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."
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