Back after four days, lunched and addressing the stack of planks and plywood dropped by the mill while we were gone. No time like the present to get a start on laying the subfloor.
As we hauled a few of the two by tens over to the piers Emil explained, "The long ones aren't cut from my timbers. If it sounds like I'm apologizing that's 'cause I am. Not so much to you as to the cabin and myself. Life's filled with compromise and there's nothing wrong with it. Help's make the world go round. And in my case, saved a couple of trees. Still, using other people's lumber just doesn't feel right.
"Over the months I've sweat bullets about how the cabin's base'd be laid out. Has to be solid as the bedrock beneath or it'd drive me nuts worrying about the cabin falling over every time I took a step. The idea I'm going with is to use the floor framing to tie all the posts together. Make the whole thing like a twenty legged table. This afternoon we'll see if we can get the banding done."
Soon as we started I could see why Emil had placed the piers where he did. Six inches short each way of a full twenty-four foot by thirty-two foot base. The three inch thick, double two by ten banding brought it nicely to full size. Slowly and carefully, with me bracing each pier and Emil driving pole barn nails, we ran that double band of the inch and a half thick planks flush with the post tops and overlapped like bricks to cover all the seams. Surprisingly, we were done by three o'clock. Not wanting to waste daylight we more slowly finished the interior rows with more two by tens. When done it looked like the striping of a football field. Each of those insiders had to be hand trimmed for a snug fit against the banding. Nailed tight to the posts with sixteen penny and toenailed the the banding with eights. By dinner we were already penciling out locations for the joist hangers.
As I sit here and write up our labor I realize how much more interesting the work was in the doing than on paper. A few hundred words does no justice to the thought Emil had put into his structure or the care we took with every cut and placement of each nail. Yeah, his cabin's wasn't much more than an oversized box but it was a box he intended to live in for the rest of his life. And while he was living there he'd recall most every nail he'd bent and pulled. Hard to live with those things unless you knew every mistake was made honestly and corrected whenever possible. Get Emil to describe his cabin and you'd soon realize the man was living in a story he'd written in wood and steel. Like he'd said earlier, there's a lot of art in this world and not all of it is on display.
"Took a while to not drive every nail die straight. Used sink them that way every time, as though it'd be a sin should one not be perfectly true and vertical. Then one day I gave it some thought and realized, should they be driven at slight opposing angles to each other they'd have a stronger grip on the wood. There's almost always a better way and sometimes that better way seems to make no sense. It ain't easy for a bullet-headed German like me to be imperfect in a perfect way."
We did little that evening but clean up, cook, sit and eat 'til the sun dropped below the tree line. Lucky for me, Emil'd figured out a simple way to heat water for what we called a shower. At the hardware in town he'd found a pair of oversized, thin-walled aluminum canning pots with lids. Spray painted them flat black. On sunny days we'd pump a couple of gallons in each, lid them up and let the sun work its magic. Wasn't ever hot by any means but also didn't strike terror in our hearts when wetting down.
Yeah, we cleaned up dressed in our birthday finest. No way to get around it. There wasn't much privacy in Emil's camp whether bathing or working. We saw each other as we truly were. Over the years I've come to see the best way to learn a person is to work with them. Particularly grunt work, as it bares the soul. How you swing a hammer and carry your weight through the day, 'specially when things aren't going as they should, says more about a person than a mouth. Sure, we all have our secret side. So long as it stays secret and does no harm, it doesn't matter. But who we really are can't be hidden from the person on the other end of the timber. No doubt Emil had me pegged better than I did. Made me a little nervous now and then I might come up short in his eyes. When we talked of it, Emil laughed,
"Ha! I wouldn't give those worries any weight. Come tomorrow you'll be more concerned you're going to die. Maybe even wish for death. And with luck you'll take me with you. Back in basic training our drill sergeants had this punishment they called the dying cockroach. Won't say any more about it now than get used to the idea of gravity not being your friend."
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Emil's Cabin XIV - Interlude With Bass
Emil'd given away some of his camping gear when he'd moved to the woods. Some to Boy Scouts, some to panhandlers. "I sure didn't want to but had no place to store it. Besides, I found the old packs good homes and knew Duluth Pack'd still make them the same as always. New wouldn't be better or worse just less sweat stained."
Once in Grand Marais we began by raiding the Hub Cafe where we did serious damage to their larder then headed down the street to the Ben Franklin. You're no doubt wondering why we were walking into a five and dime. If so, you've never been to the one in Grand Marais. To this day they still stock most everything a camper'd need for the backwoods except good weather. Emil dropped a few dollars that day. Said having his wallet lighter would make for easier portages. Packs, boots, rain gear, pants, shirts, socks and long johns for both of us, all on his dime. Told me the clothes were the half of the time and a half he owed me. Hit the men's room looking like one of those kids who didn't have enough to eat in post-war Europe. Came out like a poster boy for L.L.Bean.
At the IGA we filled the cooler with ice and fresh food. Bought a cherry pie at the bakery. "Your choice Archie. You can get cherry, apple, strawberry rhubarb, even the mincemeat. But if you don't get the cherry you're paying for it and I sure as heck won't eat it."
By ten we were cruising back up the shore under bluebird skies. In the half month we'd been working, the weather had treated us kindly. A little rain at night but not much to speak of during the day. Emil said all signs looked good for the next couple of days.
Would have been easier, 'more expeditious' as Emil said, had we the gear and didn't need the services down in town. Six hours after turning down the McFarland Road there we were again, packed, canoe atop and heading out of the driveway . The McFarland's just another another dust in the rearview mirror, backwoods road 'til it hangs a right beneath the bluffs towering over McFarland. You have to know when they're coming up and know where to look or you'll not see those ancient cliffs. Look too long and the car'll be afloat in the lake. Portage over them and you'll not soon forget them. 'Specially since the fishing on the other side's definitely not worth the effort.
Emil's not a man to rush things and wasted not a minute when he transferred our gear into the new packs, "Done this many a time and doubt I'll forget much. Food, clothing, shelter and fishing gear. And canoe, almost forgot that. And paddles."
Back I trotted to the Nomad. "Did you also want the life jackets?" When I returned to the access on Little John, Emil had a big pie (not cherry, thank God) eating grin on his face.
"Like I said, I've done this many a time. Also forgot a few things now and then."
Four days, no more, that's all we had. Didn't matter, the excitement was still there. Every trip holds the possibility of being the best when the aluminum grinds off the gravel. Spent a lot of miles and years longing for those bests. Then, one morning I woke up and realized all the trips were bests. Maybe best is the wrong word here. More like the inevitable unforeseen and unplanned foulups of each trip added seasoning to the pot. Nowhere in my future on the job daydreaming did I ever figure on rolling the boat, being windbound for days, stuck in the tent during a twelve hour downpour or even as much as I'd always wanted, cracking a couple of ribs. Took a few screw-ups to realize there was a reason I'd packed rain gear, bandaids and aspirin. But not one of those bumps in the road diminished the excitement of sliding onto a lake with a whole world of possibility around the bend, down the rapids and a couple of portages away.
We pushed off on Little John under a high summer sun. The woods we slid past had warmed to mid-day doldrums and reeked of soft-needled cedar and pine. A quarter mile along we came on the doorway to the border lakes. The rapids wasn't long or even difficult. Just enough of a challenge to demand attention to the V's in the current lest I hang us up on a rock. A half minute of fun dropped us onto John Lake. From there our course was up to Emil, north down the Royal River to the Fowl lakes along the border or west to the land of smallmouth bass.
"Give me a choice and I'm a happy man. Yup, a choice is nice even though I'd be a fool to forego the bass of East Pike. Ever tell you about my first trip up here?"
Of course I had and even said so.
"Doesn't matter. We're doing nothing but paddling anyhow. Hush up and listen, you might learn something. You'd think an old canoe man like me'd been doing this stuff since canoes were carved out of logs but no. First time was back in '55 and there were six of us. Big mistake. Fiasco. Snafu and my personal favorite, fubar. Most everybody knows of snafu but fubar's not thrown around as much. Seein' as how I've grown to be a civilized man, thanks to Lena, I'll simply say fubar is fouled up beyond all recognition. Fit our situation perfectly."
