, did you? And we sure don't want you to forget us. Around back, just to the left of center between your shoulder blades? Yeah, right there. That throbbing dent is from the peanut sized rock you missed when clearing off the tent site. Next time pay more attention, okay? Or should I say, eh?"
Just didn't seem fair. I was a kid in pretty good shape. Ate my Wheaties, played all the sports and biked or walked everywhere. But this paddling business was in a whole 'nother league. When I made a joke of asking Uncle Emil why I hurt, he saw through me and said, "It's all part of the game. The growing up game that is. You're asking your body to do things it's never done before. Odd thing is, your body likes it. The pain is just nature's way of saying thank you. One thing's for sure, it'll get better, easier over time. Or maybe the pain will eventually kill you. Either way, you won't hurt anymore." All of that spoken with his pipe clenched between his teeth.
Again, just like yesterday, our canoe slid forward slowly. That's the way of the canoe. Quiet for sure. Plenty of time to look around as you move. While I paddled, my mind drifted off to the ends of the universe. Or maybe to a night in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn in my lap. Then reality would come roaring back and I'd watch an otter bobbing and diving along the shore, checking us out like he'd never seen an aluminum canoe before. Guess that made us even. I'd never seen an otter before.
Sure enough the lake eventually gave way to another channel. Emil said we'd been on a river the whole time. "The Grass River. Doesn't sound like much of a wilderness track does it? When she widens, she's a lake. When she narrows. she's a channel. When she narrows more, she's a falls or rapids. Don't think there's actually a lake in the whole north of Manitoba. Just river. Except for where we're heading." And followed his opinion with one of those deep throated laughs like he's some evil guy with a big, black slouch hat, the kind from a 1930s black and white movie where you can only see his glowing eyes and you know for sure he's not the one you want to be with when walkin' hand in hand into the sunset. I hoped he was kidding. Yeah, that's it, kidding.
I followed his with a laugh of my own like I was playing along. Only my laugh sounded more like I was auditioning for a Warner Brothers cartoon as Porkie.
"Don't worry Archie me lad, it'll be fun."
At the end of Second Cranberry and back on what at least looked like a river, we pulled up our paddles. Let nature take us where she wanted while Uncle Emil stoked his pipe. Once puffing away he carefully passed a canteen forward on his paddle blade. Lemonade! Seemed he brought flavor crystals along. Sipping, listening to the play of waves on the gleaming hull, slowly turning broadside to the breeze, no hurry to be anywhere. What a great life.
"Put your feet up on the gunnels and lean back on the packs. Take a load off your backside. But do it gracefully. The drier I am, the happier I am. Yeah, your Uncle has rolled his share of boats. She's not the end of the world. No sir. But a dunking changes the flow of the day. Adds a sense of wet adventure a man has no need for."
My Uncle paused a moment, sculled us a few single handed strokes forward,
"Seems like adventure always begins when something goes wrong. And going wrong goes hand in hand with his buddy, stupidity. We all do stupid things in life but up here it pays to keep your eyes open. Take your time, do it right. Who knows, one of these days I might even listen to my own advice."
Twenty minutes of channel later another island clustered lake opened to view. So thickly planted with them, I couldn't separate shore from island. All looked the same to me. One continuous shoreline. Good thing Emil was at the helm.
Fifteen minutes later, for no apparent reason our canoe Emil turned us right and into a small bay accompanied by him humming a catchy tune.
"That's a pretty neat song. Any words to it?"
"None that I know of. Mozart wrote that as a piano piece. You wouldn't think something two hundred years old would be a toe tapper. Figure Wolfgang wore out a lot of fancy shoes tapping away while he wrote. Some of those concertos would sure sound good bouncing off these spruces but I'm not holding my breath 'til the time they do."
Off in the near distance a pole dock rose along the shore.
"Is that where we're heading?"
"More or less. Should we be in the Lund that'd be where we'd tie up. In the canoe it'd be asking for a bath or broken bones. Our slide-in is along the rock shelf off to the left. She'll be a grinder due to the rubble on the bottom. But that's what aluminum is good for. That and latching onto every stone in a river."
Our offload was an Emil affair. I helped some but as far as I was concerned the heft of the food pack said to leave it alone. Even Uncle Emil grunted on that one. From the rocky shore we moved our gear uphill to a little meadow about half a block inland. From our perch we surveyed the green and blue of our world and listened to the silence.
It was there I came to learn there's a never ending backdrop of activity no matter where you are. Here it was a lap of waves, shush of pines, flutter of aspens, twitter of birds, hammer of woodpecker and the play of breeze as it skipped across the bay. Yeah, those sounds were all there, all the time. Probably back in the city also. But how often had I ever stopped to listen to the wind?
Emil stoked up and added the fragrance of burning tobacco. His clouds would rise a bit, swirl, then dash off to the woods and brush behind us. I'd already heard how bad smoking was on a body. Many times. But there in the surrounding wilderness it sure had the feel of something spiritual, even holy. I could see why the Cree offered it as a gift of thanks. Smoke was much like a prayer on its drift toward the heavens. Then, just like a talk with God, it was gone to who knows where. Spread to the four corners of the universe.
Of course I wasn't thinking anything that profound at the time. But I did think the pipe tobacco smelled good and smoke seemed a fitting thing to share our space on the edge of the forest.
Again, just like yesterday, our canoe slid forward slowly. That's the way of the canoe. Quiet for sure. Plenty of time to look around as you move. While I paddled, my mind drifted off to the ends of the universe. Or maybe to a night in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn in my lap. Then reality would come roaring back and I'd watch an otter bobbing and diving along the shore, checking us out like he'd never seen an aluminum canoe before. Guess that made us even. I'd never seen an otter before.
Sure enough the lake eventually gave way to another channel. Emil said we'd been on a river the whole time. "The Grass River. Doesn't sound like much of a wilderness track does it? When she widens, she's a lake. When she narrows. she's a channel. When she narrows more, she's a falls or rapids. Don't think there's actually a lake in the whole north of Manitoba. Just river. Except for where we're heading." And followed his opinion with one of those deep throated laughs like he's some evil guy with a big, black slouch hat, the kind from a 1930s black and white movie where you can only see his glowing eyes and you know for sure he's not the one you want to be with when walkin' hand in hand into the sunset. I hoped he was kidding. Yeah, that's it, kidding.
I followed his with a laugh of my own like I was playing along. Only my laugh sounded more like I was auditioning for a Warner Brothers cartoon as Porkie.
"Don't worry Archie me lad, it'll be fun."
At the end of Second Cranberry and back on what at least looked like a river, we pulled up our paddles. Let nature take us where she wanted while Uncle Emil stoked his pipe. Once puffing away he carefully passed a canteen forward on his paddle blade. Lemonade! Seemed he brought flavor crystals along. Sipping, listening to the play of waves on the gleaming hull, slowly turning broadside to the breeze, no hurry to be anywhere. What a great life.
"Put your feet up on the gunnels and lean back on the packs. Take a load off your backside. But do it gracefully. The drier I am, the happier I am. Yeah, your Uncle has rolled his share of boats. She's not the end of the world. No sir. But a dunking changes the flow of the day. Adds a sense of wet adventure a man has no need for."
My Uncle paused a moment, sculled us a few single handed strokes forward,
"Seems like adventure always begins when something goes wrong. And going wrong goes hand in hand with his buddy, stupidity. We all do stupid things in life but up here it pays to keep your eyes open. Take your time, do it right. Who knows, one of these days I might even listen to my own advice."
Twenty minutes of channel later another island clustered lake opened to view. So thickly planted with them, I couldn't separate shore from island. All looked the same to me. One continuous shoreline. Good thing Emil was at the helm.
Fifteen minutes later, for no apparent reason our canoe Emil turned us right and into a small bay accompanied by him humming a catchy tune.
"That's a pretty neat song. Any words to it?"
"None that I know of. Mozart wrote that as a piano piece. You wouldn't think something two hundred years old would be a toe tapper. Figure Wolfgang wore out a lot of fancy shoes tapping away while he wrote. Some of those concertos would sure sound good bouncing off these spruces but I'm not holding my breath 'til the time they do."
Off in the near distance a pole dock rose along the shore.
"Is that where we're heading?"
"More or less. Should we be in the Lund that'd be where we'd tie up. In the canoe it'd be asking for a bath or broken bones. Our slide-in is along the rock shelf off to the left. She'll be a grinder due to the rubble on the bottom. But that's what aluminum is good for. That and latching onto every stone in a river."
Our offload was an Emil affair. I helped some but as far as I was concerned the heft of the food pack said to leave it alone. Even Uncle Emil grunted on that one. From the rocky shore we moved our gear uphill to a little meadow about half a block inland. From our perch we surveyed the green and blue of our world and listened to the silence.
It was there I came to learn there's a never ending backdrop of activity no matter where you are. Here it was a lap of waves, shush of pines, flutter of aspens, twitter of birds, hammer of woodpecker and the play of breeze as it skipped across the bay. Yeah, those sounds were all there, all the time. Probably back in the city also. But how often had I ever stopped to listen to the wind?
Emil stoked up and added the fragrance of burning tobacco. His clouds would rise a bit, swirl, then dash off to the woods and brush behind us. I'd already heard how bad smoking was on a body. Many times. But there in the surrounding wilderness it sure had the feel of something spiritual, even holy. I could see why the Cree offered it as a gift of thanks. Smoke was much like a prayer on its drift toward the heavens. Then, just like a talk with God, it was gone to who knows where. Spread to the four corners of the universe.
Of course I wasn't thinking anything that profound at the time. But I did think the pipe tobacco smelled good and smoke seemed a fitting thing to share our space on the edge of the forest.
Friday, February 14, 2014
Canada XXVIII - Back on the Water
It rained during the night. A soft drizzle, no more than a scampering on the canvas. Lucky for us the rain came chilled. Not a bitter cold but definitely not like summer in Minnesota. It sure made the sleeping bag feel good and hard to leave in the morning.
"Rise and shine! Archie me lad, we've got a whole world waitin' on us out there and we're wasting it here in our fart sacks. Day's half shot. First orders of business for your's truly is to pay my respects to the brush and make room for breakfast. Youth shall wait his turn."
With that Uncle Emil unzipped and wormed his way out. Once open, his bag told me what he meant by fart sack. Also gave me the impetus to shake a leg before I fainted. Emil slipped his trousers on, grabbed a roll of toilet paper, a little hand shovel and headed into the growing daylight. Turned out his idea of a day half shot was a half hour shy of six.
