I'd thought the portage into Wedge had been one of the hardest things I'd ever done. Root, rock, mud, water, up and down. A long slog with weight. Tough on a city weenie like me. But let me tell you, what was to come was in a whole 'nother league.
After breakfast while I was in the tent packing my things Emil popped in a new eye. This one a question mark.
"Why a question mark Uncle Emil?"
"My eye says I don't know what's coming. Don't know how we'll handle the portage. Don't know what the lake will be like once we get there. Don't know how we should work our way across Wedge in this rising breeze."
Starting off our day, the wind had pumped it up a bit. Not a killer blow or a danger so long as a man kept his wits about him. That's what Emil said and the look in his good eye backed him up. The other one, not so certain. Concern and attention to detail. Plus a kid up front as his trusted charge. In a place my mother would skin Emil alive had she only known. While we were loading, Uncle Emil said danger walks in when stupidity opens the door. That's why we took the long, easy way across Wedge. Used the lee of islands whenever possible as buffers on the paddle upwind.
Easy is a relative term. The miles we covered sure weren't easy. On that day Emil demonstrated without saying a word it's not always the shortest distance between two points that's the smartest if you consider the alternative of capsizing in the back of beyond. From my seat up front this paddle was a grunter. A lower my head, lean into it for all I was worth, paddle like there was no tomorrow and trust Uncle Emil had it under control, affair. Finally, after a half hour of pure work, we turned, did a hissing downwind shoot to the far shore and up a long bay.
Sliding ashore, I immediately knew this was something different than our landing on Third Cranberry. No dock, no meadow, no nothing to let us know we were at the end of our paddle. Where we beached could have been most any unmarked spot on the lake. Water and a thin strip of brushy beach backed by forest. No sign of a portage whatsoever. The hand of man nowhere to be found.
"Archie me lad, near as I recall, this is the place. Should we be off one way or the other there'll be more swamp to deal with. Not really a problem but all the same, we best make sure this' where we want to be before we go traipsing off into knee-deep misery. Even if we're right, though it's mostly high ground, our waterproof boots will prove a boon. And it would behoove us to re-lace them tight as possible. Mud's a boot sucker to say the least. And having to hop on one foot is no respectable way to freight a load. What I'm sayin', plain and simple is don't lose a boot."
We stood on the doorstep of the land of deadfall, trees and moss. A world of green. Forest primeval. Hadn't as yet heard the term but that's what we were looking at. I doubt this stretch of land had ever seen a saw. Maybe ours were the first boots to trod this ground.
The off-load called for care lest we receive a face whipping from the brush. Once the gear was toted two canoe lengths into the forest we were in a new world. One in which Wedge Lake no longer played a role. As though we'd closed a door behind us. All that mattered was where we were and what lay ahead.
"What I'm seeking is the ribbon I left hereabouts last year. And I don't see it."
Emil wasn't one to give up easily or needlessly leave any stone unturned so we searched. Five minutes of attention and there it was, a single thread of yellow hanging from a piece of brush. The ragged remainder, partially buried in the duff below.
"We're here. Ribbon was probably shredded by the weather. That we found it is all I care about. Wouldn't mind finding the next one either."
My uncle had spent a few hours traipsing these same woods the year before last, along the way stringing up bright yellow ribbon to lead him back to Wedge. Removed each on the return, save two lengths.
"More or less like Hansel and Gretel with their colored pebbles. Only I'm hoping there's no oven at the end of this road. I'm a tough old bird. Wouldn't want to give a witch indigestion."
"Our trail's no mostly straight line like the portage into Wedge. No sir. There's the swamp we have to skirt around. A shot inland, a big zig and then a long zag. Fortunately there's some high ground. Just enough. With luck, a half mile in, nearly straight south from here, we'll find a second ribbon on a spruce fronting a big swamp. She's buggy as all get out at that point. Maybe just a little bit muddy (laughter). Half a mile to our right along the wetland we'll come on high ground again. Then it's more or less south-southeast to the lake. Once there we'll seek out a rock slab on a small point I've seen. That'll be camp."
