Quo Vadis?

     I don't know what's next.  Didn't know where the story of Emil and Archie was going till they told me.  Don't know what to do with it now that it's over.  I'll probably go back to the beginning, do some adding and some chopping.  Maybe let it rest for a few days.  We're heading north tomorrow, our time in the Southland is at an end for the year.  That our time in Alabama and this story ended at the same time wasn't intentional.  Not completely anyhow.  Truthfully I'd like the Emil and Archie show to go on till I turn up daisies.  It was a great time.  Almost as good as being there.

Canada XLVIII - Departure

     There's not much to be said about our last day.  Another bugger for sure.  The portage trail was as good as not there but didn't require the use of a compass.  Jumble, jackstraw and wet in places.  Emil was right about it not being the difficulty of two days earlier.  Barely took four hours.  A cakewalk, or crawl, or climb.
     The paddle back to the lodge wasn't much of a reprieve.  A brisk headwind made progress slow and not sure.  We did a lot of island tucking and resting.  Might have been low on calories and seriously deflated after all we'd gone through.  Simply put, the trip was near over.  Kaput.
     We arrived at the lodge mid-afternoon.  Not much damage there at all.  A few trees down and already sawed and split into firewood.
     Seemed there'd been some concern over our whereabouts and thought given to a rescue trip should we not show up in a couple of days.  Nice to know we wouldn't have been stuck out in the bush for too long.  I guess saying we were fortunate covers it nicely.
     We both looked like we'd been dragged out the backside of a mudslide with a side order of pitch and bark.  Dirty head to foot but our hands were clean.  Blair set us up at the lodge for the night with the stipulation that we bathe first.  Didn't want us stinking out the paying customers I suppose.  Even threw in a couple of hot meals to complete the deal.  Emil got his LaBatts.  The best they could do for a coke was a couple of small bottles.  No complaints.  Topping it all off was a mattress with clean sheets.  I'd almost forgotten what they were like.
     Come evening all the sports took off in their boats to limit out on pickerel.  Me and Emil wandered down to the dock.  We'd fished enough to last quite a while.  The idea of doing what we did best, having time on our hands with nothing that needed doing, was enough for us.  We watched the light dim and the sun go down over the Manitoba wilderness one last time.  Talked of the future, mine wide open, Emil's growing shorter by the day.  He said he wouldn't have it any other way.
     That a mid-fifties man took a fourteen year old kid on a boonies trip was not questioned at the lodge.  No point.  Could just as easily have died out on the highway on the way up.  Life's a series of chances with little control over the results.  Yeah, what my Uncle Emil did was way off the chart as far as danger.  But he knew what he was doing, at least as far as anyone could.  It was his depth of instinct and knowledge in the face of the storm that saved us.
     Emil drove me all the way home the next day.  Up at daybreak, home at sunset.  Long drive.  Just miles on pavement.  Yeah, home would be good but a part of me was still in the Canadian forest.  Always would be.  Damn.  It was over.
     We pulled up in front my mom's little white house.  Emil reached over and pulled something out of the glove box, "These silver dollars and the one I gave you back in Alexandria were all minted the same year I was.  Put them in a drawer or cigar box.  Pull 'em out once in a while, think of your Uncle Emil and our days in the bush.  If you're up for it, consider another trip next year."
     Next year?  Heck, I was ready to stay in the Nomad and head out right then.  But I didn't.  Emil came in for a cup of coffee and ended up spending the night.  Most of the pitch was gone from our deeply tanned hands and faces.  My mom did no more than raise an eyebrow when we told a very watered down version of our adventure.  Good for her.  Knowing her brother, she suspected there was more to the tale.  But we were home, looked not a whole lot worse for wear and didn't smell too bad.

Canada XLVII - Shore Fishing

     Emil wasn't kidding about our evening.  Fine with me.  I made supper while he set up the tent.  Man was I tired.  Took all I had to fry up some Spam to go with a pack of hard tack my uncle had saved for a time like this. It ate dry even with the Spam on top but we'd filled our canteens on the way over.  Skin and bones meal for sure but Uncle Emil also turned up a few more dried apricots.  Good man.  We ate in silent exhaustion.
     Took a lot of gumption to get in the water for a swim.  All I wanted was sleep and the water was still near ice.  Not a happy combination.  But it felt good to get somewhat clean.  Even better to crawl into the bag.  Long, long day.
     Morning brought us a day of rest.  With a little fishing on the side.  While I pitched spinners from the island slab Emil pulled out Of Mice and Men.  Also finished it that evening.  I sucked back tears at the end.  Emil's cracking voice said he felt the same.  It was that kind of story.  Also got us talking about what it meant to be a man.  I'd have thrown in my two cents worth had I any change.  Heck, I didn't hardly know what it was to be a kid.
     "That's okay Archie me lad.  If you're like me you'll be trying to figure it out 'til the day you die.  About the only time I thought I had the answer was back in my twenties.  Then sometime during the war the doubts snuck in.  Began to think I'd wasted most of my life.  It was time to sort it out.  And I mostly did.  Kept the parts I liked.  Dumped the rest.  Of course, you may be entirely different.  But I wouldn't count on it.  We're all pretty much alike.  It takes some living to learn you're not God's gift to mankind.  Took me quite a while."
     That night we paddled out and fished the two closest bays.  They're not big but have to be fished slow because of all the action.  The shore had changed since the week before.  A dozen or more pines, spruce and birch trees were now laid to rest, straddling shore and water.  Many, many northerns found new homes in the trees.  In the outer branches small pike perched like water hawks in hope something might come swimming by.  Deeper, near the trunk, lay the big ones.  Giving a tree a paddle whack invariably provoked a monster sized thrash within.  More fun whacking than diddling with the outlying hammer handles.  Emil called it messing with the monsters.
     I caught the biggest pike of the trip that afternoon.  Lost it also.  We got a glimpse and Emil said it was a thirty pounder for sure.  At first I thought he might be stretching his estimate a bit.  Most older guys would.  But my uncle wasn't the kind to fudge on a measurement of any kind.
     "Thirty's the way I see it.  Should someday your remembrance grow to forty pounds, I don't want to be the one who got you started on being a fishin' liar.  There's enough of them around gassing their lives away in bars and standing in clusters, one hand in pocket, on fishing docks.  In the other hand a beer and, of course, a belly to match.  All the while remembering what fine specimens of manhood they once were.  And all their deeds of legerdemain."
     "It'd be one thing if what they remembered had actually happened.  Yup, we all like to color our memories some.  Hard not to.  But the truth is the truth.  See your life as it is.  Remember what worked for you and what didn't.  Learn from your past and let it guide your future.  Most of all, be the man you were meant to be."
     Those words came back to me twenty years later.  My life on the inside was getting a little ragged and probably would have gone downhill from there.  But it didn't.  Wasn't easy breaking the fetters of illusion and learning to see the truth of my life.  In fact, I'm still working on it.
     My fondest memory of the trip was Emil reading aloud.  Don't know if anyone does it any more.  Except me.  Decades later when my son and I were off on our wilderness trips, the stories we read were as much a part of them as paddling or fishing.  Emil didn't have a deep, resonant, baritone voice like a James Earl Jones.  No, his was a midwestern, nasal twang with a twist of Minnesota German/Swede that refused to go into hiding.  When he set to emphasizing a point he could 'yah sure, you betcha' with the best of them.
     His soft accent was there when Emil read aloud but not when he did a voice like Lennie's from Of Mice and Men or Long John's in Treasure Island.  His take on a character's voice wasn't dead on but if you relaxed your expectations a little, Emil's voice would carry you deep into the story.  Let you hear and feel the author's intent.  At least that's what happened to me as the two of us sat on our slab in the bush, twenty miles from nowhere.  That night I made our last pan of fry bread to the words of John Steinbeck.
     Before we turned in Emil said, "You know what tomorrow's gonna be like, don't you?  Think back on yesterday.  Like that, only not so long.  But we'll do her Archie.  Home stretch don't ya know."  Followed with a chuckle and a soft elbow to my ribs.
   
   