As much as I hated to admit it, I knew the man was right. Grabbed my jeans, tugged on a sweat shirt and fresh socks. This was back in the days when sweatshirts didn't have any writing on them and came in two colors, grey and dirty. Outside, the air was so clean and crisp it almost hurt. My trip into the trees had me worried I was gonna erode what little dirt there was on this half acre. Maybe even topple trees and despoil ten thousand years of mother nature's labor. Good thing I'd made it outside when I did.
"Wash your face and hands in the lake. Towel's draped on yon bush." What followed was a scrounging through the food pack and cooler accompanied by Emil humming a tune about being on a lake in high winds or something like that.
"Never did learn the songs of the Voyageurs so I make them up. Danger, lost love, rum. All of it the same now as back then. Except for the hernia part. They were little guys carrying seriously big loads. A hundred-twenty pound man hoisting a hundred-eighty pounds on his back will eventually tear most anyone's gut."
"Pardon my French Uncle Emil but what in the world is a voyageur?" Yeah, I was awake and living in Uncle Emil's world. The upshot was they paddled goods to and from the wilderness in birch bark canoes a couple of hundred years ago. Nothing left of them now but ghosts in the rapids looking for someone to join them.
Conversation soon gave way to the sizzle and aroma of maple sausages and eggs. I figured if there's a heaven it'd smell like breakfast on Second Cranberry Lake. Could be I was already dead and up there in my eternal reward. Hello voyageurs!
Topped off our meal with a coupla slabs of sourdough bread, buttered, fried golden and wolfed down with a little maple syrup drizzled across. Almost felt guilty that the only noise coming outta me during the meal was chomping, grinding and gulping. Since that's what we had, I drank some of Uncle Emil's mud. The steaming bitterness of it only added to the joy. And made me want to run in circles or climb trees or maybe even fly.
"You weren't hungry were you Archie me lad? Hope I brought enough grub. I'd forgotten about the bottomless pit that's a young man."
Emil paused for a slurp of coffee, "Let's you and me clear off this mess, break camp and hit the road."
We set to work. Good thing Emil knew the ropes. I'd have been at dishes and packing for most of the day. Midway through breaking down the tent I felt a stirring in my nether regions that must have found its way to my face.
Emil caught my distress and simply said, "Trowel and paper are on the stump. Scrape a small hole in the woods. Grip a tree for balance and keep your trousers out of the drop zone. Bury your leavings and praise the Lord for the sunshine. A full belly and an empty intestine makes for a good day."
While I was squatting, a gray bird landed on my ball cap. To that point I'd been having little success with my business. Could be my problems arose from the strange circumstances surrounding my efforts. Later I figured it was the added weight of the bird or maybe it literally scared the stuffing out of me, either way what followed was like an elevator in free fall. I know outdoor adventures don't mention some of life's necessities. But they are necessities. And also moments of deep, near meditational concentration when the world comes into clear focus. Like Emil said, you generally feel better sauntering out of the woods than trotting in.
"Whiskey Jack, properly a Canada Jay. You don't always see them but if they're in the neighborhood and the food pack's open they're sure to come make friends. Couple of days in a camp and they'll eat out of your hand."
Less than an hour later, the sun over the treetops, packs in the canoe, we pushed off. Emil said we'd be at our first carry in two hours.
We began our day bucking a slowly freshening breeze off our left shoulder. Instead of shooting straight down the middle of the lake Emil took us on a tack toward the right shore. Said there were islands there that would make our way safer and easier should the wind stiffen.
"Life on the water's about keeping the boat afloat and making your way with as little effort as possible. When you aren't able to move forward it's time to sit on the shore and watch the world blow by. For the moment we're doing just fine. Steady as she goes Archie me lad."
"Wash your face and hands in the lake. Towel's draped on yon bush." What followed was a scrounging through the food pack and cooler accompanied by Emil humming a tune about being on a lake in high winds or something like that.
"Never did learn the songs of the Voyageurs so I make them up. Danger, lost love, rum. All of it the same now as back then. Except for the hernia part. They were little guys carrying seriously big loads. A hundred-twenty pound man hoisting a hundred-eighty pounds on his back will eventually tear most anyone's gut."
"Pardon my French Uncle Emil but what in the world is a voyageur?" Yeah, I was awake and living in Uncle Emil's world. The upshot was they paddled goods to and from the wilderness in birch bark canoes a couple of hundred years ago. Nothing left of them now but ghosts in the rapids looking for someone to join them.
Conversation soon gave way to the sizzle and aroma of maple sausages and eggs. I figured if there's a heaven it'd smell like breakfast on Second Cranberry Lake. Could be I was already dead and up there in my eternal reward. Hello voyageurs!
Topped off our meal with a coupla slabs of sourdough bread, buttered, fried golden and wolfed down with a little maple syrup drizzled across. Almost felt guilty that the only noise coming outta me during the meal was chomping, grinding and gulping. Since that's what we had, I drank some of Uncle Emil's mud. The steaming bitterness of it only added to the joy. And made me want to run in circles or climb trees or maybe even fly.
"You weren't hungry were you Archie me lad? Hope I brought enough grub. I'd forgotten about the bottomless pit that's a young man."
Emil paused for a slurp of coffee, "Let's you and me clear off this mess, break camp and hit the road."
We set to work. Good thing Emil knew the ropes. I'd have been at dishes and packing for most of the day. Midway through breaking down the tent I felt a stirring in my nether regions that must have found its way to my face.
Emil caught my distress and simply said, "Trowel and paper are on the stump. Scrape a small hole in the woods. Grip a tree for balance and keep your trousers out of the drop zone. Bury your leavings and praise the Lord for the sunshine. A full belly and an empty intestine makes for a good day."
While I was squatting, a gray bird landed on my ball cap. To that point I'd been having little success with my business. Could be my problems arose from the strange circumstances surrounding my efforts. Later I figured it was the added weight of the bird or maybe it literally scared the stuffing out of me, either way what followed was like an elevator in free fall. I know outdoor adventures don't mention some of life's necessities. But they are necessities. And also moments of deep, near meditational concentration when the world comes into clear focus. Like Emil said, you generally feel better sauntering out of the woods than trotting in.
"Whiskey Jack, properly a Canada Jay. You don't always see them but if they're in the neighborhood and the food pack's open they're sure to come make friends. Couple of days in a camp and they'll eat out of your hand."
Less than an hour later, the sun over the treetops, packs in the canoe, we pushed off. Emil said we'd be at our first carry in two hours.
We began our day bucking a slowly freshening breeze off our left shoulder. Instead of shooting straight down the middle of the lake Emil took us on a tack toward the right shore. Said there were islands there that would make our way safer and easier should the wind stiffen.
"Life on the water's about keeping the boat afloat and making your way with as little effort as possible. When you aren't able to move forward it's time to sit on the shore and watch the world blow by. For the moment we're doing just fine. Steady as she goes Archie me lad."
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Canada XXVII - The Never Ending Light of Night and a Moment of Sick Humor
Fishing wasn't the only show on the lake. The colors of the trees, the water and the sky all grew deeper with each passing minute. As the sun neared the tree line, the lake calmed. Glassed out and turned oil slick black. Way darker than the night we were having topside. Up here night was in no hurry at all. Looked to me like the sun sank lower and lower and lower, leveled out, then stopped moving altogether. As though it had no desire to turn in. Instead wanted to stay up and play.
Once back in camp we slathered on bug repellant, pulled up a pair of stumps and sat down to watch the world turn its back on the sun. Emil stoked his pipe. His fragrant tobacco cloud swirled and slowly thinned but never left us. Don't know what concoction he was puffing but it smelled good and at the same time killed hordes of mosquitos.
"Archie me lad, do you remember anything at all about your dad?"
That was a tough one for both Emil to ask and me to answer. Bring up the dead and you never know whose toes you might be stepping on. You see, my dad died when I was three. I guess if a kid's to grow up fatherless, three's as good an age as any. Didn't yet know him, so all the good and bad coming from the inevitable father-son head butting never happened. I didn't know what I was missing and didn't much care. It's not like I'd come to know him before he died. He might have been a great dad or a never ending nightmare. When it comes to parents you get what you get.
"Not much. I guess most of what I do remember comes from what I've been told by other people. I kind of remember getting off a street car with him after we'd gone to the circus on my third birthday. That's about it. That's the only picture I have in my head. All the rest of what I guess you could call memories are no more than stories I've overheard and words aren't really memories are they? The way I see it, if you don't have the picture in your head it may as well never have happened. But I think of him a lot. Carry him around inside my head and talk with him about what's happened in the world since he died. It's almost like he was my kid instead of the other way around. Kind of weird I know but that's what I do."
By then Second Cranberry had fully mirrored out. Made me wish we had some flat, round stones to skip over the water. I had a pretty good arm and Uncle Emil was known to have been a fair ball player. Since I didn't have a dad I guessed my uncle would have to do for the time being. Could have been worse I suppose. But I knew it wasn't the same as the real deal. One step removed and it was a big step. Night and day.
Over the years other men had tried to fill the gap they figured I must have in my life. Nice guys who took me to father-son things at school. But all I ever felt on those days was uncomfortable. Like I was supposed to be someone I wasn't. Didn't even feel grateful, just wanted the affair to be over. The dad I carried in my head was good enough for me.
Emil blew out a string of smoke rings like he was the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, "Don't worry about me tryin' to act like I was your dad. Lost mine around the time you were born Archie me lad. Not the same as being three years old but I know for a fact no one can take your old man's place."
"The way I see it, you and I are here together to have a good time. And I expect we will. Anything beyond that is a plus. One thing's for sure, you don't have a thing to worry about. We're gonna head pretty deep into the bush but we'll do it with our eyes open. If something looks a little too close to the edge we won't do it. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Also, tomorrow begins your first real day of work. I've got two packs all set up for you. They're going to feel heavy as death. Your job is to get them from one end of the portage to the other. How you do that is up to you. Set them down a dozen times if you have to but they're yours and yours alone. If you can, don't get them muddy. Okay?"
What could I say? "Okay." Didn't know what a portage was and didn't ask. Figured I'd learn soon enough.
"Weather permitting we'll have camp set up and be eating lunch by noon. I'm thinking walleyes. Don't know if the walleyes are thinking the same thing but that's their problem."