"Turned out the boys I'd gone with couldn't bear the sight of a full whiskey bottle. Fine with me but seein' as how they'd come equipped with a case of Old Heaven Hill I should have figured trouble'd come visiting. Not that I've got anything against a nip in camp now and then. A shot of sour mash thinned with lake water while cooking dinner is a fine thing, God's gift and that's all I'd had to drink. The weather was glassed water perfect. The good old boys I was with got a notion to do some night fishing. What seemed at first to be a good idea grew with each cupful into a quest. At night fishing in a canoe when it's challenge enough to stand upright on dry ground, work your fly and find your willie in the right order should give a man reason enough to consider other options."
"Good thing for all of us the first canoe never actually made it onto the lake. Into the lake maybe but definitely not on. Looked like a German u-boat had just been depth charged and two of the crew had bobbed to the surface in hopes of being rescued. Gear everywhere, lifejackets afloat and one of the tipplers was impaled through the meat of his thumb by a bass-o-reno. Red and white as I recall. Fine lure and'd been deadly that afternoon. Didn't as yet know how to remove a fish hook without tearing it out, so come morning we packed it up, hangovers and all and headed to the hospital in Grand Marais to add one more lure onto the emergency room's wall of shame. Worst part was leaving the fishing behind. Never knew smallmouth fishing could be that good. Almost like we had to beat 'em out of the canoes with our paddles. Learned my lesson and never went with those boys again."
Emil paused, I could almost hear his jaw working as he considered his words, "Not much more to say. Guess I should have known better. A body'd have to be a fool to go fishing with fools."
John's no more than a forty minute paddle. Just an enjoyable passage on the way to where we wanted to be. We were both more than ready to have a go at the up and over into East Pike. Our grunt work back at the cabin turned the portage into child's play. Sixty pounds of pack couldn't hold a candle to eighty pounds of premix and our portage load came equipped with carry straps. Hoist and hump, yup, we'd had our share of practice.
Once over, we pushed off toward a fine campsite a quarter mile to our right. Everything we needed was right there. Good landing, stone fire ring with log benches, and a dead level tent pad.
"Archie me lad, no need for us to be greedy. There's no fishing up ahead's any better than we have right at our feet. Don't know about you but I'm here to rest up and maybe catch some bass."
So that's what we did. Fished a lot, sat a lot, ate a lot. Might have been better had Emil bought two pies as we went through the first one in three sittings. We ate and farted like plow horses. On one occasion of being thankful for the lake breeze, Emil held up a finger and exclaimed, "Windows! Never have told you about all the windows on order. Great for the view but even better when it comes to airing a place out. I keep eating northwoods fare after moving indoors and being able to crank all those casement windows open will be a Godsend."
We laughed 'til it hurt. Then went out and caught us some bass. A lot of bass. Big ones, little ones. Didn't matter the size, they all fought like demons.
Of them, the one that'll remain with me forever was the bass Emil tied into on the second evening. East Pike lies along an east-west axis. Must have once been a glacier track scratched out better than ten thousand years before, three miles long and a half mile wide. When the west wind's up it'd get a little choppy at our end. Also perked up the already good fishing as the breeze blew warm water and plankton our way. Little fish eat plankton and big fish eat little fish. Simple fact.
So there we were, maybe an hour of sunlight left and the fishing getting better and better. We'd catch a few, drift in close to shore then paddle out 'til Emil would turn us with a, "seems like we're about four bass out," and in we'd drift.
Don't go thinking those were small bass either. No sir, they were some seriously big smallies we were into. Most every one a solid three pounds. Emil called them Joan Crawfords since both Joan and the bass were females with big shoulders on them. Yeah, he laughed alone on that one.
Anyhow, after six or so drifts Emil tired of the game and dropped the portage anchor. His was simply a mesh bag that'd once held onions. Dropped in a few rounded rocks and tied it off with a length of cord. Weighed next to nothing in the pack and every lake in the north country supplies ballast aplenty. For a few minutes after the drop we caught nothing. Like the world had come to an end and we might as well pack it up and head home. Then my uncle tied into a honker. Bent his rod double and when the fish went into a tail dance we could see it was well over twenty inches. Hands down the biggest bass of the trip. A person loses track of time in a moment like that. Emil laughing and grunting. Me twisted backwards enjoying every minute of the fight as much as my uncle.
Finally the bass went straight down like she thought she was a forty pound lake trout. Emil's rod was bent nearly tip to reel as he turned the fish. That bass was quite a battler alright. Every inch Emil gained, she immediately took back. Time and time again.
"Archie me lad," he huffed out, "I've never had anything on my line like this beauty. Seems a crying shame to catch such a wonder. I've a mind to cut the line and turn it loose."
About then I looked up to see we'd almost drifted into the shore rocks. That sure was weird seeing as how we were anchored down. Emil peeked up from his work, saw the trees and then peered down following the anchor line into the five feet of bog stained water beneath the canoe.
For once I beat him to the punch. "What do you figure the anchor weighs, seven, eight pounds? Must be close to the state record on light tackle. Umm-umm, it'll sure look fine mounted on one of your new cabin walls." Emil looked up, paused for a moment, opened his mouth and oddly, nothing came out.
Once in Grand Marais we began by raiding the Hub Cafe where we did serious damage to their larder then headed down the street to the Ben Franklin. You're no doubt wondering why we were walking into a five and dime. If so, you've never been to the one in Grand Marais. To this day they still stock most everything a camper'd need for the backwoods except good weather. Emil dropped a few dollars that day. Said having his wallet lighter would make for easier portages. Packs, boots, rain gear, pants, shirts, socks and long johns for both of us, all on his dime. Told me the clothes were the half of the time and a half he owed me. Hit the men's room looking like one of those kids who didn't have enough to eat in post-war Europe. Came out like a poster boy for L.L.Bean.
At the IGA we filled the cooler with ice and fresh food. Bought a cherry pie at the bakery. "Your choice Archie. You can get cherry, apple, strawberry rhubarb, even the mincemeat. But if you don't get the cherry you're paying for it and I sure as heck won't eat it."
By ten we were cruising back up the shore under bluebird skies. In the half month we'd been working, the weather had treated us kindly. A little rain at night but not much to speak of during the day. Emil said all signs looked good for the next couple of days.
Would have been easier, 'more expeditious' as Emil said, had we the gear and didn't need the services down in town. Six hours after turning down the McFarland Road there we were again, packed, canoe atop and heading out of the driveway . The McFarland's just another another dust in the rearview mirror, backwoods road 'til it hangs a right beneath the bluffs towering over McFarland. You have to know when they're coming up and know where to look or you'll not see those ancient cliffs. Look too long and the car'll be afloat in the lake. Portage over them and you'll not soon forget them. 'Specially since the fishing on the other side's definitely not worth the effort.
Emil's not a man to rush things and wasted not a minute when he transferred our gear into the new packs, "Done this many a time and doubt I'll forget much. Food, clothing, shelter and fishing gear. And canoe, almost forgot that. And paddles."
Back I trotted to the Nomad. "Did you also want the life jackets?" When I returned to the access on Little John, Emil had a big pie (not cherry, thank God) eating grin on his face.
"Like I said, I've done this many a time. Also forgot a few things now and then."
Four days, no more, that's all we had. Didn't matter, the excitement was still there. Every trip holds the possibility of being the best when the aluminum grinds off the gravel. Spent a lot of miles and years longing for those bests. Then, one morning I woke up and realized all the trips were bests. Maybe best is the wrong word here. More like the inevitable unforeseen and unplanned foulups of each trip added seasoning to the pot. Nowhere in my future on the job daydreaming did I ever figure on rolling the boat, being windbound for days, stuck in the tent during a twelve hour downpour or even as much as I'd always wanted, cracking a couple of ribs. Took a few screw-ups to realize there was a reason I'd packed rain gear, bandaids and aspirin. But not one of those bumps in the road diminished the excitement of sliding onto a lake with a whole world of possibility around the bend, down the rapids and a couple of portages away.
We pushed off on Little John under a high summer sun. The woods we slid past had warmed to mid-day doldrums and reeked of soft-needled cedar and pine. A quarter mile along we came on the doorway to the border lakes. The rapids wasn't long or even difficult. Just enough of a challenge to demand attention to the V's in the current lest I hang us up on a rock. A half minute of fun dropped us onto John Lake. From there our course was up to Emil, north down the Royal River to the Fowl lakes along the border or west to the land of smallmouth bass.
"Give me a choice and I'm a happy man. Yup, a choice is nice even though I'd be a fool to forego the bass of East Pike. Ever tell you about my first trip up here?"