Canada XLVI - The Hump

    Emil made breakfast before we hit the sack to save time.  Would have saved even more time had we also eaten it as a bedtime snack.  But my uncle figured that wouldn't make much sense as we'd just be hungry again come morning.
     "Archie me lad, we'll skin this cat a different way.  Gather some wood and I'll get a fire going.  When she burns to coals we'll bake us some bread and I'll smoke up whatever you can catch from shore."
     We heaped the wood high and fired up a blaze they could have seen down in Cranberry Portage.  Made me want to strip to skivvies, slash muddied stripes across my face and dance around the ring 'til I sweated myself clean.  Instead I hit the beach with the burden of bobber fishing for my breakfast.  Emil rummaged through the tarp and started packing for morning.
     Half dozen walleyes and a pair of jumbo perch in twenty minutes.  Not bad.  "Enough to make us a little supper Archie and smoke what's left.  Two birds, eh?"
     For the first time I made the dough ball for pan bread, added a joy of sweet stuff and propped it to brown.  Emil did up a small pot of dried apricots and floated a couple of seasoned fillets in a frying pan of foamed butter.  Smelled like home.  Now there's an odd thought.  Twenty-five miles into the bush and it smelled like home.
     While we ate, Uncle Emil banked the coals, salted the fillets and laid them tenderly on the edges of the grill to slowly soak up some heat.  "Umm-umm, she'll be some good eatin' in the morning.  Should be enough left for a little snack or two on the trail."
     "Any idea how long it'll take to reach Wedge?"
     Emil looked at the ground, raised his eyes to the woods behind us, looked to the sky, tested the wind with a wetted finger, held a raised thumb like a plumb bob and began to write out a few calculations in the air.  Paused, stroked his chin,
     "Call it five hours, twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, give or take.  Archie me lad, your guess is as good as mine.  Our way in from Wedge was pathless.  So is our way out.  Only this time our pathless path will be a bit longer and a little more seat of the pants.  Who knows how many of our markers are still be standing?  And if we'd be able to follow them anyway."
     Not much left to do but sit on the preservers and once again be absorbed by the growing dark.  Took a while and never did quite make it.  Didn't matter to us.  It's hard to get bored in the bush.  Too much going on all the time.  Pillars of midges rose to the sky between the few scrubby jack pines left surrounding our site.  Thousands of tiny feeding rings slowly spread shore to shore on the mirror in front of us.  Couldn't see the sun go down but I guess it did.  The pelicans returned and flotilla-ed by, giving us nary a look.  What did they care?  We'd be gone in the morning and hadn't put a dent in their larder.  Soon they'd again be lords and ladies of the lake.
     "Dark enough.  Time to turn in.  I'll bank the coals, give the fillets another turn and leave them to the night.  Tomorrow will be a day we'll not soon forget.  Best way to approach it is after a good night's sleep and with a full belly."
     Sleep took its time.  Felt like Christmas Eve.  Yeah, I was excited.  Way excited about what was coming.  And scared.  Not like we were going to die scared.  Scared like we were in for a lot of work.  Painful work.  Climbing over and under kind of work.  Must have tossed and turned a good three minutes fretting about the morning.
     You see, sleep was my friend.  Nothing at night or waiting in the morning was so momentous it ruined a good night's sack time.  Years later, in Vietnam, I also slept like a baby.  B-52 strike, monsoon downpour, highway for a mattress, rice paddy floor, tree line, didn't matter where I made my bed, my eyes would close and I'd drift off to another world.  'Specially when misery was in the offing.  Whether or not unhappiness was waiting back in the Manitoba woods was yet to be seen.  Probably was.  But nerves or not, this boy conked right out.
     I awoke to find myself alone.  I'd have laid there wondering where Uncle Emil had disappeared but my bladder told me to go out and find him.
     'Uncle Emil, you might wanna come back here and take a look."
     I'd stepped aways into the woods to take a leak and finally had a good look at what the storm'd done.  The few trees that had dropped around our site didn't do the damage justice.
     "Could it be you mean all the jackstrawed timber between here and Wedge?  I gave it a look-see yesterday.  Even walked went back a few yards to check it out.  Didn't want to say anything 'til we had to wade in and have us some fun.  Couldn't see the point in talking about it.  But I did give what was coming some thought.  It'll be a bugger for sure.  Probably demand twice what the carry in did.  But we'll do her and when it's over, be glad we did."
     Before sitting down to eat we paddled out on the lake.
     "Last chance on the water Uncle Emil?"
     "That and filling up the water jug and canteens.  We'll sweat up a storm on the bushwhack.  May as well drink all we can hold before setting out and carry a gallon with us."
     Took our time with breakfast.  Why not?  Five minutes more or less wouldn't make much difference in our day.  While we ate I happened to notice my uncle had a new eye, a pine tree inserted sideways.  Guess that said it all.  By nine we were off.
     What can you say about misery?  Kind of goes like this:  At first it's a challenge, almost easy 'cause it's new.  Hoist a pack, carry it 'til it hurts, set it down and go back for another.  Next, it gets tougher, hurts sooner and you think you can't do it.  Finally, you get used to the pain, accept that it won't get any better, won't kill you and just keep plodding on.  You get lost in thought but pay close attention when working your way over or though a pile of splintered timber.
      The good news was no more than half of the forest had been blown flat.  That was also the bad news.  Some twisted and torn trunks had reached the ground and laid there like a thousand weather vanes pointing down wind.  Those trees you could straddle over or if too high, crawl under.  Some had ricocheted off other trunks on the way down and crisscrossed with others on the ground.  Jackstrawed was what Emil called them.  I'd go around the piles if possible.  Only had to go over one and it wasn't very big.  Some had tipped and hung up in the branches of other, still standing trees.  He called them widow makers.  Those I usually scurried under, hunched and braced should one fall.  Not sure what I was preparing for.  If one fell I'd have driven into the ground like a tent peg by a pile driver.
     "Never know when they'll come down.  Should you be standing under one when it does, that's all she wrote.  Send a letter to your wife, she'd be the widow, the tree the maker, letting her know her what a great guy you'd been 'til you went and did something stupid."
     We did the carry in stages, a lot more stages than the trip in.  Emil still had enough ribbon to mark our gear piles where we'd set them down.  Made them easier to find when we returned.  Retrieved them as we passed on so as not to run out.  Again it was a compass guided course with as much allowance for swamp as possible.
     Our three planned rests stretched to eight, each a pipe, snack and conversation break.
     "Archie me lad, this sure is something.  Probably feel better if I wasn't smoking.  Probably also feel better if I was twenty years younger.  You know what?  If I'd have known this was in the cards before we set off, we'd've still done her.  So long as neither of us gets hurt and if we keep our wits about us neither of us will, going through what we're going through makes it that much sweeter.  The only thing I'd change is to have a cold beer right now.  And maybe a coke for you.  But first a beer for me.  A LaBatts fresh out of a tub of ice.  Sounds sooo good."
     Our signal to go was always a "saddle up" followed by a grunt of rising from Emil.  We'd reload and go at it again.
     The biggest bugger was the canoe.  Emil'd move it solo when possible.  More often than not it'd be the two of us, one at each end, hoisting it over or dragging it under the toppled trees.  A slow, sweating, grunting carry.
     Break four had me lusting for the coke Uncle Emil had mentioned back on stop two.
     "Twenty-five ouncer in the big glass bottle.  I'd drain it straight.  And lick up the foam that'd come pouring out my ears.  And maybe four cheeseburgers just like the ones from The Clock Drive-in over on Broadway.  Line 'em up and knock 'em down.  Wash 'em down with another big coke.  I've done nothing but think about that combination for the last hour.  When we get out can we see if the Canadians down in The Pas can fry up some burgers?"
     "Didn't we already do that?  And don't you remember what the burger was like?"
     "I don't care.  And maybe they've gotten better since we were there.  If not, I'll go for the gravy next time."
     So it went.  Hour after hour.  A city block in we were already mud spattered and pitch covered.  And it kept layering on with every straddle, crawl and climb.  My hands, clothes and packs were thick with pine tar and sap.  Smelled like turpentine mixed with honey.  Needles and bits of bark stuck to the pitch.  As my sweat began to flow I'd wipe my face with a sleeve or back of hand.  More pitch, more bark, more needles. Halfway through I looked like I'd been tarred and feathered.  Tar baby from the Uncle Remus stories was what Emil said.
     Uncle Emil was no better.  On break five we just pointed at each other and laughed.  Food tasted like pine as did the smell of Emil's pipe tobacco.  Seemed he'd dropped his pipe a couple of times and it too had started to coat up.  Yeah, we were a sight to behold.
     By the time we reached Wedge we were moving not much faster than the glaciers that had passed through a few thousand years earlier.  We'd finished every morsel of food in the day pack - had to drink the molten Hershey bars - drained all the water and hurt everywhere.  I swear, even my hair hurt.
     "We'll take a short break, then load and hit the water.  Maybe drink up the entire lake on the way to camp.  Of course once the lake's dry we'd be back to portaging so be careful with your intake.  First order in camp will be to eat.  Then set up the tent.  Take a swim.  Go to bed.  That's it.  Don't know about you but I'll be a paddling dead man."
     Being back on the water beat the pants off going through the woods.  Of course so would being dragged down a gravel road behind a speeding pickup truck.
     "What time is it Uncle Emil?"
     "Six-forty."
     We paddled on.
   
   
   