Half an hour later we were in the bags. Toes warm as toast, nose cold as ice. My first night on an island in Canada. As much as I wanted to dwell on the importance of the moment, sleep was calling. Hard to say no to sleep when you're dead tired.
Guess what? Moss wasn't quite as comfortable as my bed back home. But it didn't matter. I could have slept on bare stone and I guess that's pretty much what we were doing. Turned out in the days following Emil had packed the air mattresses. He figured this first night it would do me good to sleep as close to nature as possible. Just like in the old days. The fragrance of the moss beneath the ground cloth wrapped itself around me as did the waxed cotton aroma of the tent itself.
I was half under when Uncle Emil piped up. At least I think he did. Maybe I'd already fallen asleep and only dreamt what followed. It was black as black could be in the tent once the flashlight had clicked off. I was deep in my bag. Emil stirred for a moment, sounded like he was folding his hands behind his head,
"Archie me lad, you ever read those stories about Winnie the Pooh?"
Yawned a, "Yes, read them all."
"Good, then this'll at least make some sense. You see, me and Lena never had any kids so there was no one at home to read bedtime stories to. Didn't even know the Pooh existed 'til one time down in the cities when I was hooked into tucking my brother Herb's boy into bed. Dan was about seven at the time and I was in St. Paul doing some Christmas shopping."
Here he paused a moment or two. Ask Emil and he'd've said he was getting his ducks in line.
"Anyhow, the two of us stumbled our way through the one about Pooh and Piglet falling into this hole they'd dug. Kind of funny in a way. While I was reading I got to thinking about what it would have been like if the stories had been about real animals instead of toy ones. You know, Pooh as a grizzly. Eight foot tall, three inch claws and teeth like razors. I don't think his little pig buddy would have lasted very long. Same with the kid, Christopher Robin. All of them downed as dinner except maybe the owl since he could fly. Kangaroo, gone in a flash. I've got this image of Pooh grabbing the gloomy donkey by its head and swinging him around 'til its little jackass skull was crushed and spine snapped. Just like a grizzly would. Then Pooh'd bury the carcass and let it rot a while to age the meat. Finally, there'd be an armageddon like battle at the end between Pooh and Tigger, six hundred pound bengal tiger. Oof dah, blood everywhere. Both of them would end up torn to pieces and dead. Over the next few weeks Rabbit's little rodent relations would eat all that'd be left of them, bones and everything. Chain of life in action. Before I could get out a word of my version Danny'd dropped off. How he fell asleep with me laughin' so hard I'll never know."
"Almost spent the night so I could give Danny the fun version of the story in the morning over breakfast but Herb figured my idea of funny might be a little too real for his little boy. Probably he was right. Anyhow, good night Archie."
"Are there any grizzlies around here Uncle Emil?"
"Nope. Not a one. Black bears maybe. But they're nowhere near as big. Four hundred pounds tops." He paused, "You didn't bring any Hershey bars in the tent did you?"
"The way I see it, you and I are here together to have a good time. And I expect we will. Anything beyond that is a plus. One thing's for sure, you don't have a thing to worry about. We're gonna head pretty deep into the bush but we'll do it with our eyes open. If something looks a little too close to the edge we won't do it. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Also, tomorrow begins your first real day of work. I've got two packs all set up for you. They're going to feel heavy as death. Your job is to get them from one end of the portage to the other. How you do that is up to you. Set them down a dozen times if you have to but they're yours and yours alone. If you can, don't get them muddy. Okay?"
What could I say? "Okay." Didn't know what a portage was and didn't ask. Figured I'd learn soon enough.
"Weather permitting we'll have camp set up and be eating lunch by noon. I'm thinking walleyes. Don't know if the walleyes are thinking the same thing but that's their problem."
Half an hour later we were in the bags. Toes warm as toast, nose cold as ice. My first night on an island in Canada. As much as I wanted to dwell on the importance of the moment, sleep was calling. Hard to say no to sleep when you're dead tired.
Guess what? Moss wasn't quite as comfortable as my bed back home. But it didn't matter. I could have slept on bare stone and I guess that's pretty much what we were doing. Turned out in the days following Emil had packed the air mattresses. He figured this first night it would do me good to sleep as close to nature as possible. Just like in the old days. The fragrance of the moss beneath the ground cloth wrapped itself around me as did the waxed cotton aroma of the tent itself.
I was half under when Uncle Emil piped up. At least I think he did. Maybe I'd already fallen asleep and only dreamt what followed. It was black as black could be in the tent once the flashlight had clicked off. I was deep in my bag. Emil stirred for a moment, sounded like he was folding his hands behind his head,
"Archie me lad, you ever read those stories about Winnie the Pooh?"
Yawned a, "Yes, read them all."
"Good, then this'll at least make some sense. You see, me and Lena never had any kids so there was no one at home to read bedtime stories to. Didn't even know the Pooh existed 'til one time down in the cities when I was hooked into tucking my brother Herb's boy into bed. Dan was about seven at the time and I was in St. Paul doing some Christmas shopping."
Here he paused a moment or two. Ask Emil and he'd've said he was getting his ducks in line.
"Anyhow, the two of us stumbled our way through the one about Pooh and Piglet falling into this hole they'd dug. Kind of funny in a way. While I was reading I got to thinking about what it would have been like if the stories had been about real animals instead of toy ones. You know, Pooh as a grizzly. Eight foot tall, three inch claws and teeth like razors. I don't think his little pig buddy would have lasted very long. Same with the kid, Christopher Robin. All of them downed as dinner except maybe the owl since he could fly. Kangaroo, gone in a flash. I've got this image of Pooh grabbing the gloomy donkey by its head and swinging him around 'til its little jackass skull was crushed and spine snapped. Just like a grizzly would. Then Pooh'd bury the carcass and let it rot a while to age the meat. Finally, there'd be an armageddon like battle at the end between Pooh and Tigger, six hundred pound bengal tiger. Oof dah, blood everywhere. Both of them would end up torn to pieces and dead. Over the next few weeks Rabbit's little rodent relations would eat all that'd be left of them, bones and everything. Chain of life in action. Before I could get out a word of my version Danny'd dropped off. How he fell asleep with me laughin' so hard I'll never know."
"Almost spent the night so I could give Danny the fun version of the story in the morning over breakfast but Herb figured my idea of funny might be a little too real for his little boy. Probably he was right. Anyhow, good night Archie."
"Are there any grizzlies around here Uncle Emil?"
"Nope. Not a one. Black bears maybe. But they're nowhere near as big. Four hundred pounds tops." He paused, "You didn't bring any Hershey bars in the tent did you?"
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Canada XXVI - Fish Gotta Fly
Emil's plan for me was simple, sit there and hold the rod. That's about it. Not very exciting. Well, there was more to it than just that. To start with Emil had me practice casting. A couple of high flies and a low bullet or two were quickly followed by a general grasp of timing.
We started with a trip around our island, looking for likely spots to throw a lure. There, in a little pocket off a point, I caught my first Canadian pike. Wasn't but a hammer handle but it was mine. Or at least it was 'til my lack of experience had me pass the rod to Emil. He had me watch closely while he grabbed the slippery bugger behind the gills and used his pliers to twist the hook out.
"Needle nose 'em in the water if you can. Most times the hooks'll come out easy since I've crimped all the barbs. Otherwise, grab the fish like you mean it. If you get wimpy, the pike'll know you're chicken and wiggle to get free. You'll end up doing more damage to the fish. Simple as that. Yeah, they're slimy as snails so don't lick your fingers after releasing a northern. Don't pick your nose either or the whole world will smell like a pike's patoot."
"There's a pair of pliers in your box with a length of string attached. Tie the pliers off to the thwart behind you just in case you feel the need to drop them in the lake. Experience tells me pliers don't float."
Emil made his own leaders. Instead of wire he used a short length of strong, plastic fishing line. Said the wire ones scared off the fish, particularly lakers and walleyes. He had me clip a silver spoon onto my leader. About a foot and a half above the lure I attached two twist-on sinkers to help lower the spoon where the trout swam. Good thing my Uncle was with me for I had no idea what the heck I was doing.
I gave the rig a fling out to the lakeside exactly as told and we began slowly trolling back and forth in front of the island. That was it. Sitting, waiting, occasionally pulling on the rod. Nothing happening except for a coupla crazy loons in mid-lake getting all loony as the sun once again slowly, very slowly, angled down.
Emil got the first laker. Also the second. And the last. And while he was reeling them in he was singing a victory tune about fish, dish and delish. Me? I got a few more small pike and one decent one. By decent I mean it was the biggest fish I'd ever caught. Even got a "not bad, sorry it's a pike" from my uncle. Yeah, I was a little disappointed being laker skunked. And the old guy in the back having nothing to do with unhooking my fish.
"You're on your own from now on unless the lure's sticking halfway out the fish's backside. Releasing your own fish is all part of the game. Also part of the reason pike aren't a lot of fun to catch unless they're bigguns."
" Don't know how or why but it takes a while for fish to like a person enough to sacrifice themselves. And they sure don't care to be caught by neophytes. An angler has to prove himself to the fish. So, your job is to keep accidentally hooking them 'til they get to know you. Maybe even grow to love you like they love me. Of course I'm better looking, on a higher scale, fin-nancially secure and generally easier for a fish to fall in love with. Sometimes it's all I can do to keep them out of the boat. It's not easy being so handsome you know. And humble to boot."
We started with a trip around our island, looking for likely spots to throw a lure. There, in a little pocket off a point, I caught my first Canadian pike. Wasn't but a hammer handle but it was mine. Or at least it was 'til my lack of experience had me pass the rod to Emil. He had me watch closely while he grabbed the slippery bugger behind the gills and used his pliers to twist the hook out.
"Needle nose 'em in the water if you can. Most times the hooks'll come out easy since I've crimped all the barbs. Otherwise, grab the fish like you mean it. If you get wimpy, the pike'll know you're chicken and wiggle to get free. You'll end up doing more damage to the fish. Simple as that. Yeah, they're slimy as snails so don't lick your fingers after releasing a northern. Don't pick your nose either or the whole world will smell like a pike's patoot."
"There's a pair of pliers in your box with a length of string attached. Tie the pliers off to the thwart behind you just in case you feel the need to drop them in the lake. Experience tells me pliers don't float."