"Sound easy? Well, I won't fool you, it's not. But she's doable for two Voyageurs like us, eh?"
"First off we'll shoot us a course and proceed to tie off a line of entry with the spool of ribbon. I'm gonna trust you with the compass. Archie me lad, do me proud."
What followed was a once in a lifetime undertaking. At least for me. Not something I'd ever thought or dreamt I'd ever do. Certainly this wasn't near as scary or dangerous as back in the days when the maps hadn't yet been drawn. Those people were jumping off the end of the known world. Had no idea what was over the next hill or around the next river bend. Even when Uncle Emil made his trek the summer before last he'd known from the map he carried what his goal was and something of what to expect along the way.
I suspected Emil could have made today's bushwhack without any ribbons. He knew the gist of it. But since he had me along and since he wasn't going to do anything half-cocked, we went by compass and ribbon.
From his sun faded shirt pocket Emil pulled out an Army issue compass. Green metal case with a lid you could flip up and use for sighting, much like a rifle. With it he showed me how to shoot an azimuth and told me to sight our course two notches to the right of dead south.
"Don't worry should we be off a little bit. This isn't brain surgery. I'll head out aways, no more than fifty yards. You tell me when I'm dead on line and I'll tie off a yard or so."
For the first stretch the forest floor gently rolled up and down. Here and there, strewn about the forest floor lay mossed and rounded boulders. Uncle Emil called them erratics and said they'd been dropped by retreating glaciers. Between the trees and boulders, ankle deep moss, stumble stones hidden under the moss, branches and deadfall, it wasn't a stroll in the park. Once again, we moved in dead silence. Just the two of us making noise. Calling back and forth as to the line. Every so often a muttered burst of profanity spouted from my uncle.
Yeah, Uncle Emil cursed a bit. Usually had a purpose. Seemed he figured unseen stone and wood was out to get him. Trip him up. Yeah, he took the world personally. On portages of the past, occasionally stopped his carried canoe mid-stride with a stealthfully planted tree that'd been there since Lincoln was in office. Mostly he cussed himself for lack of foresight or agility. None of his expectrations was to be taken seriously though. It was merely his way of communicating with things that had no better way to grab his attention than cause a stumble. Each of his muttered and canoe-echoed bursts was immediately followed by a chuckle. Impediments were quickly put in his past with only the next one of any consequence.
Within the forest the breeze was dampened. Above, the distant branches marking the bottom of the sky soughed and swayed with the passing gusts. But we felt nary a puff. And quickly we began to warm under our long sleeves and pant legs.
For thirty minutes our calls went back and forth. "A little to your left. More. How about this tree? Okay." And so on 'til we reached the slough. There Emil tied off several strands that'd be easy to see on our return. Turned out we'd missed the old tags by less than thirty yards.
Walking in the pathless woods was a slow go. Nothing at all like strolling the sidewalks of Minneapolis. And messy? Each ankle grabber taught me to pay close attention to where I was and where my foot was next planted. Nary a place to day dream and move at the same time.
Along the swamp Uncle Emil only strung a few lines. "I've got but a hundred yards of this stuff. Don't want to run out. Once we're camped the only persons in the world who'll know exactly where we are will be you and me. Blair back at the lodge has a general idea, I drew him a map but that's about it. The moral is that we not screw up. Mark our trail well and not snap any bones."
At the turn we took a short break. Ate melted chocolate and nuts seasoned with pocket lint. Drank from the canteens hanging from the Emil's day pack. For chairs we simply sat where we stood. Our trouser seats got a little wet. Met our exiting sweat half way. Back in the city I'd done my best to keep my clothes clean. Didn't have a lot of them and didn't want to wear them dirty. A city kid might sit on grass but avoided dirt. Here it was different. You didn't go out of your way to get dirty, didn't have to. You simply accepted the fact it was going to happen. If you had to sit on damp ground, so be it. Once done, Emil hoisted his pack and paddles and set off along the bog. I followed with the stove and rod tubes.