Canada XLV - Completing the Lake

     My Uncle Emil was from another planet.  No doubt about it.  No other way to explain what he was doing.  There we sat eating breakfast like we had all the time in the world.  Nowhere to go, nothing to do.  Except finish seeing the remaining lakeshore. That there were hundreds of downed trees between us and Wedge Lake seemed to be of no matter to the man.
     "Archie me lad, what can we do about it?  What's there is there.  It'll still be there tomorrow.  For the moment we're fine, have enough to eat and a lake full of fish should we run short.  But we won't unless you're up for more of the same.  Today we finish what we came here to do.  Maybe you'll do us the honor of snagging a few walleyes on the way. Tonight we'll take it easy.  Start up 'Of Mice and Men.'  Tomorrow we set to work moving this camp through the jackstraw."
     We fished and ate till seven in the evening.  Nothing else.  Emil did a lot of chuckling and never seemed to tire of paddling us around the lake.  We hit every remaining reef, island, point and bay.  Surveyed the storms damage.  Our north shore looked pretty torn up, the south not so bad.  Our time on the water took all of ten hours under the deep blue sky.  My uncle would call time out every so often and we'd pull to shore.  There we'd snack and he'd talk.
     "Thought I'd seen most everything there is to see out on the water.  Had a ship blown to pieces around me, seen the ocean aglow at night while we steamed the tropics, slaked my thirst with rain barrel water in the Philippines, rolled a canoe 'cause I was an idiot and once I went swimming in Lake Superior just to enjoy the pain."
     Here he paused for a minute.  Stoked the pipe.  "Seen the sun rise, and seen it set but I'd never seen St. Elmo's fire 'til yesterday.  Don't ever want to see it again.  Something about it says a man's days are numbered and that number can be counted on half a finger.  Felt as though my body was filling up with electricity and could explode any minute.  Could have lit a light bulb all by myself.  Way back when, the sailors used to take it as a sign of the supernatural, evil or even God.  Maybe from Heaven, maybe Hell.  They figured it didn't matter.  Either way something powerful was coming for sure.  Can't say I felt any different.  That's why we went ashore as fast as we did."
     "The way I see it there's as many signs in the Heavens and on Earth these days as there ever was.  Why should it be any different?  A man just has to step back now and then, pay attention.  Take it seriously.  Call it God talking, call it what you want.  It'd be a lot easier to understand if God spoke English and took out ad space in the Tribune.  Whatever it is up there, out there or in there, it's still talking.  But a body has to be quiet, both inside and out, to hear that whispering voice.  Sometimes it's no more than a gut feeling.   Like maybe yesterday and staying out on the slab.  'Course, sometimes that gut feeling's only gas and heartburn."
     Good grief.  What could I say to something like that?  Okay, he was right about last night.  Was even smart enough to stay out of the tent.  And now didn't seem in any hurry to get out of here.  Maybe he knew something I didn't?  Probably a lot.  Don't know what was the cause but from the moment I got off the train back in Alexandria I'd felt happy being where I was.  Safe like I was in good hands.  Honestly, I did feel a little on edge hunkered down on the rock in the storm with lightning booming down but that only lasted a few minutes.
     "Uncle Emil, you ever want to do another trip like this one and you need someone in the front of the canoe, I'm your man."
     "Archie, that you are.  If you're still saying the same thing when we get back to the lodge, I'll be sure to take you up on it."
     We trolled our way back to camp.  Last chance to find out what it was that tore up my spinner.  Monsters of the deep are usually caught in the very last minute of every wilderness adventure.  That's what Sports Afield said anyhow.  And I did hook up.  And it did feel huge.  But it was only an eight pound pike.  Disappointed?  Yup.
     "That sure isn't much of a pike.  But Archie, from what we've seen, it may be the biggest jack fish in this lake, with the biggest teeth.  So I guess, in that sense, that fish is The Lake With No Name Monster (cackle of horror movie laughter followed by deep cough and golf ball sized wad of gob into the lake).  Uf dah, thought I was gonna blow out my liver."
   

Canada XLIV - Recovery

     We slowly rose to our feet once the storm had dwindled to sprinkles and a cool breeze.  Shook ourselves off like wet dogs.  My shoes and socks were soaked, as were Emil's, but most of me was dry.  Guess it pays to get down on my knees once in a while and be concerned about my immediate future.  Could be that's what kept the trees off my back.  More likely the old man knew what he was doing and I was overjoyed he had.
     "What was it you yelled at me when the storm was blowing through?"
     "St. Elmo's fire.  That's what the glow was.  Never seen it before.  Tell you the truth, once is enough.  And you calling me St. Emil while we were aglow was pretty darned funny.  Woulda yelled it sooner out on the slab but I was laughing so hard about the fix we were in, I farted.  The idea of having the Spam farts made me laugh even more.  Afraid I was gonna asphyxiate myself.  What a way to go.   Sure made me thankful for the breeze but I feel for the poor folks downwind in northern Minnesota.  Five minutes and they'll be wondering what died."
     Off to our right the Eiffel Tower still stood guard.
     "Well I'll be darned.  Archie me lad, if she'll stand a blow like that I'd say we've done ourselves proud.  Maybe I'll get us satin jackets with Cairn Construction Crew spread across the back in gothic letters entwined by a dragon."
     "Or tattoos.  Ever tell you about the one I almost got in San Francisco before shipping out?  Archie it would have been a thing of beauty.  And one of the great puns of all time.  Might even have made the Pun Hall of Fame.  It would have been of Toulouse-Lautrec.  You know, the French painter?  Anyhow, below, it would have simply said, 'Born Toulouse'.  Well, the tattoo guy had no idea what Toulouse-Lautrec looked like.  Oh, well.  Good thing I didn't.  Lena would have skinned me alive."
     The tent and tarped over gear packs didn't look like they'd done as well as the three of us.  A once towering spruce now spread across the campsite.  The tent was flattened but the packs looked to have been spared.  The canoe was buried in pine branches but unharmed.
     "Not often things work out as you think they might, or fear they might." said Emil.  "The tent tells me we did the right thing by staying outside.  Woulda cleaved us in twain, or pierced us or maybe just pancaked us.  We stayed outside because the thought of being inside the tent's dark and not seeing what was going on outside scared the bejeezus out of me but good.  Besides, I figured the farther we could get from the trees without actually wading in the lake, the safer we'd be.  Curling up in a ball in a lightning storm was just something I'd read.  Don't know if that worked but I know for sure it didn't not work.  Feel so good about how it turned out I almost want to pat myself on the back."
     We studied our tent problem in the slowing drizzle.  She was pinned by a pair of snapped branches. Those same branches also kept the trunk a few inches off the ground.
     Emil turned, "Why don't you borrow a few slabs from the tower while I see if I can rummage the branch saw from the tarp."
     Ten minutes later, the spruce trunk supported by the slabs, Emil slid down on his back and began to saw off the pinning stubs.  Outside of two small tears and snapped poles, the tent was fine.  Emil was able to cover both holes with an undershirt and secured it with a needle and fishing line from his tackle box. "Slicker than snail snot, lad.  Now we're in business.  No skeeters for us.  If she clears off tonight we can peel the shirt back and look at the stars without having to go outside.  Wish I'd have thought of that sooner."
     Took a while for me to squirrel the gear from under the tarp even with most of the limbs removed.  By the time our tent was moved, new poles sawed and gear repacked we both looked like we'd low-crawled through a bog.  Felt like it too.  But we'd survived.  And had re-stacked the tower to its original fineness.  Not much left to do but grab a snack, sit on the preservers, watch the curtain of clouds withdraw and the first stars let us know it was time for bed.
     "I tell you Archie me lad, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.  Unless of course it snaps off both your legs or bashes in the side of your skull and leaves you with the same brain capacity as a rutabaga."  Emil paused.  "But that was sure something, wasn't it?  And it's not over."
     "What? Is there more storm on the way?  If I had my druthers, I'd say we've had enough."
     "No, nothing like that.  But day after tomorrow we have to bushwhack our way back to Wedge.  Our food pack says we've only got three or four days left.  Maybe the return carry won't be much different than the last but I doubt it.  Sure sounded like the storm dropped a lot of trees back in the woods.  If so, get ready for a full day's work.  One way or the other, we'll find out."
     His tapping of the pipe said it was time to brush our teeth and head in.  Turned out the pillow of my air mattress was no more.  A folded wad of dirty clothes did the trick.  Coulda been a lot worse.  I was so tired, the rising swamp smell from beneath my head sang me to sleep like a lullaby.
   
   