Emil made his own leaders. Instead of wire he used a short length of strong, plastic fishing line. Said the wire ones scared off the fish, particularly lakers and walleyes. He had me clip a silver spoon onto my leader. About a foot and a half above the lure I attached two twist-on sinkers to help lower the spoon where the trout swam. Good thing my Uncle was with me for I had no idea what the heck I was doing.
I gave the rig a fling out to the lakeside exactly as told and we began slowly trolling back and forth in front of the island. That was it. Sitting, waiting, occasionally pulling on the rod. Nothing happening except for a coupla crazy loons in mid-lake getting all loony as the sun once again slowly, very slowly, angled down.
Emil got the first laker. Also the second. And the last. And while he was reeling them in he was singing a victory tune about fish, dish and delish. Me? I got a few more small pike and one decent one. By decent I mean it was the biggest fish I'd ever caught. Even got a "not bad, sorry it's a pike" from my uncle. Yeah, I was a little disappointed being laker skunked. And the old guy in the back having nothing to do with unhooking my fish.
"You're on your own from now on unless the lure's sticking halfway out the fish's backside. Releasing your own fish is all part of the game. Also part of the reason pike aren't a lot of fun to catch unless they're bigguns."
" Don't know how or why but it takes a while for fish to like a person enough to sacrifice themselves. And they sure don't care to be caught by neophytes. An angler has to prove himself to the fish. So, your job is to keep accidentally hooking them 'til they get to know you. Maybe even grow to love you like they love me. Of course I'm better looking, on a higher scale, fin-nancially secure and generally easier for a fish to fall in love with. Sometimes it's all I can do to keep them out of the boat. It's not easy being so handsome you know. And humble to boot."
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Canada XXV - Emil Knows Butter
Once the tent was up and gear stowed, the green, two burner Coleman stove gassed, pumped and fired up. Emil said the Coleman was the only way to fly. Added weight to the load but saved time when it came to meals.
"Butter. South of the Mason-Dixon line lard's the lord of the kitchen. Up in the Northland it's butter. Lord praise the cow and the churn. You can fry taters in it, slather it on toast, brown onions and put a crust on steak. Butter adds yum to the meal and keeps a man regular. Makes his willie point to the North Star. Then, in a pinch you can use it to navigate at night, just ask any sailor and he'll tell you the same. For now I'm simply gonna get my two pans heating. Once they're hot, in goes the yellow gold 'til it foams then I throw in the onions, salt and pepper."
His cutting board was the spare paddle. Emil drew a razor sharp sheath knife from his belt sheath. Then it was chopping and slicing time. Started with a pair of diced baked potatoes followed a few minutes later by the meat. Twenty minutes later we sat to dinner at the shore atop our live jackets. It was a simple meal. Steaks crusted black yet running juice when I split it open. While we ate dish and coffee water heated on the stove.
Eating wasn't talking time. It was wolfing time pure and simple. Guess we were hungry. Conversation returned after our dishes were clean and gear stowed. Emil broke the silence, "This is my favorite time of day, coffee in the cup, pipe lit, coupla cookies in my lap just beggin' to be eaten. Top that off with the better part of an evening to fish."
"Archie me lad, your job tonight is to catch fish. And it'd be nice if you didn't fall in the lake in the process. Unless of course you're pulled in by one of the piscatorial demons out there beneath the waves. If that happens, don't you worry one bit and whatever you do don't let go of your rod. Your life jacket'll keep you topside so I can find you. Not so much that I want you alive and well, though that'd be nice, but it'd be a cryin' shame to lose a fish big enough to haul an over-sized juvenile overboard."
While he talked Emil began stringing the rods. He'd brought five. Four were spinning rods, complete with reels. Having never even seen a spinning reel before. Hadn't a clue how to use one. I was in trouble and you know how it is when a kid's in trouble. Maybe you don't? My reaction to the reels was to clam up and pretend the world and all its mysterious ways were well known to me. Why not? I was a city kid and city kids were hip. And sometimes a little stupid. But fishing was going to be tough unless I opened my mouth.
Uncle Emil was smart enough to know my game and was two steps ahead. "Archie me lad, these here are spinning reels. Until a coupla years ago I didn't know squat about them. Took one look and knew something was strange because the spool was sideways. Figured there was no way a man could cast such a contraption. So I was standing there in the tackle shop turning it every which way, even tasted it. Had a look on my face sayin' I'd be kicking its tires if it had any."
"About then a young man came to the rescue and told me these were the latest thing. From France and were gonna revolutionize fishing. I figured, what the heck, the French make pretty good fried potatoes and toast, why not fishing reels? Then he showed me how it worked and I was hooked. Had to have one. So I bought me a Garcia, rod included and had the man spool the reel with a new kind of plastic line called monofilament. You know what? He was right. It still bird's nests now and then but nothing like the old bait casters. Throws a French spinner a country mile. Never thought an American boy like me would fish with a bunch of French gear. But fish don't recognize national boundaries and even if they did there's a pretty fair French population in Canada so we'd be okay."
While Emil was describing his purchase, he was also demonstrating how the reel worked. The kindness of geezers trumps the fear of men in the budding most every time and I had my eyes glued onto his demonstration.
"Mostly what I learned from that young man, and a whole lot of men and women in my past, was it's okay to admit you don't know something. People are happy to share knowledge. Always have been, always will be."
"By the by, I took the liberty of setting up a small tackle box for you. Hope you don't mind. There's most everything in there to put fish on your line, including luck. That's what the penny is for. Also had it blessed by a priest, bathed in smoke by a Navaho medicine man, mail ordered a voodoo amulet from New Orleans and had a distiller from Kentucky baptize it with three drops of twelve year old bourbon. Now it's up to you."
With that, we loaded the canoe, me in the bow - I'd have said up front but Emil said I best use proper terminology once in a while - ready to go. Emil straddled the stern to keep the Grumman stable 'til he launched us. I was so excited I could have peed my pants.
While he talked Emil began stringing the rods. He'd brought five. Four were spinning rods, complete with reels. Having never even seen a spinning reel before. Hadn't a clue how to use one. I was in trouble and you know how it is when a kid's in trouble. Maybe you don't? My reaction to the reels was to clam up and pretend the world and all its mysterious ways were well known to me. Why not? I was a city kid and city kids were hip. And sometimes a little stupid. But fishing was going to be tough unless I opened my mouth.
Uncle Emil was smart enough to know my game and was two steps ahead. "Archie me lad, these here are spinning reels. Until a coupla years ago I didn't know squat about them. Took one look and knew something was strange because the spool was sideways. Figured there was no way a man could cast such a contraption. So I was standing there in the tackle shop turning it every which way, even tasted it. Had a look on my face sayin' I'd be kicking its tires if it had any."
"About then a young man came to the rescue and told me these were the latest thing. From France and were gonna revolutionize fishing. I figured, what the heck, the French make pretty good fried potatoes and toast, why not fishing reels? Then he showed me how it worked and I was hooked. Had to have one. So I bought me a Garcia, rod included and had the man spool the reel with a new kind of plastic line called monofilament. You know what? He was right. It still bird's nests now and then but nothing like the old bait casters. Throws a French spinner a country mile. Never thought an American boy like me would fish with a bunch of French gear. But fish don't recognize national boundaries and even if they did there's a pretty fair French population in Canada so we'd be okay."
While Emil was describing his purchase, he was also demonstrating how the reel worked. The kindness of geezers trumps the fear of men in the budding most every time and I had my eyes glued onto his demonstration.
"Mostly what I learned from that young man, and a whole lot of men and women in my past, was it's okay to admit you don't know something. People are happy to share knowledge. Always have been, always will be."
"By the by, I took the liberty of setting up a small tackle box for you. Hope you don't mind. There's most everything in there to put fish on your line, including luck. That's what the penny is for. Also had it blessed by a priest, bathed in smoke by a Navaho medicine man, mail ordered a voodoo amulet from New Orleans and had a distiller from Kentucky baptize it with three drops of twelve year old bourbon. Now it's up to you."
With that, we loaded the canoe, me in the bow - I'd have said up front but Emil said I best use proper terminology once in a while - ready to go. Emil straddled the stern to keep the Grumman stable 'til he launched us. I was so excited I could have peed my pants.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Canada XXIV - Old School
At the height of our island we entered a clearing which opened toward the island-lined, east shore of the lake. Uncle Emil said we'd call our site Baldy Knob after his head and a place he'd been in the Appalachians with Aunt Lena. The fire ring we found said we weren't the first to visit. As did the genuine, near to toppling, stick and plywood table leaning nearby.
"The ring tells me this is used as a shore lunch spot. Not a lot of Canucks camp out these days but they favor their beans, taters and walleye in a spot near where they caught them. Good chance there's some fine fishing within a hundred yards of where we're standing at this very moment. Yon table tells me the boys who eat here aren't carpenters and couldn't tell level from their kiesters. And haven't as yet been introduced to the wheel."
"It's true that walleyes make for a good dinner but that's not our game for this evening. Tonight it's ribeyes in the gut and lakers on the water. Big trout in Second Cranberry. Not so much as Lake Atapap over on the other side of Cranberry Portage but even here we've got a shot at a twenty pounder."
While this palaver - that's what Emil said we were having even though it was a little one-sided - was going on, he began roaming the island with a branch saw in hand. Said he was seeking five perfect poles. Each one had to be long and straight, "Long enough so Jacob could get a start on his ladder and weighty enough to cold cock any Martians that might be looking to conquer the planet starting with our campsite. Nip 'em in the bud before they get any big ideas. No greenies from outer space better think they can get drop on Emil the Elegant and Archie the Axe." While he mumbled among the trees I was sent down to the beach to retrieve the stove, rod tubes and last pack.
Gotta tell you those packs were big. And heavy. And liked to grab every piece of brush I passed. And grew heavier with every step I took. But I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut and not let my Uncle think I was a wimp. Besides, it was good exercise and would get me in shape in case we needed to save the planet. Crazy old coot alright. Crazy enough to put a smile on my face.
I'd seen a couple of tents in my few years and what Emil put up was definitely a tent. It had the shape alright, long peaked roof that A-framed to the ground. But the poles he'd cut were on the outside. Paired, crossed and lashed close to the top, one pair up front, the other to the rear. A pole laid and tied lengthwise at the top from the crotch of the front X to the rear one held the frame together. The canvas tent was hung from the frame and tied off to brush, trees and rock. The bottoms of the sides were tucked in and a tarp placed inside as a floor. Emil said the design was even older the he was. Our mattress on the first night was the moss beneath the tarp.