Of course I had and even said so.
"Doesn't matter. We're doing nothing but paddling anyhow. Hush up and listen, you might learn something. You'd think an old canoe man like me'd been doing this stuff since canoes were carved out of logs but no. First time was back in '55 and there were six of us. Big mistake. Fiasco. Snafu and my personal favorite, fubar. Most everybody knows of snafu but fubar's not thrown around as much. Seein' as how I've grown to be a civilized man, thanks to Lena, I'll simply say fubar is fouled up beyond all recognition. Fit our situation perfectly."
"Turned out the boys I'd gone with couldn't bear the sight of a full whiskey bottle. Fine with me but seein' as how they'd come equipped with a case of Old Heaven Hill I should have figured trouble'd come visiting. Not that I've got anything against a nip in camp now and then. A shot of sour mash thinned with lake water while cooking dinner is a fine thing, God's gift and that's all I'd had to drink. The weather was glassed water perfect. The good old boys I was with got a notion to do some night fishing. What seemed at first to be a good idea grew with each cupful into a quest. At night fishing in a canoe when it's challenge enough to stand upright on dry ground, work your fly and find your willie in the right order should give a man reason enough to consider other options."
"Good thing for all of us the first canoe never actually made it onto the lake. Into the lake maybe but definitely not on. Looked like a German u-boat had just been depth charged and two of the crew had bobbed to the surface in hopes of being rescued. Gear everywhere, lifejackets afloat and one of the tipplers was impaled through the meat of his thumb by a bass-o-reno. Red and white as I recall. Fine lure and'd been deadly that afternoon. Didn't as yet know how to remove a fish hook without tearing it out, so come morning we packed it up, hangovers and all and headed to the hospital in Grand Marais to add one more lure onto the emergency room's wall of shame. Worst part was leaving the fishing behind. Never knew smallmouth fishing could be that good. Almost like we had to beat 'em out of the canoes with our paddles. Learned my lesson and never went with those boys again."
Emil paused, I could almost hear his jaw working as he considered his words, "Not much more to say. Guess I should have known better. A body'd have to be a fool to go fishing with fools."
John's no more than a forty minute paddle. Just an enjoyable passage on the way to where we wanted to be. We were both more than ready to have a go at the up and over into East Pike. Our grunt work back at the cabin turned the portage into child's play. Sixty pounds of pack couldn't hold a candle to eighty pounds of premix and our portage load came equipped with carry straps. Hoist and hump, yup, we'd had our share of practice.
Once over, we pushed off toward a fine campsite a quarter mile to our right. Everything we needed was right there. Good landing, stone fire ring with log benches, and a dead level tent pad.
"Archie me lad, no need for us to be greedy. There's no fishing up ahead's any better than we have right at our feet. Don't know about you but I'm here to rest up and maybe catch some bass."
So that's what we did. Fished a lot, sat a lot, ate a lot. Might have been better had Emil bought two pies as we went through the first one in three sittings. We ate and farted like plow horses. On one occasion of being thankful for the lake breeze, Emil held up a finger and exclaimed, "Windows! Never have told you about all the windows on order. Great for the view but even better when it comes to airing a place out. I keep eating northwoods fare after moving indoors and being able to crank all those casement windows open will be a Godsend."
We laughed 'til it hurt. Then went out and caught us some bass. A lot of bass. Big ones, little ones. Didn't matter the size, they all fought like demons.
Of them, the one that'll remain with me forever was the bass Emil tied into on the second evening. East Pike lies along an east-west axis. Must have once been a glacier track scratched out better than ten thousand years before, three miles long and a half mile wide. When the west wind's up it'd get a little choppy at our end. Also perked up the already good fishing as the breeze blew warm water and plankton our way. Little fish eat plankton and big fish eat little fish. Simple fact.
So there we were, maybe an hour of sunlight left and the fishing getting better and better. We'd catch a few, drift in close to shore then paddle out 'til Emil would turn us with a, "seems like we're about four bass out," and in we'd drift.
Don't go thinking those were small bass either. No sir, they were some seriously big smallies we were into. Most every one a solid three pounds. Emil called them Joan Crawfords since both Joan and the bass were females with big shoulders on them. Yeah, he laughed alone on that one.
Anyhow, after six or so drifts Emil tired of the game and dropped the portage anchor. His was simply a mesh bag that'd once held onions. Dropped in a few rounded rocks and tied it off with a length of cord. Weighed next to nothing in the pack and every lake in the north country supplies ballast aplenty. For a few minutes after the drop we caught nothing. Like the world had come to an end and we might as well pack it up and head home. Then my uncle tied into a honker. Bent his rod double and when the fish went into a tail dance we could see it was well over twenty inches. Hands down the biggest bass of the trip. A person loses track of time in a moment like that. Emil laughing and grunting. Me twisted backwards enjoying every minute of the fight as much as my uncle.
Finally the bass went straight down like she thought she was a forty pound lake trout. Emil's rod was bent nearly tip to reel as he turned the fish. That bass was quite a battler alright. Every inch Emil gained, she immediately took back. Time and time again.
"Archie me lad," he huffed out, "I've never had anything on my line like this beauty. Seems a crying shame to catch such a wonder. I've a mind to cut the line and turn it loose."
About then I looked up to see we'd almost drifted into the shore rocks. That sure was weird seeing as how we were anchored down. Emil peeked up from his work, saw the trees and then peered down following the anchor line into the five feet of bog stained water beneath the canoe.
For once I beat him to the punch. "What do you figure the anchor weighs, seven, eight pounds? Must be close to the state record on light tackle. Umm-umm, it'll sure look fine mounted on one of your new cabin walls." Emil looked up, paused for a moment, opened his mouth and oddly, nothing came out.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Emil's Cabin XIII - Stream of Thought
Emil always put a lot of stock in dreams. Said they were his soul talking to him with hopes of knocking some sense into his head. Also said it was only passing on comments from elsewhere. Where and what that elsewhere was he wouldn't say, "Archie me lad, it's not that I won't say, it's that I haven't a clue, eh."
We did a lot of talking during the day while working. Not sure if he was sharing or simply looking for an excuse to rest. Emil'd straighten up, massage his lower back and set to his story while I kept working. Most of it was nothing more than banter. Like the time he told me about the local high school football team, the Grand Marais Inanimates. Said, "the Grand Marais boys once had a friday night game with the team from Beaver Bay, the Buckies or something like that. Big rivalry and usually high scoring 'til the day the local high school earned its name. Seemed the Inanimates took the kickoff and downed the ball immediately on the seven yard line. Went into a huddle and never moved a muscle 'til the next tuesday. The officials yelled and screamed. The Buckies roamed around the field for near an hour before boarding the bus back home, more out of boredom than anything else. On the other hand, the fans went nuts. Cheered and laughed 'til tears ran down and froze on their cheeks. Legend has it the Inanimates woulda stayed there forever what with the townsfolk bringin' 'em food three times a day. Never did say how they took care of their bodily necessities and me being the gentleman I am, I never asked. Tuesday evening a thunderstorm rolled in and put an end to it when a few of the interior linemen's backsides were lit up by a lightening bolt. Took it as a message from on high that it was time to move on."
We had better things to concentrate on than deep thought. Even mixing mud requires some attention to detail. But come evening down by Aspen Brook things changed. Moving water does that to a man. It sure did to us. 'Specially when we were standing calf deep in the current with our beat up tennis shoes on. Almost seemed like the brook was passing through us, drug-like, washing thoughts out in the open where we could see them better. We'd most often start out fishing and end up talking.
"Uncle Emil, there are times when I'd swear I've been here before. I've daydreamt of just such a place as this. In this vision I'm usually camping alongside a rapids. In my fantasy I figured I'd be stream side for only a summer. Now that I give the notion some thought time doesn't seem to play a role. I'm just there, nothing particular to do, maybe I'm just reading a book. What we're doing here with your cabin is a whole lot like the fantasy, outside of the nine or ten hours of back breaking labor. In fact, in my daydream I don't do a damned thing. Just sittin' there for a moment then the picture's gone. Poof."