Canada XLIII - Message from Above

     I'd had a good time with Uncle Emil's fly rod.  Casting wasn't easy.  Working the line out described the process to a tee.  Yes it was work and required paying attention.  Sure wasn't the most efficient way to fish.  Flipping a spinner beat it all to pieces when it came to getting the lure to the fish.  Whip it out, crank it in.  On the other hand, fly casting was a skill I wanted to learn.  Seemed as classy as all get out and didn't matter as much if I caught anything.  Simply laying out a dozen yards straight as an arrow was a pleasure in itself and didn't often happen.  A couple of times having a walleye hook up proved an annoyance, a break in my rhythm.  But seeing as how I was casting with the idea of catching, landing an occasional fish was a burden I felt obliged to live with.
     "So what's the game plan for today Archie me lad?  Outside of putting a dent in Treasure Island and completing our lap of the lake, I've got nothing I want or need to do.  By the way, I've also got an old, beat-up copy of 'Of Mice and Men' stuffed in a pack I haven't read since before the war.  I figure it'll be a good way to pass a few hours before we leave the bush.  Probably won't get to it 'til Wedge, if then."
     Way out?  Yeah, from the beginning I'd known we'd eventually have to leave but the days were swimming by so fast I didn't realize a whole week had passed.  As yet I hadn't caught every fish in the lake and we were running out of time.  Where's the justice?
     Over the days Emil had transformed our camp into something nearly civilized and at the same time, like it belonged in the wilderness.  Fit in.  He'd split a small stack of firewood and laid a fire ring from shore rock that served double duty as a stand on which to perch the grate and Coleman stove.  We were ship shape from taut tent to racked rods and overturned canoe.  About the only thing we were lacking was a pair of chairs, so we forced to sit on our life jackets with boulders as back rests.
     "For fun I've got the notion we'll build us a cairn.  We'll need a dozen good sized rocks and a sense of balance.  Then set to it and build something that says we've been here and seeing as how it'll be made from what was put here by Mother Nature, we'll only be rearranging the beauty.  After breakfast we'll scout the shoreline in the canoe and gather what rock we need."
     Ours was a good life.  Would have been perfect with an occasional change of menu.  We'd eaten fish, a lot of spam, canned beans, canned or dried fruit, peanuts and bannock.  "A diet like that makes men of us," said Emil, "also inflates us some.  We can eat like that in the bush 'cause there's nary a person around to feel, smell or take offense."
     The saving grace was Emil's store of sugar mixed with cinnamon and raisins.  Made the bannock almost into sweet rolls.  The bread was good enough by itself, but would have been better with a glass of cold milk.  Don't get me wrong, with my appetite it all went down good.  My gut always needed filling.  However, by day seven even the lemonade had lost its charm.
     Instead of sitting on our slab and watching the world go by before heading out on the rock hunt, Uncle Emil taught me the basics of pan bread.  How much water, salt and baking powder to add to the flour, how to punch it and fold in just the right amount of sweet things.  Finally, shaping it to the greased pan and place it atop the fire for a couple of minutes 'til the bottom was browned.  Then while he read aloud, the bread, propped and tipped toward the campfire, baked.  Since we were in no hurry, extra care was taken to brown it to perfection. A little bit of heaven in the wilderness.  I have to say our days and nights were the perfect boy's life, or anyone's for that matter.  It was like we'd found a little hole in the ways of the civilized world and crawled in for a few days while the rest of life down in the States went flying about its usual busyness.
     Late morning we paddled out seeking slabs for the cairn, an Emil grunter on the heavy side, Archie grunter on the small.  I'd thought it'd take only a few minutes but, as Uncle Emil said, "Nearly everything takes longer than planned."  It was afternoon when we had our supply in camp.
     "This calls for some study.  Stacking stone's a different ballgame than laying brick or nailing wood.  Those two can be bought already sized and then shaped to fit a plan.  On the other hand, stone tells you what the plan is.  We're looking for form and balance in our cairn.  Should be a thing of beauty.  Or at least not ugly.  I figure I'll fire up my pipe, watch for clues in the smoke drift and listen to the rock."
     Yeah, my uncle danced to his own drummer alright.  We sat in the shade of a single passing cloud.  Looked, listened and thought.  Bird twitter.  Wind soughing in the spruces.  Nary a word from the stone that I could hear.  But we didn't hurry through Emil's pipeful.  Our time to move was signaled by the pipe being tapped and emptied on the fireplace.
     A look up, an eye twinkle and "Eiffel Tower.  Archie me lad, sound good to you?"
     Took a moment to get his drift.  Yes, I could see his vision.  We might have to scrounge a few more rocks but the Eiffel Tower it had to be.  No doubt about it.
     First came lunch.  Couldn't decide whether to have pan bread and spam or spam and pan bread. We went with the latter to spice things up.  Dried apricots for dessert.
     Then what?  More rocks of course.  This time we went to the left in hope of something more liberal.  Anyway, that's what Emil said.  And the stones were special.  Streaks of sparkled black in the gray.  I know that might not sound all that beautiful to you but I had low expectations.
     We filled an afternoon hour with construction.  The erection site was on the far side of the slab about a foot above the high water mark.  Should anyone come roaring by in a motor boat after being flown in by float plane, the tower would be sure to catch their eye.  Maybe even get them to pause a moment and say, "My oh my."
     Took a bit of care and a handful of little rocks to level out the first course of four slabs.  Then it was a matter of stack and taper 'til the tower reached the height of a canoe paddle.  We stood back and admired our work.
     "Uncle Emil, I doubt Mr. Eiffel would recognize our tower as much more than a pile of rocks."
     "Archie me lad, seeing as how a cairn's not but a stack of rocks in the first place, I'd say we've done ourselves proud.  Since Eiffel's been dead for a while, I doubt he'd be real critical of what we've made.  Should we ever return to this lake we'll shoot for the Brooklyn Bridge."
     The tower got me wondering about the future.  Maybe our tower would still be there in forty years.  And maybe I'd see it with a son of my own.  But first I'd have to make it through puberty.  About then the little rock on top fell off.  Emil had me spit on it as an adhesive then carefully returned the stone to its place in the sky.
     While we were stacking, Emil's eyes occasionally drifted to the tree line to our west.  Not sure what he was searching for.  Could be he was only moving his pointer a couple of degrees south of normal.  By that I mean Uncle Emil's normal, which was already a few notches off.  Those things happen to older men.  One minute they've got the world by the tail, the next they're walking into church with their barn door open and wondering why the guy up front is dressed so fancy.
     "Are you expecting someone to come flying in from the west Uncle Emil?  The way you keep staring at the tree line has me thinking I'm missing something of importance."
     "Nothing at the moment.  But the day's been so perfect it's got me worried.  Lake's glassed out, skies are blue and she's in the seventies.  Couldn't ask for better weather.  It's been my experience in life that things balance out.  For every beautiful spring there's a hellacious winter.  Pipers to pay.  So, to my way of thinking this perfect day will eventually end and a coupla minutes later the balance will come pay a visit.  What I'm looking for over the trees is a peek of thunderhead."
     "Down on the Plains a day like this with hot, dead air could mean a tornado.  Or a storm like the one that took my eye.  Up here, I don't know what it means.  My plan is for us to be as ready as possible when the moment arrives."
     "We still going fishing tonight?"  Now that was a stupid thing to ask but I did want to fish. And it wasn't raining yet.
     "Yes.  But we won't stray far from camp.  Should the weather begin to change, the fishing will no doubt get crazy good.  Maybe the best ever.  Hard to believe it could get any better than it's already been but maybe."
     Dinner was short and sweet.  Before we slid onto the water we battened down camp.  Tied every pole and corner of the tent off to trees, brush, root and boulder and twanged every taut rope.
     "B sharp.  Best tighten 'er to a full C.  Don't want any dissonant notes upsetting the symphonic symmetry of the coming storm."
      Packs were wrapped in a tarp and weighed down with rock.  Nothing but nothing laid loose.  Ready, willin' and able.
     First things first.  Emil pulled out both Treasure Island and his pipe.  We read for a bowlful.
     Turned out the walleye fishing was as good as the gods of Field and Stream on the table in Ole's barber shop intended and might have been written something like this:
     "The first pickerel nearly ripped the rod from my hands.  I screamed, 'My God Bill, this one's a beast.  She'll pull me in for sure if I don't do something quick.  Throw me the pearl handled .45 so I can subdue the monster.'  The first behemoth dispatched to glory, it only got worse.  Each one bigger than the last.  My torn and bloodied hands were begging no more, please, no more.  At last after hours of this torment, with a canoe filled to the gunwales with scales, blood and random walleye body parts, the sun sank beneath the pines and we paddled home exhausted but fulfilled.  Once back in camp we finished our last half gallon of Canadian Club and slept, mosquito coated, under the stars in a drunken stupor."
     Or something like that.  Oh it was good alright.  Even tied into a school of pound sized perch quickly followed by walleyes big enough to eat them.  How big?  Hard to say but even Uncle Emil was impressed,
     "Yup, this little lake's as good as I'd hoped.  Doesn't always happen that way.  That it does once in a while is cause for thanks.  Quiet thanks.  A body gets to sharing this kind of wonderfulness with the outside world and the next thing you know the virginity of virgin water becomes a thing of the past.
     "I don't see me ever coming back Archie me lad.  But should I, there won't be a rod involved.  There's plenty of fish to catch elsewhere.  This bypassed Eden is best left as is."
     We never strayed more than a ten minute paddle from camp.  And Emil never tired of scanning the skies.  The longer I fished, the warmer the air became.  Sultry.  Not a puff of wind broke the purity of the lake's slick.  Pines, spruces, deadfall and rock reflected in the water looked no different than the scene on land.  Sometimes I'd try to turn my head over so as to see the world upside-down.  No difference outside of becoming dizzy and disoriented.  Out aways from shore I got lost in the notion there were four of us afloat on the lake in two canoes.  The world and canoe below separated from us above by a sheet so thin it almost wasn't there.  Got me wondering what the upsidedowners were thinking of us.
     No matter how far I threw my spinner I could see it from the moment it broke the surface 'til it reached the canoe.  And as easily could see the fish as they swarmed the bucktail, racing to see which could eat it first.  I began to catch Emil's point.  Fish as innocent as these did not deserve to be caught.  As the canoe turned toward camp I took up the long rod.  Something about the grace of fly presentation seemed more fitting to the moment and softened the guilt a bit.
     I didn't notice when the sun left the water.  But Uncle Emil did.  "No hurry.  Archie me lad, it's a pleasure watching you throw flies.  Keep fishing while I turn and mosey us toward camp."
     Finally I took notice and saw the line of black peeking above the west end of the lake.  Not a thunderhead in sight but even I could feel the menace coming our way.
     Emil moseyed.  I fished and caught.  The sky was quickly swallowed by the rising line of black and every so often we could hear a distant rumble.  A minute from camp my head began to itch.  I pulled off my ball cap and started to scratch.  Can't say I'd ever heard my hair crackle before.  Didn't scare me but the tingle got me scratching again.  Once more my hair crackled.  Interesting.  I put my hat back on.
     "Archie, you might want to have a look at your rod tip."
     Even though it was getting darker by the minute the glow coming from my rod wasn't easy to see.  But it was there alright.  I turned to face my uncle.
      Now there was a sight.  His brown Stetson was awash in flowing blue and yellow waves of light.  "Looks like you've turned into St. Emil.  Your hat appears to be on fire."
     "Time to skedaddle Archie," said Uncle Emil.  The look in his eyes told me this was serious business.
     We slid sideways along the slab, hopped out one at a time, dragged the Grumman far onto the slab nose to wind, tied it to a rock, pulled the gear and slid it under.  All in less than a minute. What Emil did next surprised the bejeezus out of me.  Instead of heading into the tent where it was sure to be dry he simply pulled out our rain gear from inside.
     "Put it on fast Archie, we're staying out here."  Once dressed we headed out to the slab to watch the show.  For less than a minute.
     "Here she comes.  Get down and curl into a ball.  We'll wait her out right here."
     No doubt in my mind I was with a crazy man.  But what choice did I have?  He was the master and I was just a kid.  So I hunkered down next to the man.
     Ten seconds later all hell broke loose.  A wall of wind slammed through and didn't let up.  Just kept rising.  A peek out to the lake told the story.  In less than a minute the glass became ripples, waves, then solid lines of white, foaming and hissing off to the east.  The forest roared right along with the gale.  Trees snapped like gunshots inland and around us.
     Next came the wall of rain driven by the gale to a fine, painful mist, and lit up white by the swarm of snaked lightning dancing through the air.  Deafening roar.  No other way to put it, I was scared stiff figuring this might be the end.  There was so much noise around us I couldn't understand Emil, no more than three feet away, when he yelled something at me.
     That wasn't the end of it.  While this was going on the temperature began to drop.  Not slowly either.  It was like eighty above one minute, sixty the next, then forty.  Two seasons in a minute and a half.  The rain turned to sleet.  Fine pellets of ice stung like birdshot from a .410 shotgun.  I never figured I was gonna die out on that rock but it sure wouldn't have surprised me.
     Finally came a wave of what looked like snow.  A half minute blizzard.  I began to laugh.  Laughed so hard it hurt.  Not sure exactly what struck me funny.  Perhaps because we were the butts of a tremendous practical joke played on us by Mother Nature.  I'm here to tell you that old lady sure has a strange sense of humor.
     Then, no more than fifteen minutes after it started, the storm passed.  Even warmed up a bit.  She was still brisk but a whole lot better than the moment of winter that'd just roared by.
   