"We'll go with moss for our bed. Don't know about you but for me blowing up two air mattresses for only one night holds no appeal. I doubt our sleeping on them is the moss' idea of a good time. Good thing those little buggers can't make much noise while they're being crushed or their whining would make it hard to get a good night's sleep. I'd be forced to slap them around a bit so we could get some shut-eye. Show them who's boss. First aliens, now moss. Archie me lad, life's not easy in the land of the Mountie."
"The ring tells me this is used as a shore lunch spot. Not a lot of Canucks camp out these days but they favor their beans, taters and walleye in a spot near where they caught them. Good chance there's some fine fishing within a hundred yards of where we're standing at this very moment. Yon table tells me the boys who eat here aren't carpenters and couldn't tell level from their kiesters. And haven't as yet been introduced to the wheel."
"It's true that walleyes make for a good dinner but that's not our game for this evening. Tonight it's ribeyes in the gut and lakers on the water. Big trout in Second Cranberry. Not so much as Lake Atapap over on the other side of Cranberry Portage but even here we've got a shot at a twenty pounder."
While this palaver - that's what Emil said we were having even though it was a little one-sided - was going on, he began roaming the island with a branch saw in hand. Said he was seeking five perfect poles. Each one had to be long and straight, "Long enough so Jacob could get a start on his ladder and weighty enough to cold cock any Martians that might be looking to conquer the planet starting with our campsite. Nip 'em in the bud before they get any big ideas. No greenies from outer space better think they can get drop on Emil the Elegant and Archie the Axe." While he mumbled among the trees I was sent down to the beach to retrieve the stove, rod tubes and last pack.
Gotta tell you those packs were big. And heavy. And liked to grab every piece of brush I passed. And grew heavier with every step I took. But I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut and not let my Uncle think I was a wimp. Besides, it was good exercise and would get me in shape in case we needed to save the planet. Crazy old coot alright. Crazy enough to put a smile on my face.
I'd seen a couple of tents in my few years and what Emil put up was definitely a tent. It had the shape alright, long peaked roof that A-framed to the ground. But the poles he'd cut were on the outside. Paired, crossed and lashed close to the top, one pair up front, the other to the rear. A pole laid and tied lengthwise at the top from the crotch of the front X to the rear one held the frame together. The canvas tent was hung from the frame and tied off to brush, trees and rock. The bottoms of the sides were tucked in and a tarp placed inside as a floor. Emil said the design was even older the he was. Our mattress on the first night was the moss beneath the tarp.
"We'll go with moss for our bed. Don't know about you but for me blowing up two air mattresses for only one night holds no appeal. I doubt our sleeping on them is the moss' idea of a good time. Good thing those little buggers can't make much noise while they're being crushed or their whining would make it hard to get a good night's sleep. I'd be forced to slap them around a bit so we could get some shut-eye. Show them who's boss. First aliens, now moss. Archie me lad, life's not easy in the land of the Mountie."
Friday, February 7, 2014
Canada XXIII - Camp
"Halfway down the lake. Halfway down the lake." If I'd have known what a mantra was that would have been mine. Paddling Second Cranberry started fast and quickly turned endless. Endless roads, now this. But there was no way I was going to let out a peep about tired shoulders. Just kept paddling, tried to find a rhythm that'd work for me and when I got tired, like Emil said, switch sides.
Every so often the canoe would feel like it was going forward but sliding sideways at the same time. Finally, almost as much to pass the time as get advice, I asked what was going on.
"Archie me lad, that's just me straightening us out. Way back when, I learned how to paddle from an old timer, Noah by name. 'Course his boat was way bigger and didn't smell too good. Told me to always grab the small end, then showed me how to turn the paddle into a rudder at the end of the stroke. A stroke with a twist at the end. Don't know if it has a name. Neither did he. But she works and the secret's in the thumb at the top of the paddle. Starts out pointing to the side. Ends up turning and pointing down to the gunwale. Keeps us on course and moving forward at the same time. Efficient you might say. Outside of the pain in my upper arm that is. By the by, don't forget to feather your paddle."
Off to my left was a distant shore. Not like it was way off on the horizon but if I had my bike with me, and if there was a bridge - guess if I can conjure up a bike why not throw in a bridge for good measure? What the heck, throw in one of the big twenty-five ounce bottles of coke chilled in ice water while I'm at it - I figured it would take no more than eight or ten minutes to peddle over. Guess peddling is faster than paddling (careful Archie me lad or you'll turn into Uncle Emil). On the upside, the right shore wasn't but five minutes away.
One thing was for darn sure, traveling in a canoe has little effect on the size of distant islands. I'd paddle for a while, look up, and there, a spot on the horizon, floated a tiny clump of trees. Ten minutes later, same island, same spot, same size. Then I'd look over the side of the canoe. Yup, the water said we were moving forward alright. Paddled for a while more. No change. Never closer.
Weird thing was, all of a sudden, the island would grow real fast. Before I knew it, we'd be passing alongside the pines, waves foaming on the rocks, birches, and dead fall lining the shore. However, no bears or wolves. Oh well, it was better than seeing nothing but lake as we pulled our way along. Next minute we were back to nothing but water and another green dot afloat where the blue above met the blue below.
What felt like a thousand miles and three days later, Emil said it was closer to five miles and something over an hour, we began to circle an island. Seemed like this was the end of the road for the day and we were looking for a spot to land the canoe (or the old man was messing with me). You'd think it was easy, that we could have pulled in anywhere but it turned out islands don't like visitors. The shoreline barrier of brush and sharp stone seemed to tell us to look elsewhere.
Finally, "Pull your paddle and duck while I slide her in. Don't want you to lose an eye and mess up our fishing. I'll take it from here. Ramming speed!"
Uncle Emil whooped it up and paddled like a demon straight at brush brush crowned slab. Then, just before we grounded, he turned us ninety degrees to the left as though the canoe was bolted down directly under my butt and we were pivoting.
"Just love to do that. Sit tight while I step out."
A wobble or two and the stern bobbed up. My turn next. Once ashore my job was to hold the canoe while Emil unloaded.
"Let's go exploring and find ourselves a kitchen and bedroom."
Not sure what he meant by that. There was no house that I could see. We each grabbed a pack and headed uphill with Emil leading the way. Just like we were explorers.
One thing was for sure, this was no tropical, desert island. Not a palm tree in sight. Didn't look like anybody named Friday was going to show up to make us shrunken head soup for dinner either. The thicket of brush I was ducking and easing my through was sprouting from a half a city block-sized, jagged and cracked, chunk of rock. A couple of dozen, half starved jack pines and a few clusters of birch trees none stretching more than thirty feet skyward, shared this rock with the brush. All was ragged as though it was still in the process of becoming something else. I guess paradise is in the eye of the beholder. And this little ragged chunk did look something like the ones I'd conjured up while reading "Field and Stream." Only this one was real.
Every so often the canoe would feel like it was going forward but sliding sideways at the same time. Finally, almost as much to pass the time as get advice, I asked what was going on.
"Archie me lad, that's just me straightening us out. Way back when, I learned how to paddle from an old timer, Noah by name. 'Course his boat was way bigger and didn't smell too good. Told me to always grab the small end, then showed me how to turn the paddle into a rudder at the end of the stroke. A stroke with a twist at the end. Don't know if it has a name. Neither did he. But she works and the secret's in the thumb at the top of the paddle. Starts out pointing to the side. Ends up turning and pointing down to the gunwale. Keeps us on course and moving forward at the same time. Efficient you might say. Outside of the pain in my upper arm that is. By the by, don't forget to feather your paddle."
Off to my left was a distant shore. Not like it was way off on the horizon but if I had my bike with me, and if there was a bridge - guess if I can conjure up a bike why not throw in a bridge for good measure? What the heck, throw in one of the big twenty-five ounce bottles of coke chilled in ice water while I'm at it - I figured it would take no more than eight or ten minutes to peddle over. Guess peddling is faster than paddling (careful Archie me lad or you'll turn into Uncle Emil). On the upside, the right shore wasn't but five minutes away.
One thing was for darn sure, traveling in a canoe has little effect on the size of distant islands. I'd paddle for a while, look up, and there, a spot on the horizon, floated a tiny clump of trees. Ten minutes later, same island, same spot, same size. Then I'd look over the side of the canoe. Yup, the water said we were moving forward alright. Paddled for a while more. No change. Never closer.
Weird thing was, all of a sudden, the island would grow real fast. Before I knew it, we'd be passing alongside the pines, waves foaming on the rocks, birches, and dead fall lining the shore. However, no bears or wolves. Oh well, it was better than seeing nothing but lake as we pulled our way along. Next minute we were back to nothing but water and another green dot afloat where the blue above met the blue below.
What felt like a thousand miles and three days later, Emil said it was closer to five miles and something over an hour, we began to circle an island. Seemed like this was the end of the road for the day and we were looking for a spot to land the canoe (or the old man was messing with me). You'd think it was easy, that we could have pulled in anywhere but it turned out islands don't like visitors. The shoreline barrier of brush and sharp stone seemed to tell us to look elsewhere.
Finally, "Pull your paddle and duck while I slide her in. Don't want you to lose an eye and mess up our fishing. I'll take it from here. Ramming speed!"
Uncle Emil whooped it up and paddled like a demon straight at brush brush crowned slab. Then, just before we grounded, he turned us ninety degrees to the left as though the canoe was bolted down directly under my butt and we were pivoting.
"Just love to do that. Sit tight while I step out."
A wobble or two and the stern bobbed up. My turn next. Once ashore my job was to hold the canoe while Emil unloaded.
"Let's go exploring and find ourselves a kitchen and bedroom."
Not sure what he meant by that. There was no house that I could see. We each grabbed a pack and headed uphill with Emil leading the way. Just like we were explorers.
One thing was for sure, this was no tropical, desert island. Not a palm tree in sight. Didn't look like anybody named Friday was going to show up to make us shrunken head soup for dinner either. The thicket of brush I was ducking and easing my through was sprouting from a half a city block-sized, jagged and cracked, chunk of rock. A couple of dozen, half starved jack pines and a few clusters of birch trees none stretching more than thirty feet skyward, shared this rock with the brush. All was ragged as though it was still in the process of becoming something else. I guess paradise is in the eye of the beholder. And this little ragged chunk did look something like the ones I'd conjured up while reading "Field and Stream." Only this one was real.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Canada XXII - New World
As we paddled off I gave a single backward glance toward the lodge. From that moment all that mattered was where we were and what waited ahead. Another of those life lessons. And I was in the catbird seat upfront. New world. Every paddle stroke pried open a bit more of our future. Yeah, it appeared to be nothing more than trees, rocks, water and sky, with a loon or gull thrown in now and then, with an old man in the back moving us in the right direction. But it was all fresh to me. Every foot of it. New bays, points, boulders we skimmed over in shallow, rippled water the color of finest jade.