Emil slowly stripped in his streamer 'til it was dangling in the current at his feet, "Seems to me you don't have any idea of where you're going in life. Time on your hands, beautiful spot, the world's your oyster but nothing comes of it. No action. Life requires you to throw yourself out into the lurch once in a while if only to see what happens. Sticking your butt in a wringer will definitely force you to make some decisions pronto or you'll get yourself squeezed dry. Archie me lad, sometimes life asks you to do something totally stupid, that makes no sense at all, just to turn you into the person you're meant to be. Said it before, I'll say it again, not all of life is on the surface where you can see it. There's the too big to grasp, the too small to see and for us, the most important unseen is what's back there behind our thoughts. Sometimes even simple daydreams carry meaning. Could be your's is saying exactly what you said the other day, heading to college is nothing more than putting off your future 'til you're ready to face it."
My uncle sure hit the nail on the head. Not the first time he'd done that. Probably not the last. But him being right didn't mean I was going to run right out and turn my life around. Probably wouldn't do that 'til I was up against the wall and had no other choice. As it was you'd think I had a lot of choices. I sure didn't see it that way. Had I wanted to be in the Army I'd have already been there. 'Spose I could have dropped out of school but first I'd have to be in school. I was in Limbo waiting for the Blue Fairy to come along and make me a real boy just like she did Pinocchio. Odds weren't good but that's more or less what I was hoping for.
Conversations like that sure took the wind out of further talk. I was a little embarrassed to have someone seeing me as I really was. Emil probably figured he'd pushed as far as was safe. We fished in silence, my mind elsewhere and the trout seemed to know it.
In the morning I felt much better, as though I'd seen the truth. For better or worse I knew where I stood. A few years earlier while eavesdropping on an adult conversation around the dinner table I overheard my Uncle Ben comment on confession, "Should I ever go to confession with a real problem, I'd much rather deal with an intelligent priest than a saint." And that coming a non-Christian. Emil seemed to fit the mold Ben preferred. He was smart enough to see behind the mask. And was wise enough to know when the time came, I'd make my own decision. Ugly though it might be, the path I'd choose would be the right one.
We did a lot of talking during the day while working. Not sure if he was sharing or simply looking for an excuse to rest. Emil'd straighten up, massage his lower back and set to his story while I kept working. Most of it was nothing more than banter. Like the time he told me about the local high school football team, the Grand Marais Inanimates. Said, "the Grand Marais boys once had a friday night game with the team from Beaver Bay, the Buckies or something like that. Big rivalry and usually high scoring 'til the day the local high school earned its name. Seemed the Inanimates took the kickoff and downed the ball immediately on the seven yard line. Went into a huddle and never moved a muscle 'til the next tuesday. The officials yelled and screamed. The Buckies roamed around the field for near an hour before boarding the bus back home, more out of boredom than anything else. On the other hand, the fans went nuts. Cheered and laughed 'til tears ran down and froze on their cheeks. Legend has it the Inanimates woulda stayed there forever what with the townsfolk bringin' 'em food three times a day. Never did say how they took care of their bodily necessities and me being the gentleman I am, I never asked. Tuesday evening a thunderstorm rolled in and put an end to it when a few of the interior linemen's backsides were lit up by a lightening bolt. Took it as a message from on high that it was time to move on."
We had better things to concentrate on than deep thought. Even mixing mud requires some attention to detail. But come evening down by Aspen Brook things changed. Moving water does that to a man. It sure did to us. 'Specially when we were standing calf deep in the current with our beat up tennis shoes on. Almost seemed like the brook was passing through us, drug-like, washing thoughts out in the open where we could see them better. We'd most often start out fishing and end up talking.
"Uncle Emil, there are times when I'd swear I've been here before. I've daydreamt of just such a place as this. In this vision I'm usually camping alongside a rapids. In my fantasy I figured I'd be stream side for only a summer. Now that I give the notion some thought time doesn't seem to play a role. I'm just there, nothing particular to do, maybe I'm just reading a book. What we're doing here with your cabin is a whole lot like the fantasy, outside of the nine or ten hours of back breaking labor. In fact, in my daydream I don't do a damned thing. Just sittin' there for a moment then the picture's gone. Poof."
Emil slowly stripped in his streamer 'til it was dangling in the current at his feet, "Seems to me you don't have any idea of where you're going in life. Time on your hands, beautiful spot, the world's your oyster but nothing comes of it. No action. Life requires you to throw yourself out into the lurch once in a while if only to see what happens. Sticking your butt in a wringer will definitely force you to make some decisions pronto or you'll get yourself squeezed dry. Archie me lad, sometimes life asks you to do something totally stupid, that makes no sense at all, just to turn you into the person you're meant to be. Said it before, I'll say it again, not all of life is on the surface where you can see it. There's the too big to grasp, the too small to see and for us, the most important unseen is what's back there behind our thoughts. Sometimes even simple daydreams carry meaning. Could be your's is saying exactly what you said the other day, heading to college is nothing more than putting off your future 'til you're ready to face it."
My uncle sure hit the nail on the head. Not the first time he'd done that. Probably not the last. But him being right didn't mean I was going to run right out and turn my life around. Probably wouldn't do that 'til I was up against the wall and had no other choice. As it was you'd think I had a lot of choices. I sure didn't see it that way. Had I wanted to be in the Army I'd have already been there. 'Spose I could have dropped out of school but first I'd have to be in school. I was in Limbo waiting for the Blue Fairy to come along and make me a real boy just like she did Pinocchio. Odds weren't good but that's more or less what I was hoping for.
Conversations like that sure took the wind out of further talk. I was a little embarrassed to have someone seeing me as I really was. Emil probably figured he'd pushed as far as was safe. We fished in silence, my mind elsewhere and the trout seemed to know it.
In the morning I felt much better, as though I'd seen the truth. For better or worse I knew where I stood. A few years earlier while eavesdropping on an adult conversation around the dinner table I overheard my Uncle Ben comment on confession, "Should I ever go to confession with a real problem, I'd much rather deal with an intelligent priest than a saint." And that coming a non-Christian. Emil seemed to fit the mold Ben preferred. He was smart enough to see behind the mask. And was wise enough to know when the time came, I'd make my own decision. Ugly though it might be, the path I'd choose would be the right one.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Emil's Cabin XII - The Never Ending Joy of Mud
We arrived in camp just in time to catch the sawmill's unload. The driver climbed down from the big flatbed straight truck like Tarzan swinging out of a tree. We shook hands all around. He was a half an eyebrow taller than Emil, looked to be in his early forties, black haired with a face burned deep by generations of sun and wind. Like most of the working men up north he was angular from head to foot, hands tracked with corded veins. A pack of smokes came out of his shirt pocket, offered them around, "Mr. Schonnemann (don't know if I ever gave you Emil's last name) that's about as much pre-mix as there is on the Shore. Even had to have Silver Bay add twenty bags to their load so's we'd have enough. Where you want it?"
Took the three of us close to an hour to empty the load. Two hundred-thirty bags of pre-mixed concrete at eighty pounds each. Had we a few more rocks we could have gotten a good start on the Great Gunflint Wall. Also unloaded a mixer, four rolls of heavy duty steel mesh, ten of Emil's tamarack timbers, a large canvas tarp, bundle of planks, a couple of armfuls of angle iron, five gallons of pre-mixed gas and a small, gas powered generator. Not fun stuff but my uncle was sure excited. 'Specially about the gold colored generator. Said it could drive the mixer and a couple of power tools at the same time.
"She'll be a noisy daughter of a gun but'll save us hundreds of hours."
Ted, the driver, asked to check out what we were doing. "Looks like you boys have been diggin' for gold and not havin' much luck." Emil gave Ted a nutshell explanation of his plan.
"Should work. Don't see any reason why not. There's a whole lot of shacks in these woods way worse that what you're puttin' up and they've been standing for thirty years or more. But hand work? Uf-dah. My hat's off to you two and am more than happy it ain't me who's gonna mix and pour all that mud." Ted paused for a moment, "Hope you don't mind if I come up here once in a while and see how you're doin' and if maybe all this grunt work ain't killed you."
Being razzed like that put a smile on Emil's face. Emil'd told me a while back, "There's idiots and there's idiots. There's the one's who have their heads up their kiesters, who'er all talk and can't get even the most straight forward things done. Then there's the idiots who get ideas over on the edge of things and somehow manage to pull them off. Even turn them into things of beauty and use. No, not all the world's artists have paintings hanging in museums. Fact is, they're everywhere and you've never heard of most of them."
Again we shook hands all around. Ted first rolled then secured all his strapping before hoisting himself into the cab. "Almost forgot." Down came a pair of pails. "You'd have been hard pressed to move much water in coffee cups," then was off in a cloud of blue diesel.