Again gaining high ground, Emil had me move the compass mark a few more notches and once again we turned south. And on we slogged 'til reaching the lake of no name. A few minutes search turned up what Emil said would do for a camp site.
"Open to the breezes and a somewhat level spot for the tent. An hour's traipse to mark. Figure forty minutes back. The return we'll take in stages. Leapfrog across. Short bursts of carry mixed with walking breaks between. It'll be slow but we'll do what we have to do. And it'll take as long as it takes. Nothin' more I can say. At least it ain't rainin'."
Here's where I'm suppose to say it slowly but surely began to rain. Built to a regular deluge and was a pure misery with lightning bolts crashing down all around us. But it didn't. Thank God.
Truth was our return to the landing was an easy stroll. A little bump and stumble with a side of mucking but pathless, northwoods easy.
Then the return began. Outside of a few ugly spots it was just work as I've since come to know it in the years since. Pick it up. Carry it for a while. Set it down. Go back for more. Do that a whole bunch of times. My packs weren't but forty-five pounds each, Emil's much more.
Back then I figured he was being easy on me since our carries weren't more than ten minutes each. But looking back from my perch of wisdom, no doubt he was doing what he was able. No more, no less. He wasn't the man he used to be. I wasn't as yet the man I would become. A balance of sorts. As we trudged our burden from dry ground to dry ground how could I have guessed my future would be based on carrying things? Envelopes, boxes, combat gear, bodies, children? Nope, didn't see that coming at all.
We sweat a lot in our long sleeves, pants and hats. Sweat right through to the open air. But it beat baring any more skin than necessary to the swarms of mosquitoes. Oh baby, let me tell you they were in love with our faces. Repellant was only good 'til our sweat washed it off. Once across we returned for the canoe and last pack.
" Uf dah! It's skeeter heaven under the canoe. They knew they had me and had me good. Felt like I was sporting a full face beard. Firing up my pipe helped some. But now I'm suffering pangs of guilt for having addicted a flock of the pesky buggers to tobacco. And where are they gonna get any up in this neck of the woods? Hey, that's almost funny seeing as how we're up to our necks in the woods. Wished I'd've thought it before I said it."
All went well considering. Except for the time my foot tangled in a branch. Like an idiot I tried to dance my way out and only succeeded in stumbling knees first into muck.
And, oh yeah, almost forgot about stepping into a pile of wolf scat. Emil said I should call it scat as that sounded more like I was a true woodsman. Never stepped in a wolf's leavings before. Someday when my grandkids ask me what were the most important events of my long life, I think I'll start off with that step. Then say, "From there on it's been mostly downhill."
The scat wasn't fresh but still released a fragrance of what had gone into its formula. Mostly mice, I suppose, with a hint of caribou. Exotic.
Once we'd passed the swamp and returned to high ground we took a snack break. Uncle Emil produced a bag of mixed nuts with a fistful of raisins thrown in from his day pack. Washed that down with lemonade. Wasn't much as far as a meal goes but it remains in my top ten to this day. Splendid meal. Tasted so good we moaned. Then set to laughing about our moaning.
"Archie, this is a pleasure. As good as it gets. I'm sitting here with a slab of rock under my kiester and wouldn't trade this seat for a throne. We're as far away from the rest of the world as we can get. Look around. No one else has ever seen what we're seeing. It's a gift we've given ourselves because we were willing to put in the sweat to get here. Mark this moment. You will return to it again and again in your life."
Yeah, my mom was right. Uncle Emil was a crazy coot. But he was my kind of crazy. A man who knew when he had it good and was thankful for it.
Emil then broke the silence with the loudest hoot I'd ever heard. "That's to let the fish know we're coming and they'd better make themselves ready for the two fishingest sons a guns in these here woods. Seeing as how there's no one else in these here woods I figure that's a safe thing to say. Let's load up and finish this trek like the two good men we are."
All in all our carries took close to five hours, seven and a half miles. And one blister on the back of my left heal that Emil doctored. Seeing as how our trekking was over for a few days, a blister was no problem. Boots off, I put on fresh socks and my blue, bumper tennies.
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