Occasionally it struck me we might be passing over the best fishing of my life. Maybe in the whole world. And we weren't doing anything about it. When I brought it up Uncle Emil simply said, "Nope, Archie me lad, the best fishin's up ahead. Always was, always will be. But from what I've learned, it's out there alright and we're closin in on it with each dip of the blade."
Right from the get-go Emil gave me a lesson in paddling in the bow, "You're the engine and I'm the rudder. And since I've got the rudder I'm the boss. What I say goes and I won't steer you wrong. A little zig-zaggy maybe, but not wrong."
"Most people think paddling's easy 'til they give it a try. That's 'cause they don't do it right. First off, one hand grips the top of the paddle, the other just above the blade. Lean a little into the stroke, dip her straight down, all of the blade in and pull her back as vertical as you can. A little water on the knuckles never hurt anyone. Don't need a long stroke, just need to feel you're moving the water, not the other way around. When you get tired, switch to the other side and don't worry about where we're heading unless I say you should. Most of all enjoy the view."
A few minutes later he added, "Archie me lad, when you bring your paddle forward give your wrist a roll and turn the blade flat to the water so it doesn't catch too much wind. That's called feathering the paddle. Doesn't seem like it'd make much difference but over the miles it does. When you're doing something thousands of time it doesn't take much to make a big difference."
Slowly the green of the channel water began to darken as we entered Second Cranberry and the lake bottom began to drop away. Wow! I stopped paddling, straightened up and stared down the seven miles of water, hills and island. All of it spread under stark white popcorn clouds sailing in a deep blue sky. I'd never seen anything like it. Then it dawned on me.
"Uncle Emil, are we gonna paddle down this whole lake?"
"Yup. But not all of it today. Just half way. We'll set up camp on an island, eat us some steaks and fried potatoes, then go see if there's any lake trout we can fool."
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Canada XXI - The Canoe
Uncle Emil's ten horse Johnson moved us right along. Not like the big engines of today but still we crossed the four mile lake in under twenty minutes. From my perch up front this was a thrill. For the first time since he picked me up at the station we were on the water, Canadian water. Holy crap, we were five hundred miles north of what I thought of as up north.
I began to dream of big fish. I mean truly huge fish. Nothing at all like the sunnies and bullheads of the Cities. And then there was the blue of the water beneath, the froth of the boat's wake fading to our rear and the islands we were soon passing. Damn, this was like something out of an outdoor magazine. The sun above sun and its reflection from the thousand little waves we kachunk-kachunked our way over had me squinty-eyed. I couldn't resist. Down went my cupped hand into the spray of the wake. First I washed my eyes then drank from First Cranberry. Emil smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
I pointed to the rocky outcrops of the first island we passed and yelled to Emil, "Does it have a name?" Emil bellowed back over the motor's whiny rumble, "Probably does! Your guess is as good as mine as to what it might be!" Just like me he had an apple pie eating grin on his face. I was thrilled to be where I was. Emil seemed to feed off my joy. And was happy being in a place he loved. The world wasn't passing by as we puttered along, we were surrounded by it. Could see, smell and taste it. And from a new angle every minute.
Not sure when it happened but Emil now had a pipe in his mouth instead of a cigarette. "It's what I do when up here. Kind of a tribute to the Voyageurs of a coupla centuries ago. When in Rome…. I also like the pipe because of the loose tobacco it needs. The Cree use tobacco to show thanks to the land, water, sky and woods around them. Don't know if they're right and don't know if they're wrong. But I do know it's the right thing to always be thankful for a gift. And being up here, doing what we're doing, is a gift. Leaving a pinch without paper at our camp sites feels right to me."
First Cranberry was the biggest lake I'd ever been on. Emil said it was good sized but in the general scheme of things up in the northland it was nothing out of the ordinary. But for me it was a sea. A sea with no outlet. Uncle Emil said we were heading toward a channel into the next lake called Second Cranberry, an even bigger lake. All I could see up ahead was shore, rock and trees and the slap of waves, no outlet anywhere. Sure hoped he knew what he was doing.
A few minutes from my first tingle of wilderness we hung a left into what had moments before been a wall of forest. There, off to our left spread a lodge in a large clearing surrounded by birch and pines. The Canadian flag flapped high above on a wooden pole, surrounded at the base by a little white rock bordered flower garden. Boats, cabins, sand beach, docks and a small, clipped lawn. Order in the boonies. Plus a few Canadian style, good old boys clustered at the end of a pier with their mitts wrapped around brown beer bottles. Looked like a convention of plaid shirted salesmen with time on their hands.
Emil slipped up alongside them with a jaunty "good afternoon gentlemen." Hopped out and secured the Lund. "Might any of you know the whereabouts of Blair?"
"He's up to da office, eh? Good seein' you Emil. How's life down in da States and who might dat young man be? You finally bringin' someone along who'll show you da right way to wet a line, eh?"
That led to five minutes of handshakes and short stories. Seemed even old guys acted like kids when there were no ladies around.
"Grab yourself a LaBatt's outta da cooler on da way up. Might even be a coke in dere for the lad."
All the while I had a smile on my face, said my name when introduced and even shook hands. The old guys were kidding with me but there was something about them that said, 'there stands the next generation.' And figured if the kid's with Emil, he's more than welcome.
The lodge wasn't what you'd call a grand affair. A row of small clapboard cabins, a few out buildings, boats with outboards ready to go and lined up along the pole lined shore. The cabins were small, white painted, red trimmed affairs. I guessed there was little need for opulence when the guests spent most of their time on the water.
The main building was somewhat larger but still not much when compared to the pictures I'd seen of places like the lodge in Yellowstone National Park. The stone paved path leading to the front door passed through a recently mowed lawn. Inside stood wall coolers of bait and beverages. The knotty pine walls were decorated with an elk's head, stuffed geese and hawks, bear skins and a variety of other critters probably killed nearby. But what drew me were the mounted walleyes and lake trout. Monster fish with glowing eyes, mouths open and pointy little teeth. I searched all the surfaces but found not one pike. Guess Uncle Emil wasn't kidding when he said the Canadians didn't think much of jack fish.
In the office we were greeted by a lady named Della. Turned out she was Blair's wife and pretty much ran the business side of the lodge. When Blair, clad in khaki head to booted feet, came out, seems he was indisposed, it was like old home week. At least for them. Friendly people, no doubt about it.
"Gotta cabin for you should you be stayin'. Clean sheets and all."
"Not this time Blair. The young man and I are off to the bush for a week or two. No roof over us. We're pushing off soon as we can. But maybe on our way out we'll take you up on your offer. For the moment, all I'm stopping for is my canoe and the chance to see your lovely wife."
"Sorry to hear that but if the backwoods is what you're after and it looks like you've got someone with you just chompin' at the bit, then it's the canoe for you, eh."
We headed out back to a huge shed. There, in the shadows of the deepest corner, atop a pair of saw horses, perched a soft glisten of aluminum. The downturned Grumman had a year's layering of dust and a bird's nest resting beneath on a thwart. Outside of that and a few deep scratches she was a thing of graceful beauty.
Emil ducked under and pulled out three paddles. All had razor thin, red tipped blades and were of a single piece of ash varnished to a tabletop sheen that came alive when we washed them off at the channel. He handed them to me to set in the Lund for the moment. Back at the shed, Emil carefully lifted out the bird nest, popped the canoe on his shoulders and we returned to the beach.
On the way, Emil asked Blair if he could spare a small block from the ice house. No sooner said than done. Finally we pulled out my suitcase. "Shoulda done this back at the car," he said. "Guess I wasn't thinking."
Emil sorted my clothes into two stacks, staying and going. The staying pile was returned to the suitcase and left at the lodge. "Best not forget this when we come back or our goose is cooked." He then added my few things going to a green, waterproof sack already filled with what Emil figured I'd need in the bush from rain gear to long johns. Double cinched it tight and added the sack to one of the big back packs. Emil called them Duluth Packs.
Once the canoe had been doused, we settled down, coke and beer in hand for a few minutes while the boat drained. Emil stoked up his pipe and said, "Archie me lad, we're almost there."
Our rest lasted but ten minutes. I could see he was as excited as me. Just itching to go. Couldn't sit still. From the Lund Uncle Emil pulled out a ragged bath towel and sponge to wipe and dry the inside of the canoe.
"Good. Look at her for a moment. That's as clean as she'll be for a while." And he almost giggled.
He called to the dock, "Will you boys be willing to set down your beers for a minute and lend an old fart a hand?" Two minutes later the Lund was well up on shore and upturned over the Johnson and gas can.
"One more thing." Out of a pack came a pair of duck boots. "Hope these fit. Anyhow they're the size your mother told me." Though I was only fourteen I was a good sized kid, taller than Emil with feet to match. Already had an inkling of what work was like. The prospect of spending a week or more in the boonies was exciting. This was gonna be one fine time.
My new boots on, laced and wrapped at the top, pants tucked in, we finished loading the canoe while it was afloat beside the dock. Cooler under the carrying yoke, food pack in front of the cooler, clothes and gear packs to the rear, day pack under Emil's seat and Coleman stove under mine. Lastly, the bundled rod tubes and extra paddle were stowed and the whole shebang tied to the thwarts with a length of cord. All was between the two seats.
Before pushing off Emil returned to the lodge. Moments later, when he returned, there was a new glass eye in place. This one with a canoe for a pupil. I didn't notice it right off but a clearing of throat and a finger point from Uncle Emil got my attention.
Emil handed me a paddle. "This was Lena's. Made it myself. She never actually used it, guess it was too long but I made it for her just in case she ever decided to see what it was like to crap in the woods." Blond wood with tip painted red and ashine with many coats of spar varnish.
"Try this on for size."
The green life jacket he handed me seemed to fit okay but what did I know? A minute of Emil tugging, tightening and tying had it fitting snugly.