   

Canada XLII - Clockwise

     No kid my age is supposed to wake up stiff.  Too young, too supple.  But geez, sleeping on a billion year old bed was way too firm for me.  So was the golf ball sized rock dent in my right shoulder blade.  Uncle Emil said there was only one solution for my miseries, a good morning swim.  Wash our drawers at the same time.  One thing I've gotta say about swimming in an unnamed lake, men sure grow a lot of moles as they get older.  Hope that doesn't happen to me.  The mole part that is.  Getting old is okay.  Can't avoid that if I'm lucky.
     Back in Minnesota, if the sun was out and I was wading the shallows off a sandy beach, there'd usually be sunfish nibbling at my toes.  Whatever there was on my feet, it sure appealed to the little guys.  Maybe they liked jam.  Even here on No Name we had nibblers.  Only the water was too stained to see what they were.  For sure they weren't sunnies.  More likely something with teeth and that made me nervous.
     We came in when we got the shivers.  Chilly water.  Land of sky blue lips.  Our icy dip woke me up and gave me the hungries.  The two of us set to making the breakfast of champions, Spam and pancakes.  Uncle Emil sure had a thing for Spam.  Said it traveled well and could sit outside of the can for the better part of a decade before it began to mold.  Anyway, that was his guess since he'd never seen it actually mold.
     "A million years from now when people are a thing of the past there'll still be cans of Spam.  Should aliens ever arrive from another part of the universe they'll think that's all we ate 'cause that's all that'd be left of civilization.  Eventually they'd open up a can in a laboratory hovering out in space.  One whiff and they'd be seduced into giving it a try and that'd show 'em we were an advanced race capable of great things.  Umm-umm, good stuff.  Probably spend the rest of their time on this planet searching for the wonderful animal it came from.  Good luck with that."
     Breakfast done, Uncle Emil trotted off to the tent and returned sporting a new eye, a fishing fly this time.  Said it was a Royal Wulff.  Like I knew what an that was.  When I asked Emil if he had a plan, he pulled a white, three piece, eight foot rod out of one of the tubes.  Said it was a fly rod.  He assembled it, attached a reel and strung it.
     "We're gonna have us some fun tonight.  Walleye and sauger on the long rod.  And it'll not be me doing the fishing.  First we've got to get you to the point where you're no harm to either of us."
     "This isn't like a spinning rod.  And as fly rods go, it's not a fancy one.  She's just a workaday Shakespeare fiberglass.  So there's no worry about hurtin' it since there's plenty more where this one came from."
     That morning and afternoon I got the basics.  Turned out to be pretty much the same as throwing a baseball without the wrist break.  He started me out working the rod with no line, then short line, finally I could throw close to fifteen yards of green fly line without screwing up too much.  It took a while but soon my thumb could feel the rod bend and I'd know it was time to fire it forward.
     "We're set except for getting the fly down to the fish.  Walleyes, perch and sauger won't eat anything on the surface.  Sinking the floating line I brought along'll call for a BB sized split shot or two on the leader.  That'll up the line speed, kind of like tying a nail to the business end of a bullwhip.  No doubt that'll increase the danger of one of us losing an eye but, what the heck, with any luck it'll be my glass one."
     Most of me was thinking my uncle was crazy.  Turning me loose in a canoe with a weapon tipped by a weighted hook was to my way of thinking a step in the direction of the looney bin or maybe a hospital.  Visions of torn flesh, impaled ears and one of us for sure moving into the valley of the blind, danced in my head.
     "Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked.  "Isn't this just a little bit daft and dangerous?"
     "You'll do just fine Archie.  If we go clockwise along the shore and you keep the rod at forty-five degrees like I showed you, the hook will be out over the water in front of the canoe and away from us.  As I said before, we're in a place where we can't do anything stupid, so we won't.  We'll pay attention and think a couple of steps ahead.  Also, should it turn out to be a danger, we'll chicken out and go back to the spinning rod.  You good with that?"
     What could I say?  I was going do something I'd never done before on a lake no one had ever fished before.  We were perched on the edge of the world, ready to fall off at any moment and Uncle Emil acted like we were strolling out to his garage to get a rake.  Don't know if it was fly fishing he was trying to teach me or a way of living.  Given a moment's thought I figured Emil was right. We were going have some fun tonight.  Maybe even a hoot.
     It'd be nice to say all went well with fly fishing, that I was an undiscovered master.  But it didn't and I wasn't.  Lost a fly or two to overhanging branches.  Another to a bottom snag.  Removed my hat once.  And, almost forgot, caught a seventeen foot aluminum canoe a half dozen times.  Could've had a stringer full of them.  But for the most part the fishing was beyond fun.  Even caught what Emil called a wall-hanger sauger.
     "Thing about a big sauger is few people would recognize what it was even if they shared a bed with one of the boogers.  Why anyone would want to sleep with a fish is beyond me but you get my drift.  Should you have a sauger mounted on a plaque most people would wonder what the big deal is about a twenty-two inch walleye.  And a sick brown one to boot.  Then you'd have to explain what it was.  Before you'd have finished they'd have walked away because they didn't give a rat's patoot whether it was a sauger or an elephant turd.  But, between you and me, she's a beauty.  Maybe the biggest ever caught on a fly rod, in Manitoba, on a lake without a name and more than a hundred acres.  One way or the other, only the two of us will ever know about your possible world record.  But that's enough.  Don't need a crowd for the earth to shake."
     I slid the fish back in the water.
   