"Good man. I do believe we'll see him again."
Seemed almost a waste of time we'd spent a week making holes and now intended to fill them. First things first. We began by hacksawing the steel mesh to length, rolled it like a four foot cigarette, wired together so the tube wouldn't open and then inserted the steel into the holes. Took us 'til suppertime to do all twenty. "Usually this screening is used to tie concrete slabs together but I could see no reason why we couldn't use it in the piers. Besides, it seemed like it'd be easier to work with than rebar. Could be in this case ignorance is bliss. Won't last forever but neither will I. So long as the cabin doesn't go kaput before I do, I'll be a happy camper."
I was beginning to wonder if we were ever going to do any serious fishing for pike and smallmouth bass. By now I'd gotten the hang of the stream, at least as far as fooling brook trout with a spinner was concerned. Emil had switched to his fly rod and still managed to stumble his way to more fish than me.
"I tell you Archie me lad, this is a whole different game than bass fishing in still water. Once you get the hang of accuracy and presentation being more important than distance, it's almost fun."
Could have fooled me. The way Emil was chuckling each time he hooked up, he sure sounded like he was having fun. Couple of minutes later his streamer was hung in a spreading bank aspen and Emil's tune had changed a few notes. As it was his last fly, I feared he was going up after it. He gave it a moment's stare. Slowly he turned and faced downstream to the pool I was ankle deep in. Crap! My fear now turned inward. A brief smile and a nod told me, unlike the aspen, I was off the hook. Simple economics whispered to him I was worth much more as a mud mixer than as a tree climber.
Since my stock as a serf was on the rise I brooked the subject of a canoe trip. Didn't want to have Emil think I was trying to get out of work. Hard as it was, I was having the best summer of my life. Turning brown as a berry - as they used to say. Nowadays I'd have been considered a prime candidate for melanoma - and able to labor from sunup to dinner. Tried to be tactful about going elsewhere. Stumbled around the idea for so long Emil caught my drift before I'd floated close to it.
"Yup, I've been considering a canoe trip myself. We've got a break coming up as soon as we finish the concrete work. Have to let it set for a few days to cure before we can start construction. So, say a week from now we load the gear, head down into Grand Marais for some supplies then hit the border water for three or four days. Sound like a plan to you?"
Wonderful. Wasn't like the big trips up in Manitoba or even our week long paddles along the border. But it was something to look forward to and trimmed a pound of effort off each shovelful of cement.
"Have to thank Greg's wife Bonnie for the idea of tamarack as pier posts. Has to be a sign I'm sprouting a brain that I'm willing to admit she knew more about trees that me. Was down visiting them on their little farm north of the cities. Greg was gone for the moment on one of those important missions he always seemed to be off on when the subject of posts came up. Your Uncle Emil's a real sweet talker when it comes to women. Always found timber as being best the way to a woman's heart. Long story short, tamarack's a survivor of the first order. Hard swamp wood. Didn't have any on my land but the mill had a stack of it just waiting to be cut to order. Not exactly wood from my land but at least it's native to the area."
Emil's idea was we'd shorten the timbers to five feet with the idea of having some wiggle room when it came to leveling them out. The idea being a floor deck sitting four feet off the ground.
"Uncle Emil, four feet seems a little high to me. We'd be working chest high when it came to stringing the joists. How about kitchen counter high?" I asked. Emil gave me a look like I was a dog that'd learned to talk.
He paused a second to mull the notion over, "Makes sense. It'd be much easier to work and I'd only be losing a foot of view."
Takes a while to saw twenty, ten by ten timbers and one a foot square for the center post. Scribe the lines, buzz all four sides with a circular saw and finish the job with a hand saw. Cramps the neck muscles something fierce. We took turns. Laid them in pairs across the saw horses and cranked them out. All the while my mind praised whoever came up with the idea of work gloves.
Next came the angle iron, this time hacksawed to three foot lengths. Two per timber. Good thing Emil had a box of blades. Broke a few and dulled a baker's dozen. Two lengths of iron were screwed to each timber on opposite corners, half the length up, the other half protruding below. Can't say it was exciting work but for once we were actually constructing.
Once the posts were ready we began the piers. Each was done the same. We began with the steel mesh centered in the hole and the bottom freshly splashed with a baptism of water. Emil said the water'd give a better grip to the concrete. Tough part was keeping the mesh centered as the concrete was shoveled in. A little wiggling usually worked.
The concrete was mixed two bags at a time. Eleven per hole. Each load took ten minutes or so. We'd drop a few wet rocks in after each mixer load. The post would be inserted and braced perpendicular when we were a load short of the top. All told, digging, mudding, posting and cutting each pier to level, took close to five hours per. Who'd have guessed?
Emil sweated bullets on the first hole, "Best laid plans and all that. Worked it over many times in my head but don't know for sure if it'd work. You'd think this would be the easy part as far as the planning goes but it's not. Each beginning step is hard. Once that works out the rest is child's play. Well, maybe not child's play. A child would be way too smart to get mixed up in a mess like this."
We did the four corners first. Emil constantly measured and remeasured the diagonals knowing so long as they were the same, we were square. And so long as they were the exact correct distance apart everything from this point on should fall into place as planned. Yup, those four corner posts were a big deal.
Late in the afternoon of the seventeenth day since we started we surveyed our little Stonehenge from all angles. A little piece of symmetry in the chaos of the northwoods. In celebration we worked our way through a chilled six pack of Grain Belt while cooking and eating dinner.
Took the three of us close to an hour to empty the load. Two hundred-thirty bags of pre-mixed concrete at eighty pounds each. Had we a few more rocks we could have gotten a good start on the Great Gunflint Wall. Also unloaded a mixer, four rolls of heavy duty steel mesh, ten of Emil's tamarack timbers, a large canvas tarp, bundle of planks, a couple of armfuls of angle iron, five gallons of pre-mixed gas and a small, gas powered generator. Not fun stuff but my uncle was sure excited. 'Specially about the gold colored generator. Said it could drive the mixer and a couple of power tools at the same time.
"She'll be a noisy daughter of a gun but'll save us hundreds of hours."
Ted, the driver, asked to check out what we were doing. "Looks like you boys have been diggin' for gold and not havin' much luck." Emil gave Ted a nutshell explanation of his plan.
"Should work. Don't see any reason why not. There's a whole lot of shacks in these woods way worse that what you're puttin' up and they've been standing for thirty years or more. But hand work? Uf-dah. My hat's off to you two and am more than happy it ain't me who's gonna mix and pour all that mud." Ted paused for a moment, "Hope you don't mind if I come up here once in a while and see how you're doin' and if maybe all this grunt work ain't killed you."
Being razzed like that put a smile on Emil's face. Emil'd told me a while back, "There's idiots and there's idiots. There's the one's who have their heads up their kiesters, who'er all talk and can't get even the most straight forward things done. Then there's the idiots who get ideas over on the edge of things and somehow manage to pull them off. Even turn them into things of beauty and use. No, not all the world's artists have paintings hanging in museums. Fact is, they're everywhere and you've never heard of most of them."
Again we shook hands all around. Ted first rolled then secured all his strapping before hoisting himself into the cab. "Almost forgot." Down came a pair of pails. "You'd have been hard pressed to move much water in coffee cups," then was off in a cloud of blue diesel.
"Good man. I do believe we'll see him again."
Seemed almost a waste of time we'd spent a week making holes and now intended to fill them. First things first. We began by hacksawing the steel mesh to length, rolled it like a four foot cigarette, wired together so the tube wouldn't open and then inserted the steel into the holes. Took us 'til suppertime to do all twenty. "Usually this screening is used to tie concrete slabs together but I could see no reason why we couldn't use it in the piers. Besides, it seemed like it'd be easier to work with than rebar. Could be in this case ignorance is bliss. Won't last forever but neither will I. So long as the cabin doesn't go kaput before I do, I'll be a happy camper."
I was beginning to wonder if we were ever going to do any serious fishing for pike and smallmouth bass. By now I'd gotten the hang of the stream, at least as far as fooling brook trout with a spinner was concerned. Emil had switched to his fly rod and still managed to stumble his way to more fish than me.
"I tell you Archie me lad, this is a whole different game than bass fishing in still water. Once you get the hang of accuracy and presentation being more important than distance, it's almost fun."