"Can you breathe okay? Don't want you suffocating just 'cause I'm tryin to keep you alive. Archie me lad when you're in a canoe with me, you always wear your life jacket. No ifs, ands, or buts. Simple as that. The boys up here razz me a bit but I don't much care. Giving me grief is what they're supposed to do. Me, I'm supposed to float head up if I ever fall out of a canoe. Okay?"
Turning toward the Grumman Emil pulled the gunwale tight to the grayed dock and told me to hop in. "Three points of contact always. Two hands on the gunwales, then step into the middle, one foot at a time. Simple as pie."
Moments later we were afloat. "See you gentlemen next year if not sooner."
A wave and we were gone.
I began to dream of big fish. I mean truly huge fish. Nothing at all like the sunnies and bullheads of the Cities. And then there was the blue of the water beneath, the froth of the boat's wake fading to our rear and the islands we were soon passing. Damn, this was like something out of an outdoor magazine. The sun above sun and its reflection from the thousand little waves we kachunk-kachunked our way over had me squinty-eyed. I couldn't resist. Down went my cupped hand into the spray of the wake. First I washed my eyes then drank from First Cranberry. Emil smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
I pointed to the rocky outcrops of the first island we passed and yelled to Emil, "Does it have a name?" Emil bellowed back over the motor's whiny rumble, "Probably does! Your guess is as good as mine as to what it might be!" Just like me he had an apple pie eating grin on his face. I was thrilled to be where I was. Emil seemed to feed off my joy. And was happy being in a place he loved. The world wasn't passing by as we puttered along, we were surrounded by it. Could see, smell and taste it. And from a new angle every minute.
Not sure when it happened but Emil now had a pipe in his mouth instead of a cigarette. "It's what I do when up here. Kind of a tribute to the Voyageurs of a coupla centuries ago. When in Rome…. I also like the pipe because of the loose tobacco it needs. The Cree use tobacco to show thanks to the land, water, sky and woods around them. Don't know if they're right and don't know if they're wrong. But I do know it's the right thing to always be thankful for a gift. And being up here, doing what we're doing, is a gift. Leaving a pinch without paper at our camp sites feels right to me."
First Cranberry was the biggest lake I'd ever been on. Emil said it was good sized but in the general scheme of things up in the northland it was nothing out of the ordinary. But for me it was a sea. A sea with no outlet. Uncle Emil said we were heading toward a channel into the next lake called Second Cranberry, an even bigger lake. All I could see up ahead was shore, rock and trees and the slap of waves, no outlet anywhere. Sure hoped he knew what he was doing.
A few minutes from my first tingle of wilderness we hung a left into what had moments before been a wall of forest. There, off to our left spread a lodge in a large clearing surrounded by birch and pines. The Canadian flag flapped high above on a wooden pole, surrounded at the base by a little white rock bordered flower garden. Boats, cabins, sand beach, docks and a small, clipped lawn. Order in the boonies. Plus a few Canadian style, good old boys clustered at the end of a pier with their mitts wrapped around brown beer bottles. Looked like a convention of plaid shirted salesmen with time on their hands.
Emil slipped up alongside them with a jaunty "good afternoon gentlemen." Hopped out and secured the Lund. "Might any of you know the whereabouts of Blair?"
"He's up to da office, eh? Good seein' you Emil. How's life down in da States and who might dat young man be? You finally bringin' someone along who'll show you da right way to wet a line, eh?"
That led to five minutes of handshakes and short stories. Seemed even old guys acted like kids when there were no ladies around.
"Grab yourself a LaBatt's outta da cooler on da way up. Might even be a coke in dere for the lad."
All the while I had a smile on my face, said my name when introduced and even shook hands. The old guys were kidding with me but there was something about them that said, 'there stands the next generation.' And figured if the kid's with Emil, he's more than welcome.
The lodge wasn't what you'd call a grand affair. A row of small clapboard cabins, a few out buildings, boats with outboards ready to go and lined up along the pole lined shore. The cabins were small, white painted, red trimmed affairs. I guessed there was little need for opulence when the guests spent most of their time on the water.
The main building was somewhat larger but still not much when compared to the pictures I'd seen of places like the lodge in Yellowstone National Park. The stone paved path leading to the front door passed through a recently mowed lawn. Inside stood wall coolers of bait and beverages. The knotty pine walls were decorated with an elk's head, stuffed geese and hawks, bear skins and a variety of other critters probably killed nearby. But what drew me were the mounted walleyes and lake trout. Monster fish with glowing eyes, mouths open and pointy little teeth. I searched all the surfaces but found not one pike. Guess Uncle Emil wasn't kidding when he said the Canadians didn't think much of jack fish.
In the office we were greeted by a lady named Della. Turned out she was Blair's wife and pretty much ran the business side of the lodge. When Blair, clad in khaki head to booted feet, came out, seems he was indisposed, it was like old home week. At least for them. Friendly people, no doubt about it.
"Gotta cabin for you should you be stayin'. Clean sheets and all."
"Not this time Blair. The young man and I are off to the bush for a week or two. No roof over us. We're pushing off soon as we can. But maybe on our way out we'll take you up on your offer. For the moment, all I'm stopping for is my canoe and the chance to see your lovely wife."
"Sorry to hear that but if the backwoods is what you're after and it looks like you've got someone with you just chompin' at the bit, then it's the canoe for you, eh."
We headed out back to a huge shed. There, in the shadows of the deepest corner, atop a pair of saw horses, perched a soft glisten of aluminum. The downturned Grumman had a year's layering of dust and a bird's nest resting beneath on a thwart. Outside of that and a few deep scratches she was a thing of graceful beauty.
Emil ducked under and pulled out three paddles. All had razor thin, red tipped blades and were of a single piece of ash varnished to a tabletop sheen that came alive when we washed them off at the channel. He handed them to me to set in the Lund for the moment. Back at the shed, Emil carefully lifted out the bird nest, popped the canoe on his shoulders and we returned to the beach.
On the way, Emil asked Blair if he could spare a small block from the ice house. No sooner said than done. Finally we pulled out my suitcase. "Shoulda done this back at the car," he said. "Guess I wasn't thinking."
Emil sorted my clothes into two stacks, staying and going. The staying pile was returned to the suitcase and left at the lodge. "Best not forget this when we come back or our goose is cooked." He then added my few things going to a green, waterproof sack already filled with what Emil figured I'd need in the bush from rain gear to long johns. Double cinched it tight and added the sack to one of the big back packs. Emil called them Duluth Packs.
Once the canoe had been doused, we settled down, coke and beer in hand for a few minutes while the boat drained. Emil stoked up his pipe and said, "Archie me lad, we're almost there."
Our rest lasted but ten minutes. I could see he was as excited as me. Just itching to go. Couldn't sit still. From the Lund Uncle Emil pulled out a ragged bath towel and sponge to wipe and dry the inside of the canoe.
"Good. Look at her for a moment. That's as clean as she'll be for a while." And he almost giggled.
He called to the dock, "Will you boys be willing to set down your beers for a minute and lend an old fart a hand?" Two minutes later the Lund was well up on shore and upturned over the Johnson and gas can.
"One more thing." Out of a pack came a pair of duck boots. "Hope these fit. Anyhow they're the size your mother told me." Though I was only fourteen I was a good sized kid, taller than Emil with feet to match. Already had an inkling of what work was like. The prospect of spending a week or more in the boonies was exciting. This was gonna be one fine time.
My new boots on, laced and wrapped at the top, pants tucked in, we finished loading the canoe while it was afloat beside the dock. Cooler under the carrying yoke, food pack in front of the cooler, clothes and gear packs to the rear, day pack under Emil's seat and Coleman stove under mine. Lastly, the bundled rod tubes and extra paddle were stowed and the whole shebang tied to the thwarts with a length of cord. All was between the two seats.
Before pushing off Emil returned to the lodge. Moments later, when he returned, there was a new glass eye in place. This one with a canoe for a pupil. I didn't notice it right off but a clearing of throat and a finger point from Uncle Emil got my attention.
Emil handed me a paddle. "This was Lena's. Made it myself. She never actually used it, guess it was too long but I made it for her just in case she ever decided to see what it was like to crap in the woods." Blond wood with tip painted red and ashine with many coats of spar varnish.
"Try this on for size."
The green life jacket he handed me seemed to fit okay but what did I know? A minute of Emil tugging, tightening and tying had it fitting snugly.
"Can you breathe okay? Don't want you suffocating just 'cause I'm tryin to keep you alive. Archie me lad when you're in a canoe with me, you always wear your life jacket. No ifs, ands, or buts. Simple as that. The boys up here razz me a bit but I don't much care. Giving me grief is what they're supposed to do. Me, I'm supposed to float head up if I ever fall out of a canoe. Okay?"
Turning toward the Grumman Emil pulled the gunwale tight to the grayed dock and told me to hop in. "Three points of contact always. Two hands on the gunwales, then step into the middle, one foot at a time. Simple as pie."
Moments later we were afloat. "See you gentlemen next year if not sooner."
A wave and we were gone.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Canada XX - The Dock
The hour's drive to Cranberry Portage began with a repeat of the scenery we'd passed on the way into The Pas, sand and gravel in the ditch, swamp and forest beyond. Then midway it changed. Of course I was too dense to notice 'til Uncle Emil pointed them out. Rock. Small cliffs of it. One with someone's name painted on the side.
"Probably some high school graduate trying to let the world know how great it is to be them. Up here it's like yelling in the dark when there's no one around to hear. Lately the big thing down in the States is to paint the name of your high school on the local water tower."
Minutes passed in silence. The way Emil's eyes were moving back and forth, fingers waggling, I knew something was in the wind. Finally, the Zippo and lighter appeared. It was time for me to listen up.
"A couple of years ago over on the other side of Wisconsin I heard this joke. I'd been fishing the rivers with a couple of buddies and we'd stopped in at a place called Furlong's for a couple of beers. They had Point beer on tap. Don't get that here in Minnesota and I figured to give one a try. One sip spoke loudly of its lack of popularity. While sitting there a stub of a man strolled up. The foot and a half stalk of pink gladiolus pinned to the strap of his bib overalls told us he was a splash of local color. Anyhow, after a moment of pleasantries he went on to relate a story of an Irishman who'd had too much to drink. Not much of a joke as jokes go but a kernel of it stuck with me. Ate at my craw 'til I learned the truth behind it. Yeah, even the wildest tales are usually inspired by true events."