Canada XLI - Night II

     Emil said he'd never fished a lake like this one.  Nearly all we caught were in the walleye family.  The few pike were so tiny they didn't count.
     "Not that I'm complaining about walleyes.  They're much easier on the fingers, simpler to grab and a pleasure in the frying pan.  But geez eh, where are the pike?  I just don't get it.  I mean pike up here are like the bullheads down south.  They're supposed to be everywhere.  I think I read that in the Bible.  Could be in Luke.  I believe the long-hairs gave the pike its Latin name of esox lucious in honor of the good doctor and his voracious appetite.  It was Luke who made all those loaves and fishes necessary.  You see when Christ and his buddies had come ashore they thought they had enough food with them to feed the crowd who'd gathered about.  Wrong.  While all the other apostles had been rowin' and workin' the sails Luke'd been in the back quietly having himself a snack.
     On the other hand we might've stumbled into some kind of pikeless vortex.  Like we're in one of those low budget science fiction movies."
     Uncle Emil's plan for our remaining time on the water was simple.  However long it took, we were to see and I was to fish every foot of shoreline.  He called it suckin' the marrow.
     "We worked for it so we'll not miss a thing.  Paddle every foot including the islands.  There'll be no regrets when we leave.  There are few things worse than saying 'I shoulda…' when completion is right at your doorstep."
     As our days passed whenever we were in good looking water I'd fish, Emil would fire up his pipe and we'd talk.  First subject was naming the lake.  We batted it back and forth before during and after our time on the water,  Long Way In, Pelican, Perch, Brown Walleye (in honor of the saugers), Emil's Folly, Me Lad, Lost and Found and one we almost decided on, Lena.  Yeah, we both agreed Lena would have been a good one.  For the moment we left it up in the air.
     "You know, it doesn't really matter what we call it.  The name'll never show up on the map.  And odds are we'll be the only ones who'll ever paddle this water.  As far as I'm concerned the best name would be leaving it unnamed, our secret.  Whenever you and me get together we won't have to say a word but will know what the other's thinking.  This stretch of water's as good a place as there is anywhere north of the south pole.  No place I'd rather be.  Tonight we'll start on yon island out there in front of us."
     So that's what we did.  Never once were we in a hurry.  Never paddled out in the morning.  Nor the afternoon.  Our time on the water always began after supper around five thirty.  We didn't come off 'til the sun was below the spruces and twilight was melting into night.
     Uncle Emil was drawn to the sun when it rode low in the sky.  Reveled in the light ricocheting from lake into the shoreline forest.  For minutes at a time he'd sit in the stern of the canoe, spawning clouds with his pipe, contemplating the scene.
     "I guess it's the shadows thrown upward by the needles.  During the day I see the green in the trees.  Pretty enough in its own right.  But come sunset it's those upshot shadows that're drawing my eye.  Like little bits of night getting ready for the big show when the stars come out.  Bet if you could see deep enough into those shadows you'd see stars there also.  Itty-bitty ones but just like the real deal in their own way."
     Yeah I found what he had to say interesting.  Kind of.  But I was into trying to hook something big.  Long as my leg.  And wasn't having much luck.  You could say I'd been spoiled.  By the second evening I'd caught more fish than a person has a right to in an entire lifetime.  Some of them good sized.  Four or five pound walleyes.  Foot long perch.  But I wanted a pickerel I'd remember 'til the day I died.  While I pitched spinners, my uncle rambled.  About as a good a life as a kid could want.
     "Ever tell you how I actually lost my eye?"
     Now he had me.  There'd have to be something wrong with me to not want to hear that story.  Uncle Emil's glass eye was a family legend.  And there were more conflicting and confounding stories about the eye than I had first cousins.  Forty-six at the last count.  We were a fertile family.
     One rumor had him losing it in a fertilizer factory explosion.  Another to a chunk of shrapnel when a kamikaze pilot hit the troop ship he was on.  A third had him get carried away when he had the lead in his high school's play, Oedipus.  Yup, I was all ears.
     "First off, all those stories you've no doubt heard are pure bull.  I should know because I made most of them up myself.  What's the fun in having a glass eye if you can't swashbuckle a bit?  So, you ready?"
     Ready?  I even stopped fishing.
     "Was back in 1925.  I was a kid, just finished school, done with bootlegging and out to see the world.  At least the flat part of it over in North Dakota.  Good thing I did or I'd have never met your Aunt Lena.  She was a farmer's daughter alright but not like in all the jokes.  I was working the harvests to put some spending money in my dungarees.  Even had the thought I might give college a try and any money I could save would be a step in that direction.
     "What happened to my eye was simple enough.  A storm blew through while we were out in the field.  Big storm with winds like a hurricane.  Was a simple but strong gust that did me in.  Picked up a piece of wheat chaff and ran it through my eye.  Sure didn't see that coming.  Archie me lad, that's a joke.  Throw in a long trip to town, an infection and the next thing I knew I was being fitted for a shooter marble."
     "Not all that glamorous a story is it?  Well, I didn't think so.  Over the years I began to make up something new every time I was asked about it.  Got to be a challenge between me and myself.  Made losing the eye almost worthwhile."
     "Tell you what, let's re-rig your setup.  Truth is you need a new game plan.  Archie me lad, you ever use a slip bobber before?"
     "Of course I have.  Do you take me for some kind of know nothing kid?  By the way, what's a slip bobber?"
     Turned out it was a simple rig, Emil tied a knot onto my line with a short length of string, strung a long bobber with a hole through the length of it up to the knot, and finished it off with a jig at the end of my line tipped with a white piece of Uncle Josh's genuine, trout length pork rind.
     The bobber gave us something to watch and talk about.  Uncle Emil called it a bob-air like he was a French Canadian.  So long as I worked the bobber, gave it movement, I caught fish.  Many, many fish.  As many jumbo perch as walleyes.  Like they were fighting over it.  The bobber would jiggle a couple of times on the surface then slowly sink.  Once below the surface I'd wait a two count before hammering home the hook set.  It was so easy Emil said we should try the rig without a hook.  Then without line, or rod and reel.  Maybe think 'em into the canoe.
     "Not many Minnesotans know how tasty perch can be.  Good thing I've fished with a coupla cheese-eaters from Wisconsin or I'd have been in the same boat.  Almost a shame we're turning these beauties loose."  Uncle Emil wiped a pretend tear from his good eye.
     I saw my first not-in-a-zoo bear that evening.  Just moseying along 'til it caught wind of us.  Gave a snort like a pig then skedaddled into the brush of a lakeshore swamp.  Didn't look at all like the beasts I'd seen in outdoors magazines.  Black and almost cuddly.
     " About the only thing we'd have to fear from that guy would be if one of us had a Hershey bar in the pocket of his jeans.  Bears are bigger than they look from a distance.  Black is a slimming color after all.  I'd call that one fair-sized, maybe three hundred pounds.  And they don't cuddle.  On the upside, they're as scared of us as we are of them.  Keep your distance and make some noise when you see one.  You'll be okay.  Usually.  Like all wild things, show 'em some respect.  Should ever the need arise and you have to kill a living thing do it the favor of serving it for dinner.  That doesn't include mosquitoes and horse flies of course."
     I'd been sleeping for what seemed like ten minutes that night when Emil shook me awake.  Answered my question by saying the time was around two in the morning.  Lord almighty, I sure didn't want to wake up but he was insistent.  Said I had to come outside and see the show.
     "Just slide on your pants and boots. The skeeters have all gone to bed.  Yeah, even skeeters would have to be crazy to get out of the sack at this time of night."  Finished that with a chuckle.
     Call it a couple of stumbles and a near fall but I didn't knock the tent down on the way out.
     "So what's the big deal?"
     Didn't need to go any farther than those few words.  Clouds of starlit mist floating on the lake drew my eye first, then led me to the black of the far tree-lined shore.  There I caught sight of the Milky Way rising like a pathway to the top of the sky where soft green wisps of the northern lights fluttered like curtains in a gentle breeze.  I'd seen them once before on a snow crisp winter night in the city.   But considering where we were, this was some show alright.  I joined Uncle Emil and comfied down on the slab.  Best seat in the house.  Still held the heat of the sun.
     "Archie me lad, you know what I think?  Remember those white pelicans from this afternoon?  Well, just maybe they kept right on rising 'til they turned into those clouds of northern lights up there.  True or not, it's a good thought ain't it?"
     "Yes sir, it is.  Mind if we lay here a while to see what they do?"
     There was no need for Uncle Emil to answer.  We had no place to be any better than where we were.  Don't know how long I laid there staring at those shifting green lights.  But I do know that I woke up in the morning sunlight out on the slab, covered by my sleeping bag, my head on a life jacket.
   

Canada XL - Pelicans

     We weren't alone on the lake, far from it.  Emil said our neighbors were white pelicans.  Huge birds that summered in the northland and wintered way down south.  In the evenings they hung around together, all twelve of them.  They'd line up like ships in the admiral's fleet on parade and paddle around the bays.  When off in the distance their white turned to blue.  Could be they reflected the color of the lake which was reflecting the color of the sky which was blue because of the way the air filtered sunlight.  Yeah, it was sure an all-connected kind of day.
     So that's what we were doing in the morning, watching three of them circle and rise on a column of warm air.  Emil claimed he could make them rise even faster by spinning yarns.
     While we stood crook-necked gazing, Uncle Emil ambushed me with a question,  "Hard to believe you don't have any memory of your dad.  Somewhere deep inside there must be something?"
     Oof, that sure took me by surprise.  Almost blurted out for Emil to cram it but said nothing.  Would've been nice if he'd kept his question to himself.  No such luck.  What the heck, after some thought I figured he was a good guy doing what he was doing and sharing this wonderful lake with me.  I mean, he didn't really need the burden of a kid while heading to a place he seemed to hold pretty special.
     "There's not much to say about someone I never knew.  Truth is, I don't even remember if I was at his funeral.  Or saw him after he was dead.  You'd think I'd remember if I had."
     We eased our way out to the water's edge while being careful to not lose sight of the birds.
     "I guess in an odd way he might have taught me something by not being around.  That it's best to figure things out on my own even if it means screwing up a lot.  And I sure do.  Time after time.  Seems I no more than clear off one mess when another pops up.  I'd like to say I'm getting better but I have my doubts.  Maybe I need to get a jump on the field.  Solve the problem before it becomes one.  Yeah, it'd be nice to get some advice from my old man now and then.  But that's sure not going to happen, is it?  Who knows?  Could be the only advice that actually matters comes from inside me."
     I paused.  Thought for a minute and tried my best to not lose the pelicans.
     "I suppose the person my old man's death affected most was my old man.  He sure missed out on a lot.  Doesn't seem fair.  I suppose, had he a choice, he'd have held on a lot longer.  Who wouldn't?  I know for a fact I want my life to last longer than the fifty years he had.  Makes me nervous that I won't."
     "Seems he had really high blood pressure all his life.  I was told he had rheumatic fever when he was young and it damaged his heart.  But you never know.  That might not have been it at all.  My Mom says he woke up one night complaining of a headache and that was all she wrote.  Massive stroke blew his head off.  One minute sleeping, the next dead.  And not enough money to pay for a funeral.  So what exactly did he teach me?  Guess it was a fear of dying young.  I don't blame him for that.  I guess my father was as much a victim as me.  Huh, never thought of that before."
      By now we were leveled out on the slab to take the strain off our necks, still watching the pelicans soaring higher and higher.  Growing smaller and smaller.  Without speaking a word we'd agreed to do the same thing.  See how far up they'd go before those white dots disappeared.  Wasn't an easy thing to do as the birds circled and climbed.  Every so often I was forced to blink or squeeze my eyes shut to refocus.  Then it was a search and a near panic to find the pelicans once more.  Almost like it was the strength of our eyeballs keeping the birds aloft.  Should we lose sight of them they'd no doubt plummet to their deaths.  For sure they'd smack down right on top of us.  Kill us both deader than door nails.  What a way to go.  I tell you it wasn't easy holding those buggers up there.  Made me feel like Atlas toting the world around.  Only he had his whole back to do the hoisting.  We only had our eyeballs and willpower.  And those ungrateful birds up above not caring one way or the other about us two fools down below on the gray rock.  Little did they realize their precarious hold on life.
     I won't belittle that moment by comparing the pelicans rising in the sky to souls or prayers rising to heaven.  Yeah, the thought crossed my mind.  Just finished eighth grade at St. Austin's.  The nuns there drilled those kind of thoughts into our heads like they had nothing better to do.  Catholic or Communist the idea was the same, get 'em while they're young and you've got 'em forever.  As I saw it, the pelicans were rising because they were having fun and we were laying there talking about a man who wasn't around anymore except in our thoughts.  The life that had once been my Dad had moved elsewhere or simply gone pfft.  No clouds and harps.  No paradise in the sky.  Whatever happened after death was a mystery no matter how many books had been written otherwise.  Simple as pie, when something's a mystery, people make stuff up to explain it.  Tell you what, when I pass on I'll mail you a letter, let you know what's happening on the other side.  I'm not being cynical, just admitting my ignorance.
     "Yeah, even though I don't remember him, I miss him.  He left a hole in my life that nothing or no one else can ever fill.  Odd thing is, I have no idea what I should call him.  Always have to pause to consider my choices, dad, daddy, father, none of 'em sound right.  Suppose the way it should have worked out, I'd be on this trip with him.  Or something like it."
     "But I have to tell you Uncle Emil, seeing as how my old man couldn't make it, you'll do."
     "Archie me lad, I'll take that as a compliment."
     I lost them first.  Probably because I wear glasses.  And seemed the power of two eyes was concentrated in Emil's one.  Claimed he could still see their feathers and the pelican on the left, the one he called Leroy, had a little speck of something on his beak.  "Can't exactly see what it might be.  But whatever it is, is mostly green with a few red flecks here and there.  Kind of Christmasy you might say.  What I'm getting around to is the gnat that's feasting away on the specks.  Looks like he's missing his rear left leg.  Poor little fella.  Archie me lad, had I two good eyes I could probably see that bug's ancestors and descendants up to four generations both past and future."
     Finally Emil gave up the ghost.
     "Uncle Emil, how high do you think they'll go?"
     "Who knows, maybe they'll just keep soaring all the way to yesterday, or tomorrow, or whatever's up there."
   