Could have fooled me. The way Emil was chuckling each time he hooked up, he sure sounded like he was having fun. Couple of minutes later his streamer was hung in a spreading bank aspen and Emil's tune had changed a few notes. As it was his last fly, I feared he was going up after it. He gave it a moment's stare. Slowly he turned and faced downstream to the pool I was ankle deep in. Crap! My fear now turned inward. A brief smile and a nod told me, unlike the aspen, I was off the hook. Simple economics whispered to him I was worth much more as a mud mixer than as a tree climber.
Since my stock as a serf was on the rise I brooked the subject of a canoe trip. Didn't want to have Emil think I was trying to get out of work. Hard as it was, I was having the best summer of my life. Turning brown as a berry - as they used to say. Nowadays I'd have been considered a prime candidate for melanoma - and able to labor from sunup to dinner. Tried to be tactful about going elsewhere. Stumbled around the idea for so long Emil caught my drift before I'd floated close to it.
"Yup, I've been considering a canoe trip myself. We've got a break coming up as soon as we finish the concrete work. Have to let it set for a few days to cure before we can start construction. So, say a week from now we load the gear, head down into Grand Marais for some supplies then hit the border water for three or four days. Sound like a plan to you?"
Wonderful. Wasn't like the big trips up in Manitoba or even our week long paddles along the border. But it was something to look forward to and trimmed a pound of effort off each shovelful of cement.
"Have to thank Greg's wife Bonnie for the idea of tamarack as pier posts. Has to be a sign I'm sprouting a brain that I'm willing to admit she knew more about trees that me. Was down visiting them on their little farm north of the cities. Greg was gone for the moment on one of those important missions he always seemed to be off on when the subject of posts came up. Your Uncle Emil's a real sweet talker when it comes to women. Always found timber as being best the way to a woman's heart. Long story short, tamarack's a survivor of the first order. Hard swamp wood. Didn't have any on my land but the mill had a stack of it just waiting to be cut to order. Not exactly wood from my land but at least it's native to the area."
Emil's idea was we'd shorten the timbers to five feet with the idea of having some wiggle room when it came to leveling them out. The idea being a floor deck sitting four feet off the ground.
"Uncle Emil, four feet seems a little high to me. We'd be working chest high when it came to stringing the joists. How about kitchen counter high?" I asked. Emil gave me a look like I was a dog that'd learned to talk.
He paused a second to mull the notion over, "Makes sense. It'd be much easier to work and I'd only be losing a foot of view."
Takes a while to saw twenty, ten by ten timbers and one a foot square for the center post. Scribe the lines, buzz all four sides with a circular saw and finish the job with a hand saw. Cramps the neck muscles something fierce. We took turns. Laid them in pairs across the saw horses and cranked them out. All the while my mind praised whoever came up with the idea of work gloves.
Next came the angle iron, this time hacksawed to three foot lengths. Two per timber. Good thing Emil had a box of blades. Broke a few and dulled a baker's dozen. Two lengths of iron were screwed to each timber on opposite corners, half the length up, the other half protruding below. Can't say it was exciting work but for once we were actually constructing.
Once the posts were ready we began the piers. Each was done the same. We began with the steel mesh centered in the hole and the bottom freshly splashed with a baptism of water. Emil said the water'd give a better grip to the concrete. Tough part was keeping the mesh centered as the concrete was shoveled in. A little wiggling usually worked.
The concrete was mixed two bags at a time. Eleven per hole. Each load took ten minutes or so. We'd drop a few wet rocks in after each mixer load. The post would be inserted and braced perpendicular when we were a load short of the top. All told, digging, mudding, posting and cutting each pier to level, took close to five hours per. Who'd have guessed?
Emil sweated bullets on the first hole, "Best laid plans and all that. Worked it over many times in my head but don't know for sure if it'd work. You'd think this would be the easy part as far as the planning goes but it's not. Each beginning step is hard. Once that works out the rest is child's play. Well, maybe not child's play. A child would be way too smart to get mixed up in a mess like this."
We did the four corners first. Emil constantly measured and remeasured the diagonals knowing so long as they were the same, we were square. And so long as they were the exact correct distance apart everything from this point on should fall into place as planned. Yup, those four corner posts were a big deal.
Late in the afternoon of the seventeenth day since we started we surveyed our little Stonehenge from all angles. A little piece of symmetry in the chaos of the northwoods. In celebration we worked our way through a chilled six pack of Grain Belt while cooking and eating dinner.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Emil's Cabin XI - Holes
When I was a kid I liked to dig holes. Seemed a lot of my friends shared my love of moving dirt. Making nothing out of something. For us a shovel and a vacant lot was better than a trip to Disneyland. Had to be since Disneyland wasn't in the cards for me or anyone I knew. No doubt our fascination was Freudian as all get out - I'll leave that to your imagination - but, had we been told our psychological motivation by a passing motorist on his way home from conducting therapy sessions, I doubt any of us would have much cared. Might even have been excited by the sexual connotations.
When little we dug holes in sandboxes with sticks and driveways with garden implements. About the time girls were beginning to appeal we were into tunnels. Literally. Usually the tunnels were considerate enough to collapse before anyone got hurt. Gnawing away into a hillside usually filled my head with visions of the Lost Dutchman's Mine down in Arizona or the Oak Island Money Pit up north of Maine. Yeah, we knew about those treasures even back then thanks to the magazine rack in Ole's Barber Shop. Guess most of my life's pleasures were egged on in that shop. Field and Stream, Sports Afield, Argosy. Scantily clad damsels in danger of being devoured by monstrous lake trout sure got my juices flowing. A lot of dreams to be had right there between the covers. Came free with the half buck hair removal.
We rose on the fourth morning under overcast with a hint of cold rain in the air. Misted on and off 'til we went to bed. Emil called it perfect working weather. 'Course Emil'd call anything less than a tornado perfect working weather. The man liked to work, simple as that. Liked it enough that his sunshine attitude warmed me just fine. Threw on a sweatshirt and a jacket anyhow.
Morning's like this were hard for me to get my motor started. Made we want to sit on a stump, sip coffee and contemplate more stump sitting. Fortunately, Emil was all fired up and had breakfast in the pan.
My uncle paused, ran his eyes side to side like he was reading a line from a play and said, "I'm digging the idea that we're digging today. Couldn't pass that up even if it was near the bottom of the pun barrel. What's on the agenda for the morning is the single most important part of building the cabin, drawing the rectangle with stake and string. Can't dig twenty holes 'til we know where to dig them. Remember the three laws of construction, square, plumb and level. Today we'll work out the square. Measure, re-measure and re-measure again. Might take us the whole morning just to get the lines right. Won't sink a shovel blade before we get the rectangle perfect."
I got the drift of what he meant in general and figured the particulars would come as we worked. Good thing Emil knew how we'd go about it 'cause I sure didn't.
Dishes done we headed to the woodshed. There, Emil loaded an armload of pointed, two foot stakes on me, slipped a steel tape measure in a pocket of his blue-striped bib overalls and grabbed a framing hammer. After dropping the stakes in the middle of the clearing we marched down to the stream.
"I figure the crest of the bank as the high water point. Law says we can't build within two hundred feet of it. The law's the law and I respect it. Also figure this is a pretty stream with water near as clean as it ever was. Lord knows I don't want to mess it up in any way. Besides, I'm just selfish enough to want the trout to grow up fat and sassy. Be fun to catch and good to see."
Emil handed me the business end of the tape and set off uphill unrolling as he went. Ran out of tape at a hundred feet and toed a rock on the spot.
"Follow me up and stop at this rock." At two hundred feet he slid another stone. Then paced off an additional ten feet. There he drove a stake. "No sense being a foot short should the inspector be a tad on the German side or the inevitable flood be one in a century. We'll build here. When the holes are marked we'll head down to Grand Marais, grab a lunch and put in an order for some concrete and plywood. My guess is we won't need any cement for a week or more."
The next few hours were spent driving stakes and stringing lines with an eye to stream view.
"Been thinking of this layout since Lena died. One of those 'things I might do someday but probably won't.' Finally last summer I drew up the plan in detail, footprint and elevations, down to the framing. Know the lumber needed down to the stud. An old friend told me, once I knew how much lumber was needed, add ten percent. Seemed a waste to me. Greg then asked ' 'Emil, I've known you for a long time and never, ever seen you make a mistake. Yup, you're the one man in the whole, wide world who probably doesn't need the ten percent. But do one thing for me and get just one extra two by four so you can hit yourself over the head when you run short. Okay?' Good thing my supply list was in pencil."
