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.
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