Canada XXXIX - The Dreams and The Plan

     Morning light was on the tent when we awoke.  No surprise there since the sun rose around 5am.  As usual Emil was up long before me.  Truth was he had to wake me every morning.  What can I say?  A growing boy needs his sleep.  In my case he also tends to be as lazy as the moment allows.
     Uncle Emil had spent his quiet hour sipping coffee and churning over his dreams.  Not always an easy thing to do.
     "First I've to remember them.  And that can take a bit of conjuring, rummaging around in the basement of memory.  Open my brain up and see what pops out.  Sometimes it's the smallest image that's the hook.  Once I find the hook I can start reeling.  Usually the dream fleshes out.  Then I have to figure out what my dream is trying to say.  It's like we live in two worlds.  Each world speaks its own language.  It's something like being awake in English and dreaming in Russian.  When I'm awake I do things.  My dreams give me hints why."
     "When I was younger I figured dreams were just so much gobbledygook.  Then I had one that caught my attention.  Snapped me awake in a panic of fear.  Bothered me so much I figured it must be trying to tell me something.  That's when I started to learn the language of my dreams through trial and error.  I've gotten better at it but am more like the three blind men trying to describe an elephant than I should be.  One thing is for sure, my dreams only deal with my life and the images my dreams choose only mean something to me.  All those dream books at the book stores are just so much crap.  A man has to take his dreams seriously and figure them out himself."
     "From what I recall of last night's dreams, both involved water.  So that's good.  In one I was doing my best to net some flying turtles.  Like the little ones that sun themselves on logs back home.  Nice to see but they sure ain't fish.  I usually check them out, smile and paddle on.  But flying turtles, that's something special.  Rare even.  Worth stopping to see something that unusual.  The thing was, I didn't want to be netting them.  Figured in my heart I should just let them fly but was scooping them up because other people wanted me to.  Even though I felt it was wrong, I was still netting away."
     "In the other part, one of us caught a huge lake trout.  Probably thirty-six inches long.  I measured it with a twenty-seven inch ruler.  Who in the Sam Hill has a twenty-seven inch ruler?  Well I had one and it wasn't long enough to measure the whole fish.  I recall saying the ruler was nine inches short.  Don't know if it was me or you who caught the trout.  But it was sure one fine fish glinting away in the sunlight.  So those are my dreams and they've told me what to do."
     Best I could come up with was, "Huh?  I don't get it."
     Emil went on, "The way I see it the turtle dream is about me.  And I'm not going to net any more.  Once in a while a man has to take a stand.  Do what he feels is right and not be bent by what he's expected to do.  In my gut that means I'm done fishing on this lake.  Doesn't matter all the work we've put into this trip.  Most would say a man would be a fool to come this far and put down the rod.  But that's okay.  If I want to feel good about myself I can't throw another lure in this lake even if it's only me and you who know.  But I will feel just fine if we spend a few more days here."
     At the sound of those words my heart stopped and my jaw dropped.  Done fishing?  Say it ain't so Uncle Emil.
     "On the other hand Archie me lad, you're not by any means done.  There's lessons to be learned out on the water.  Maybe big ones.  Dream fish are all about seeing the truth and one of us has to catch that three footer.  I feel it's my job to help you out.  Put you in the right places and let you cast 'til your arm falls off.  Deal?"
     My sigh of relief put a smile on Emil's face.
     "By the by, not that I put much stock in numbers, but twenty-seven is three times three times three.  Three to the third power.  The fish was three times three times four which figures to thirty six inches.  The ruler was three times three inches short.  That's a lot of threes.  And one four.  And it's the four, the lake trout, that maybe gives completion to all the threes.  Sometimes dreams are too weird for me.  And something to chew on while we're out on the water.  Like I said, I still have a lot to learn when it comes to dreams."
   

Canada XXXVIII - Aside

     Looks like Emil backed me into a corner.  A real dilemma.  Sure didn't see that coming.  Guess that's what happens when I let the characters talk for themselves.  When I sit down to write I know where the boys are and what happened the day before.  Then I point them in what seems the logical direction to move for the day.  Then things happen.  Sometimes it's about what I figured would happen.  Sometimes it's a complete surprise.  Like yesterday.
     Obviously both Emil and Archie are me at different stages of my life.  That Archie is fourteen, about the same age as my son Allan was when we first went to the Boundary Waters is no coincidence.  That my dad died when I was three is also true.  Emil is a composite of the adult men who passed through on the edge of my life.  I chose what I liked from them and hope that I ended up in the ballpark.
     The lakes traveled by Emil and Archie do exist.  Me and Allan paddled them all.  As does the unnamed one I'd like to get to someday. Pull up google earth and you can follow our route right down to the barely visible campsite on which I left the boys last night.
     When I said Emil would sleep on it, I meant it.  Dreams talk to him as they do me and everyone else.  So I slept on it last night.  And did have an appropriate dream.
     Consider all these entries as part of a story that will be eventually interspersed with earlier Uncle Emil tales.  Figure those tales could be told to Archie to fill in the gaps of an otherwise mundane happening.  Above all this ain't no adventure story in the usual sense.  My hope is that it'll be more like something that could actually happen to anyone in an everyday life.