"Next smart thing I did was havin' Greg come up here to go fishing and do some timber estimating. Greg'd been a jack of all trades most of his life. Even came close to mastering a few. He knew his way around the woods and could calculate the board feet of standing timber. One afternoon we took a break from scaring the trout and did us a walkabout, pencil and notebook in hand. Good thing was we shared a feeling for the nature of the woods. Greg didn't like the idea of clear cutting. His idea was to harvest with an eye to the future. Tree here, tree there. Take what you need and leave the land looking unchanged, maybe even healthier when you're done. Not as easy as scalping a couple of acres. By the time we sat down to dinner he'd taped off all the trees I'd need, both hard and softwood."
"Archie me lad, while we're stringing line, what I'm seeing is the view I'll have from the second floor. In my mind the cabin's already there. All we have to do is fill in the blank spots."
I'll bet we moved some of the stakes a half dozen times. Emil'd whack the last one down, we'd runs the lines, then measure on the diagonals from corner to opposite corner.
"Tarnation! Three quarters off again!" Then Emil would pull his hat, scratch his head and stare off into the treetops for half a minute. Finally, we were as dead on as we could get.
"Eighth of an inch, corner to corner, triple measured. Hot damn, good enough for government work!" Would've high-fived had we known what one was. Measuring, aligning and driving the remaining ten stakes between the four corners was child's play. Finally, each post stake driven, the lines came down and it was break time.
Half hour later we caught the tiger by the toe in the rear left-hand corner. Over the years kid's rhymes have caught a lot of different things by the toe. Back in '65 so did ours. Emil caught his and I caught mine. We caught what we'd been taught. Simple as that. Didn't mean anything by the words we chose. Well, maybe. Seems to help when there's someone to look down on, make fun of so long as there's no one around to pummel you for your idiocy. However, neither was as foolish a choice as a tiger. Trying to tame a large carnivore by pinching a single digit was a risky thing and we knew it. Given the choice we'd have gone for something smaller without pointy teeth, like a rabbit, cottontail not a jack. Anyhow, I hope you get my drift and the tiger's toe was where we started digging.
Twenty holes didn't seem like a lot of work to me. Emil had the new pair of shovels, a pick, couple of post hole diggers - he called them PHD's - and our trusty digging bars. I guessed we were set for most any problem but both of us were smart enough to not say that out loud. Not that we believed in jinxes, just that we didn't want to jinx ourselves. Emil'd be the first to say life is full of contradictions and irony. The nonsensical is simply God's sense of humor at work and a body'd be a fool to cross anything that's all-powerful.
We'd've started by spitting on our hands before grasping a shovel. Since Emil had been foresightful enough to buy a dozen pairs of leather work gloves, we just started digging.
"Our goal is five feet or bedrock. Whatever comes first. Personally I'm rooting for the latter as a five foot hole seems like way too much work."
Pulled the toe stake and set to it. My first shot at a shovelful didn't do much more than make my fillings cringe (yeah, us baby-boomers have more silver in our mouths than the Comstock Lode). Once through four inches of duff and dirt it was nothing but gravel, rock and clay with a dusting of sand. Our scrapings were thrown to the side with intentions of eventually leveling the length of the driveway. Once we broke through the crust she wasn't all that bad. Two feet of sand 'til we hit another hard pan. Loosened the barrier with digging stakes. By now we were into PHD and back abuse territory.
"Take her down 'til the hole's handle deep on the digger then we'll make sure she's a solid twenty inches wide. I'll get started on the next one."
Just short of four feet I hit solid rock. Boulder or bedrock? Couldn't tell. Didn't matter. We weren't going an inch deeper. In retrospect, I recall the job as being easy. Slow, grinding, brain numbing but somehow kind of fun. I measured the hole as twenty-two inches wide. Emil had his figure but the PHD's handle spread said twenty-two. So twenty-two it was. All except the very center hole. That one we made a full two feet. Emil said it was bigger to carry most of the weight of the second floor.
I'd like to get poetic about the job but I'd have to go way deeper than four feet to unearth the joy of those lines. Maybe I needed a Walt Whitman's excitement to go along with my eighteen year old body to pump out the adverbs and adjectives necessary. As it was, we simply dug. Threw sand and gravel in one direction, rocks bigger than baseballs in another. Nothing going to waste. Driveway fill and stone for the mortar. Two hours, more or less, per hole. Twenty holes. Wheelbarrowing in-between. No matter how you cut it that's near a week's worth of excavating. And sweating regardless of weather. All of it hand work. Some in sun, some in rain. Long sleeves, t-shirts. And dirty. Who'd have guessed a body could get dirty just digging in the earth?
Through it all Emil worked right alongside me. Shovel for shovel, grunt for grunt. Every so often he'd straighten up and stretch, "Lordy, lordy, I'm a cripple. Next time around I'm coming back as a mule. Won't work any harder and someone else'll do the cooking."
That week we went to bed about the time the sun went down and slept like the dead. Fished a little, ate a lot, drank an ocean of well water. Turned out the rock I'd hit in the first hole had friends.
"Could've guessed that'd be the case. The Andersen's had to reset the drill a couple of times like they were searching for a gap. My guess is there's a field of stone beneath us the glaciers shucked off on their way to Hudson Bay. Not bedrock but seein' as how they've been down there for a hundred centuries we'll glue the cabin onto them and trust they'll hold their contentment a few more decades."
Headed into town late in the morning after the last PHDful was drawn out and we'd bathed at the pump. First stop was the saw mill to order materials. Once in Grand Marais Emil got us a motel room. Then hit the Hub Cafe to do some damage to their food stocks. When the waitress asked what we wanted Emil said, "How much you got?"
Spent the night under clean sheets. For fun we hit the beach in the afternoon. Agate hunted and gathered stone. "Got close to two yards of rock back in camp. Another half wouldn't hurt. The springs on the truck will tell us how much."
Before heading back to camp we raided the drive-in for ice cream. Both of us were up for some, no doubt about it. Emil was a purist. Chocolate shake. Ice cream and syrup, whipped and eaten with a spoon. No cherry, no whipped cream (and this was back when they used real whipped cream).
"Year's ago I used to order a malt whenever I had the urge for ice cream. Liked 'em in an 'okay' kind of way. Took a few before I realized it was the malt that was foulin' up the mix. So, one day I asked for a malt without the malt, thinkin' I was inventing something new. The soda jerk says, 'oh, you want a shake.' Struck me as odd that no sooner did I create something no one in the whole world had ever thought of than they already had a name for it. Only in America Archie me lad, home of the freeze, land of the brazen."
Personally, I liked a strawberry-banana shake. Biggest they had. That combination of fruit is deadly good but only if done right. Eaten separately the flavor of a strawberry is much more distinctive than a banana. Sharper, juicier, fruitier. A banana is subtle, mellow, soft. But put them together and banana dominates. Don't know why. Don't care. That's just the way it is. Downed a few before I learned to say, "Heavy on the strawberries please." Not earth shaking by any means. At least I don't think it is. Who knows, maybe the course of history is hinged on one, well made shake. If it is, the one I had in Grand Marais may have paved the way for world peace.
When little we dug holes in sandboxes with sticks and driveways with garden implements. About the time girls were beginning to appeal we were into tunnels. Literally. Usually the tunnels were considerate enough to collapse before anyone got hurt. Gnawing away into a hillside usually filled my head with visions of the Lost Dutchman's Mine down in Arizona or the Oak Island Money Pit up north of Maine. Yeah, we knew about those treasures even back then thanks to the magazine rack in Ole's Barber Shop. Guess most of my life's pleasures were egged on in that shop. Field and Stream, Sports Afield, Argosy. Scantily clad damsels in danger of being devoured by monstrous lake trout sure got my juices flowing. A lot of dreams to be had right there between the covers. Came free with the half buck hair removal.
We rose on the fourth morning under overcast with a hint of cold rain in the air. Misted on and off 'til we went to bed. Emil called it perfect working weather. 'Course Emil'd call anything less than a tornado perfect working weather. The man liked to work, simple as that. Liked it enough that his sunshine attitude warmed me just fine. Threw on a sweatshirt and a jacket anyhow.
Morning's like this were hard for me to get my motor started. Made we want to sit on a stump, sip coffee and contemplate more stump sitting. Fortunately, Emil was all fired up and had breakfast in the pan.