"Seems there was this fighter back in the thirties by the name of Kid Glove. That wasn't his real name of course. Just the one he fought under. And not much of a name as names go but he had a pretty good punch considering. Now the Kid lived up on the Iron Range in northern Minnesota. When he wasn't working the mines he was a pro boxer. A bantam rooster kind of guy. Feisty. Wasn't a great fighter but wasn't all that bad either. Won a few more fights than he lost and was always entertaining. When the Kid fought, someone was gonna bleed. Usually him. Nose looked like it was coming up on a T in the road, hit a bump then couldn't make up its mind whether to turn left or right."
"Anyhow, the Kid had a problem with the bottle, would now and then do something off-the-wall stupid when he'd had a few too many. This was back during the Depression. Times were tough and a buck went a long way. Twenty, twenty-five dollars was about all a middle of the road fighter could expect for a bout. You have to understand I didn't see this. Heard it second hand from a very reliable source."
"Was a thursday night in Chisholm. Log Cabin Bar. One drink as usual led to another, the Kid needed a little cash, so he bet a fellow miner in the bar five dollars he could do a one arm handstand on the town's watertower. Didn't take but a second for a handshake and the whole bar to empty and set off down the street. Legend in the making."
"Crowd built to the hundreds as they milled uptown and word spread bar to bar. The Kid was feeling no pain and havin' a fine time. Started shadow boxing his way up the street. Even went into his car to retrieve the moccasins he wore for road training. Yeah the kid was readier than ready. Jumping up and down, wagging his head back and forth to loosen up. Scampered his way up the tower's ladder like he was escaping the eternal pit after the thread of last hope had snapped. Also had a hip flask peeking from the butt pocket of his dungarees. Not a good idea. Once atop the Kid downed it in a single adam's apple bobbing swig and flung it aside. Then commenced to giving what may have been a fine speech had anyone been able to understand a word he slurred out. Yeah, could've been the flask he stumbled on. Whatever the reason the Kid did a half gainer in the pike position over the railing and smacked sideways onto the pavement below with a 'what the hell was that ?' look on his face. Shook his head and popped up like nothing had happened though his left leg was all catty-whampus, twisted backwards. The good old boys gathered 'round, patted the Kid on the back, told him what a great man he was. Then they all headed back to the bar for a nightcap. It was there back at the Log Cabin they discovered the Kid wasn't with them. Seems he was still back at the base of the tower walking in counter-clockwise circles 'cause of the one leg being backwards. Had him grip an oak tree while a couple of his buddies twisted the bent one back. The Kid never let out a peep."
"Wasn't 'til the following afternoon out at the mine that the Kid finally collapsed. Deader than a door nail. Autopsy said he'd been dead for better than a half day. Also said his blood came out pink when they drained it. Seems it'd been significantly thinned by cheap whiskey. Verdict was the Kid was so drunk when he hit the asphalt he didn't know he was dead 'til the next day when he sobered up. And as far as I know that's the Gospel truth. Has to be. Even I don't make up tales as strange as that."
We never did make it all the way to downtown Cranberry Portage. Two blocks into town we hung a right and headed down to the lake. There we found weren't alone. A few cars in the gravel lot, all with boat trailers. A party of four headed to the cleaning house from a boat still raining lake water. The dock itself was a concrete affair big enough to moor a dozen boats. Before putting in, Emil had us load our gear in the Lund. Didn't seem like we had all that much stuff but the Lund was filled to the gills.
Emil made it look like child's play the way he worked the boat from the trailer and secured it to the huge dock. Started by pulling on a dull green pair of rubber duck boots, then backed the boat and trailer into the lake 'til the Nomad's exhaust pipes were all but covered. Once there he un-cranked and slid the boat free of the trailer. A hop and scamper aboard, a couple of pulls on the outboard and Emil backed out in the bay. Once in the chop he gave the Johnson a few blue smoked revs, slid up to the concrete pier and tied her fore and aft. Five minutes later, the Nomad and trailer parked, we found ourselves standing on the dock, Emil with a lit Lucky hanging from his lip.
From what I could see the lake looked not much bigger than a pond. This was Canada? "Archie me lad, this isn't the lake. Just a bay. Beyond is First Cranberry and it's a good sized body of water. Back home she'd be called a big lake and be known throughout the state. Up here she's not but a spit in a fryin' pan but even so, you don't ever want to fall overboard. The pike'll eat you alive. A word to the wise, don't call them pike to the locals. They won't have a clooo - thats how he pronounced it - what you're talkin' abowoot, eh. Call them jackfish. And walleyes are pickerel. Got that? Oh yeah, throw in an 'eh' at the end of every sentence and they'll think you're a native. Ready? Let's get to it. Adventure calls."
"Probably some high school graduate trying to let the world know how great it is to be them. Up here it's like yelling in the dark when there's no one around to hear. Lately the big thing down in the States is to paint the name of your high school on the local water tower."
Minutes passed in silence. The way Emil's eyes were moving back and forth, fingers waggling, I knew something was in the wind. Finally, the Zippo and lighter appeared. It was time for me to listen up.
"A couple of years ago over on the other side of Wisconsin I heard this joke. I'd been fishing the rivers with a couple of buddies and we'd stopped in at a place called Furlong's for a couple of beers. They had Point beer on tap. Don't get that here in Minnesota and I figured to give one a try. One sip spoke loudly of its lack of popularity. While sitting there a stub of a man strolled up. The foot and a half stalk of pink gladiolus pinned to the strap of his bib overalls told us he was a splash of local color. Anyhow, after a moment of pleasantries he went on to relate a story of an Irishman who'd had too much to drink. Not much of a joke as jokes go but a kernel of it stuck with me. Ate at my craw 'til I learned the truth behind it. Yeah, even the wildest tales are usually inspired by true events."
"Seems there was this fighter back in the thirties by the name of Kid Glove. That wasn't his real name of course. Just the one he fought under. And not much of a name as names go but he had a pretty good punch considering. Now the Kid lived up on the Iron Range in northern Minnesota. When he wasn't working the mines he was a pro boxer. A bantam rooster kind of guy. Feisty. Wasn't a great fighter but wasn't all that bad either. Won a few more fights than he lost and was always entertaining. When the Kid fought, someone was gonna bleed. Usually him. Nose looked like it was coming up on a T in the road, hit a bump then couldn't make up its mind whether to turn left or right."
"Anyhow, the Kid had a problem with the bottle, would now and then do something off-the-wall stupid when he'd had a few too many. This was back during the Depression. Times were tough and a buck went a long way. Twenty, twenty-five dollars was about all a middle of the road fighter could expect for a bout. You have to understand I didn't see this. Heard it second hand from a very reliable source."
"Was a thursday night in Chisholm. Log Cabin Bar. One drink as usual led to another, the Kid needed a little cash, so he bet a fellow miner in the bar five dollars he could do a one arm handstand on the town's watertower. Didn't take but a second for a handshake and the whole bar to empty and set off down the street. Legend in the making."
"Crowd built to the hundreds as they milled uptown and word spread bar to bar. The Kid was feeling no pain and havin' a fine time. Started shadow boxing his way up the street. Even went into his car to retrieve the moccasins he wore for road training. Yeah the kid was readier than ready. Jumping up and down, wagging his head back and forth to loosen up. Scampered his way up the tower's ladder like he was escaping the eternal pit after the thread of last hope had snapped. Also had a hip flask peeking from the butt pocket of his dungarees. Not a good idea. Once atop the Kid downed it in a single adam's apple bobbing swig and flung it aside. Then commenced to giving what may have been a fine speech had anyone been able to understand a word he slurred out. Yeah, could've been the flask he stumbled on. Whatever the reason the Kid did a half gainer in the pike position over the railing and smacked sideways onto the pavement below with a 'what the hell was that ?' look on his face. Shook his head and popped up like nothing had happened though his left leg was all catty-whampus, twisted backwards. The good old boys gathered 'round, patted the Kid on the back, told him what a great man he was. Then they all headed back to the bar for a nightcap. It was there back at the Log Cabin they discovered the Kid wasn't with them. Seems he was still back at the base of the tower walking in counter-clockwise circles 'cause of the one leg being backwards. Had him grip an oak tree while a couple of his buddies twisted the bent one back. The Kid never let out a peep."
"Wasn't 'til the following afternoon out at the mine that the Kid finally collapsed. Deader than a door nail. Autopsy said he'd been dead for better than a half day. Also said his blood came out pink when they drained it. Seems it'd been significantly thinned by cheap whiskey. Verdict was the Kid was so drunk when he hit the asphalt he didn't know he was dead 'til the next day when he sobered up. And as far as I know that's the Gospel truth. Has to be. Even I don't make up tales as strange as that."
We never did make it all the way to downtown Cranberry Portage. Two blocks into town we hung a right and headed down to the lake. There we found weren't alone. A few cars in the gravel lot, all with boat trailers. A party of four headed to the cleaning house from a boat still raining lake water. The dock itself was a concrete affair big enough to moor a dozen boats. Before putting in, Emil had us load our gear in the Lund. Didn't seem like we had all that much stuff but the Lund was filled to the gills.
Emil made it look like child's play the way he worked the boat from the trailer and secured it to the huge dock. Started by pulling on a dull green pair of rubber duck boots, then backed the boat and trailer into the lake 'til the Nomad's exhaust pipes were all but covered. Once there he un-cranked and slid the boat free of the trailer. A hop and scamper aboard, a couple of pulls on the outboard and Emil backed out in the bay. Once in the chop he gave the Johnson a few blue smoked revs, slid up to the concrete pier and tied her fore and aft. Five minutes later, the Nomad and trailer parked, we found ourselves standing on the dock, Emil with a lit Lucky hanging from his lip.
From what I could see the lake looked not much bigger than a pond. This was Canada? "Archie me lad, this isn't the lake. Just a bay. Beyond is First Cranberry and it's a good sized body of water. Back home she'd be called a big lake and be known throughout the state. Up here she's not but a spit in a fryin' pan but even so, you don't ever want to fall overboard. The pike'll eat you alive. A word to the wise, don't call them pike to the locals. They won't have a clooo - thats how he pronounced it - what you're talkin' abowoot, eh. Call them jackfish. And walleyes are pickerel. Got that? Oh yeah, throw in an 'eh' at the end of every sentence and they'll think you're a native. Ready? Let's get to it. Adventure calls."
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