Canada XXXVII - Descent of Night

     Dinner was leftovers.  Mattered not.  All was good.  At age fourteen food passed through me, was absorbed quickly or was burned up in minutes.  Most said I was bottomless.  So long as Emil kept stoking my fire I was ready for nearly anything.  Maybe even fishing.  On a lake five hundred miles north of the border?  So off the map it had no name?  Yeah, I was ready.
     We strung the backup rods with care.  Even tied my own knots.  Chose my weapon for the evening.  Red and white spinner tipped with squirrel hair all the way from France by way of Parkers Prairie, Minnesota.
     Uncle Emil's hand gripped my shoulder, "This is our evening.  Let's make the most of it."
     We pushed off at six-thirty with intentions of seeing as much shoreline as the fish would allow.  Good fishing slows the pace to a crawl.  I figured out later this dilemma was the uncertainty of fishing principle.  An angler in the midst of great fishing faces a choice, move on to see if better lies ahead and not know what's been left behind or stay put and let the future remain a mystery.  One or the other, can't have both.
     Emil's solution was simple, "So long as the fishing holds, we'll stay put.  Tomorrow we'll do whatever we feel like doing."
     He said the lake we were on had no inlet or outlet that he knew of.  Wasn't but an oval bowl with ten or so islands.  From camp our view said there was nothing but endless, smooth shoreline, treed and swamped.  But the reality was nothing of the sort.  Never ending small bays and points.  All holding fish.  We found walleye, sauger and perch.  Now and then a small, terrified pike.  So many fish we made little progress on our circumnavigation.  And, outside of the surprise of jumbo perch, not a fish was of size.  Pound and a half, two pound pickerel by the bucketful. That was the extent of our luck that first evening.
     Emil mused, "I hope beyond hope this lake still has some of its glacial meltwater mixed in.  There's nowhere the melt could have gone save skyward or into the ground.  I have no exact idea how fish ended up in these lakes.  Could be they migrated north in the trail of the melting glaciers.  Maybe at one time this area was all one big body of water.  Wedge, the Cranberries and this lake were all joined.  Then as the land drained off, the remaining water divided up into the lakes we see now.  What we're catching are the ancestors of the unfortunates that got trapped in here when their way out was cut off by descending lake level.  Just maybe they've grown to be somewhat different than their brothers and sisters over on the main run.  Who knows what we'll find?  Maybe even sturgeon or lakers.  Probably not, but I'm hoping."
     We fished the first few bays that evening.  Hard to leave a spot when the fishing's hot even if none were wall hangers.  Those innocent fish were suckers for anything that moved or flashed.  Not a one had ever seen a spinner before.  Or a boat, or people for that matter.  Virgin water.  Almost seemed a shame to be despoiling it with our civilized gear.
     "Archie me lad, there's near a sadness to what we're doing.  Like we're messing with a good thing that was never meant to see animals like us.  In a way it's an Eden.  Set aside by forces beyond our ken for reasons we'll never know.  Or just a fluke of location.  Doesn't matter.  Best we show this lake the respect it deserves."
     We fished in silence for a few minutes before Emil spoke up again,
     "I've almost a mind to pack it up and head out tomorrow.  Feels to me like we're trespassing in a holy place.  At least that's what I was thinking a minute ago.  On the other hand, it seems a shame to waste an opportunity such as lies before us so long as we proceed in a respectful manner.  It's something that requires sleeping on.  Perhaps the lake will tell us what to do."
     We reeled in our lines to watch as the lowering sun shot pastels on the tier of clouds rising above us.  We didn't know it but some thousand miles away a tremendous forest fire was laying waste to part of the Canadian Rockies.  To this day it doesn't seem possible to me that smoke could drift a thousand miles to paint sunset colors from horizon to zenith.  Too much to see.  Too much to grasp.  There, on the waters of a nameless lake, we sat bobbing in Emil's aluminum canoe, gape-jawed, speechless.
     Regardless of Emil's musings on the reality of man and his effect on wilderness, I hoped he wasn't one to withhold the fishing of a lifetime from a fourteen year old.  Emil suggested I troll while he paddled our way diagonally toward camp in the descending darkness.
     Though Emil had me sinker my spinner down, it was running no more than a dozen feet below.  But I'd long-lined it so as not to spook any curious monsters.  My line trailed behind in the cloud reflecting slick, splitting the Grumman's wake.  I sat slump-shouldered, lost in thought, nodding to the sound of the paddle to my rear.  And Uncle Emil's occasional muttered monolog as he commented on his zig-zagging course.  Guess he was as lost in the moment as I.  Looking everywhere but where we were going.
     Rod snap against my right wrist pulled me back to the surface.  Would have lost the whole rig had not my hand snarled between the line and rod.  My first thought was I'd snagged a log or maybe Emil was fooling with me.  A glance to the rear said no.  And Emil's, "set the hook boy," was the clincher.  So that's what I did.  A moment's electric quiver of life at the end of my line, another hammer of a tug as I slammed home another set.  Five seconds of line stripping was immediately followed by a turn and a limp line.  Thought I'd lost it but Uncle Emil started yelling for me to crank as fast as I could.  Seems she was now coming straight at the Grumman.  By the time I'd regained control, the fish had already passed beneath us.  The canoe's keel quickly finished the battle.  Whatever I'd tied into swam off with my leader and spinner.
     "Uf da, that was a hog Archie.  Sure would like to know what it was.  Sometimes the stars line up right and what seems the catch of a lifetime is nothing more than a frisky fish and a strong hook set.   Have to say no to that.  And am not sure why it ran straight at the boat.  Couldn't be street smarts.  Not a street in thirty miles.  Heck, whatever it was, it'd never felt a hook.  Same could be said for all its ancestors.  But she was some fish, alright."
     That single moment had our blood aboil as we paced the camp while brushing our teeth before turning in.
     "Like I said earlier, I'll see what my dreams tell me as to our future on this water.  Maybe that last hit was reward enough for any trip in the bush.  Maybe not.  We'll see."
   

Canada XXXVI - The Heart

     Sitting in camp would've been a pleasure if I hadn't felt beat up, whipped, blistered, bug bit, brush lacerated and dead tired.  But we were there and didn't have to leave for a while.  I did the only thing that made sense, laid down in a pool of sunlight and melted to the contours of the slab.  Ball cap over face, head on life jacket and in half a minute was asleep.
     While I dozed Emil came and sat beside me.  Didn't say a word.  Fired up his pipe and stared at the water.  Took in the scope of shoreline and lake from the toes of his boots on out.  Damn fine spot to sit and watch the world go by.
     His pipe tapping ashes on basalt brought me back.  I sat up and for minutes we both wordlessly took in the scene.
     Finally, "Archie, you've earned your stripes.  What we did wasn't easy.  No sir.  She was a bear.  Nothing more to say except I'm glad that part's to our rear.  Now we've to drag ourselves up and set to work clearing us a campsite."
     We moved rock, branches, hacked a bit at the brush, set up a fire ring.  The tent went up, organized within to await the evening, fire grate leveled, packs stowed, stove set up, silverware and cups hung from the wire grate.  My job was to gather several armfuls of dry wood, thumb to wrist in diameter.  Emil shortened the branches with a folding saw or simply snapped them with his hands and feet.  We were home.
     "Now let's you and me slide out on the lake, find us some lunch and gather some water.  Don't know what's out there but I'm figuring it'll go down good with some fry bread and boiled peaches.  What say you Archie me lad?"
     Not knowing where to begin we started our search at the beginning, thirty yards out from camp.  To say it took longer to string the rods than to land three chunky, nearly black walleyes would have been no exaggeration.  Another few canoe lengths out we gathered drinking water.  Drank it as it came from the lake.  Cold, bog stained and pure.  Didn't taste like fish at all.
     Hungry as I was I still wanted no part of heading back in.  Geez Louise, we hadn't hardly started.  I was rejuvenated, chomping at the bit, raring to go.  But nooo, Emil said, "First things first.  Better to put grub in our empty bellies while we've got a little energy left.  Then take her easy for a while.  Clean up.  Eat some more.  Read.  Fill us up then blow our exhaust to the four winds.  Come evening, head out to see what we shall see.  I want to fish the life out of this lake as much as anybody ever wanted to fish.  Been dreaming of it for two winters.  However, a man doesn't find treasure all that often so we will take our time.  Savor every moment.  Enjoy every fish and every cast.  We're here Archie and it's a thrill we are."
     It's not easy being with a man who has a level head on his shoulders when it matters most.  Don't know if it'd fully entered my awareness and sunk down to my heels where we were.  The only help we had should something go wrong was the two of us.  A couple of people leaning over the edge of a cliff with nothing to hold onto but our wits.  Of course, I wasn't worth a hoot.  All I could think of was what was out there, under the water.  Dumb kid with a lot to learn.  Yes, it was on Emil's shoulders and his sense of what was important.
     Once ashore it seemed to me Emil had slowed to the pace of a snail.  Built a fire with care.  Slowly mixed and pounded his bannock batter.  Took an eternity to fold in the raisins, sugar and cinnamon.  All just to ruin my day.  Then the lemonade, measured like chemist.  Finally with the copper bottomed fry pan heated and propped to slowly bake the bread, he pulled in the stringer and set to filleting the pickerel on a paddle blade.  By then I was hooked.  Slowed down by the heaven of bread browning in the pan.
     Second pan came out, butter went in, the battered filets put afloat in the sizzle.  Emil was in his glory.  Like he was a priest celebrating mass and transubstantiating bannock and lemonade into our bodies and blood.  Turning walleye into Emil and Archie.  Making the waters a part of us.  Loaves and fishes.  Oh, she was a religious moment alright when we tied that feedbag on.  Food so good I had a glimpse of eternal reward.  Like dining in the finest of white table cloth restaurants.  Except it was melmac plates and butts on the ground for us.  Didn't matter.  Yes, Uncle Emil was right, the fishing could wait 'til we were ready.  What was out there wasn't going anywhere, had been there for ten thousand years waiting on us.  Yes, nothing out there was any better than what we had in camp.  Each other and time.
     Dishes done, we hit the beach.  Would have worn swimsuits if we'd had them.  Would also have been nice to have pre-heated the water.  Brisk.  Heart stopping slap in the face and elsewhere.  But oh so good.  Once he was knee deep Emil dove straight in, surfaced, did about a half dozen hard strokes out, rolled on his back and spouted like a whale.  Back on the beach I was easing myself in.  One tender spot at a time rather than all of them at once.
     "Careful on the slab.  She's slick as slug snot.  Don't need a head cracking to put a damper on our fishing tonight.  Be we live or be we dead there's three hundred acres of never fished water out here.  Don't want to screw it up now."
     Took me a while and a bit of flailing but I sloshed my way out to where Emil floated.  "Not bad, eh?     Seein' the world from the fish's eye view gives a whole new perspective to the game.  That's what it's turned into anyhow, a game.  Way back when we'd be here with the idea of survival.  Not so anymore. We fish for the fun of fishing.  The food part's just a bonus.  I've given a lot of thought as to why I like to fish.  Come up with many a philosophical guess also.  Some of the them downright mystical.  Truth is, I don't know why but I'm willing to accept that I don't.  Borderline act of faith.  Oops, there I go again."
     Our sweat skin salts dissolved and once our lips turned sky blue, we headed in.  There, Emil fished out a small bar of soap, we waded back out and set to scrubbing.  Thirty years later and we wouldn't have dared foul virgin waters like we were doing.  But it was 1961.  We definitely needed cleansing and didn't know any better.  So that's what we did.  Then, trailing a slick of hair suds, swam out for a moment of splashing and a water fight.  War of laughter with no casualties.
     Second sin of the day was when Emil stuffed our sweated clothes in a mesh bag, wet 'em, soaped 'em and beat them on a boulder protruding from the sunken part of our slab.  Took the mess out in the deep and proceeded to rinse them while swimming once more.
     Ashore we sun-dried in the breeze.  Spread our somewhat cleaner clothes on the surrounding shore bushes.  Dressed in fresh duds and laid back on the sun warmed slab and talked of what it was like to be alive on a day as wonderful as this.