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.
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