My uncle paused, ran his eyes side to side like he was reading a line from a play and said, "I'm digging the idea that we're digging today. Couldn't pass that up even if it was near the bottom of the pun barrel. What's on the agenda for the morning is the single most important part of building the cabin, drawing the rectangle with stake and string. Can't dig twenty holes 'til we know where to dig them. Remember the three laws of construction, square, plumb and level. Today we'll work out the square. Measure, re-measure and re-measure again. Might take us the whole morning just to get the lines right. Won't sink a shovel blade before we get the rectangle perfect."
I got the drift of what he meant in general and figured the particulars would come as we worked. Good thing Emil knew how we'd go about it 'cause I sure didn't.
Dishes done we headed to the woodshed. There, Emil loaded an armload of pointed, two foot stakes on me, slipped a steel tape measure in a pocket of his blue-striped bib overalls and grabbed a framing hammer. After dropping the stakes in the middle of the clearing we marched down to the stream.
"I figure the crest of the bank as the high water point. Law says we can't build within two hundred feet of it. The law's the law and I respect it. Also figure this is a pretty stream with water near as clean as it ever was. Lord knows I don't want to mess it up in any way. Besides, I'm just selfish enough to want the trout to grow up fat and sassy. Be fun to catch and good to see."
Emil handed me the business end of the tape and set off uphill unrolling as he went. Ran out of tape at a hundred feet and toed a rock on the spot.
"Follow me up and stop at this rock." At two hundred feet he slid another stone. Then paced off an additional ten feet. There he drove a stake. "No sense being a foot short should the inspector be a tad on the German side or the inevitable flood be one in a century. We'll build here. When the holes are marked we'll head down to Grand Marais, grab a lunch and put in an order for some concrete and plywood. My guess is we won't need any cement for a week or more."
The next few hours were spent driving stakes and stringing lines with an eye to stream view.
"Been thinking of this layout since Lena died. One of those 'things I might do someday but probably won't.' Finally last summer I drew up the plan in detail, footprint and elevations, down to the framing. Know the lumber needed down to the stud. An old friend told me, once I knew how much lumber was needed, add ten percent. Seemed a waste to me. Greg then asked ' 'Emil, I've known you for a long time and never, ever seen you make a mistake. Yup, you're the one man in the whole, wide world who probably doesn't need the ten percent. But do one thing for me and get just one extra two by four so you can hit yourself over the head when you run short. Okay?' Good thing my supply list was in pencil."
"Next smart thing I did was havin' Greg come up here to go fishing and do some timber estimating. Greg'd been a jack of all trades most of his life. Even came close to mastering a few. He knew his way around the woods and could calculate the board feet of standing timber. One afternoon we took a break from scaring the trout and did us a walkabout, pencil and notebook in hand. Good thing was we shared a feeling for the nature of the woods. Greg didn't like the idea of clear cutting. His idea was to harvest with an eye to the future. Tree here, tree there. Take what you need and leave the land looking unchanged, maybe even healthier when you're done. Not as easy as scalping a couple of acres. By the time we sat down to dinner he'd taped off all the trees I'd need, both hard and softwood."
"Archie me lad, while we're stringing line, what I'm seeing is the view I'll have from the second floor. In my mind the cabin's already there. All we have to do is fill in the blank spots."
I'll bet we moved some of the stakes a half dozen times. Emil'd whack the last one down, we'd runs the lines, then measure on the diagonals from corner to opposite corner.
"Tarnation! Three quarters off again!" Then Emil would pull his hat, scratch his head and stare off into the treetops for half a minute. Finally, we were as dead on as we could get.
"Eighth of an inch, corner to corner, triple measured. Hot damn, good enough for government work!" Would've high-fived had we known what one was. Measuring, aligning and driving the remaining ten stakes between the four corners was child's play. Finally, each post stake driven, the lines came down and it was break time.
Half hour later we caught the tiger by the toe in the rear left-hand corner. Over the years kid's rhymes have caught a lot of different things by the toe. Back in '65 so did ours. Emil caught his and I caught mine. We caught what we'd been taught. Simple as that. Didn't mean anything by the words we chose. Well, maybe. Seems to help when there's someone to look down on, make fun of so long as there's no one around to pummel you for your idiocy. However, neither was as foolish a choice as a tiger. Trying to tame a large carnivore by pinching a single digit was a risky thing and we knew it. Given the choice we'd have gone for something smaller without pointy teeth, like a rabbit, cottontail not a jack. Anyhow, I hope you get my drift and the tiger's toe was where we started digging.
Twenty holes didn't seem like a lot of work to me. Emil had the new pair of shovels, a pick, couple of post hole diggers - he called them PHD's - and our trusty digging bars. I guessed we were set for most any problem but both of us were smart enough to not say that out loud. Not that we believed in jinxes, just that we didn't want to jinx ourselves. Emil'd be the first to say life is full of contradictions and irony. The nonsensical is simply God's sense of humor at work and a body'd be a fool to cross anything that's all-powerful.
We'd've started by spitting on our hands before grasping a shovel. Since Emil had been foresightful enough to buy a dozen pairs of leather work gloves, we just started digging.
"Our goal is five feet or bedrock. Whatever comes first. Personally I'm rooting for the latter as a five foot hole seems like way too much work."
Pulled the toe stake and set to it. My first shot at a shovelful didn't do much more than make my fillings cringe (yeah, us baby-boomers have more silver in our mouths than the Comstock Lode). Once through four inches of duff and dirt it was nothing but gravel, rock and clay with a dusting of sand. Our scrapings were thrown to the side with intentions of eventually leveling the length of the driveway. Once we broke through the crust she wasn't all that bad. Two feet of sand 'til we hit another hard pan. Loosened the barrier with digging stakes. By now we were into PHD and back abuse territory.
"Take her down 'til the hole's handle deep on the digger then we'll make sure she's a solid twenty inches wide. I'll get started on the next one."
Just short of four feet I hit solid rock. Boulder or bedrock? Couldn't tell. Didn't matter. We weren't going an inch deeper. In retrospect, I recall the job as being easy. Slow, grinding, brain numbing but somehow kind of fun. I measured the hole as twenty-two inches wide. Emil had his figure but the PHD's handle spread said twenty-two. So twenty-two it was. All except the very center hole. That one we made a full two feet. Emil said it was bigger to carry most of the weight of the second floor.
I'd like to get poetic about the job but I'd have to go way deeper than four feet to unearth the joy of those lines. Maybe I needed a Walt Whitman's excitement to go along with my eighteen year old body to pump out the adverbs and adjectives necessary. As it was, we simply dug. Threw sand and gravel in one direction, rocks bigger than baseballs in another. Nothing going to waste. Driveway fill and stone for the mortar. Two hours, more or less, per hole. Twenty holes. Wheelbarrowing in-between. No matter how you cut it that's near a week's worth of excavating. And sweating regardless of weather. All of it hand work. Some in sun, some in rain. Long sleeves, t-shirts. And dirty. Who'd have guessed a body could get dirty just digging in the earth?
Through it all Emil worked right alongside me. Shovel for shovel, grunt for grunt. Every so often he'd straighten up and stretch, "Lordy, lordy, I'm a cripple. Next time around I'm coming back as a mule. Won't work any harder and someone else'll do the cooking."
That week we went to bed about the time the sun went down and slept like the dead. Fished a little, ate a lot, drank an ocean of well water. Turned out the rock I'd hit in the first hole had friends.
"Could've guessed that'd be the case. The Andersen's had to reset the drill a couple of times like they were searching for a gap. My guess is there's a field of stone beneath us the glaciers shucked off on their way to Hudson Bay. Not bedrock but seein' as how they've been down there for a hundred centuries we'll glue the cabin onto them and trust they'll hold their contentment a few more decades."
Headed into town late in the morning after the last PHDful was drawn out and we'd bathed at the pump. First stop was the saw mill to order materials. Once in Grand Marais Emil got us a motel room. Then hit the Hub Cafe to do some damage to their food stocks. When the waitress asked what we wanted Emil said, "How much you got?"
Spent the night under clean sheets. For fun we hit the beach in the afternoon. Agate hunted and gathered stone. "Got close to two yards of rock back in camp. Another half wouldn't hurt. The springs on the truck will tell us how much."
Before heading back to camp we raided the drive-in for ice cream. Both of us were up for some, no doubt about it. Emil was a purist. Chocolate shake. Ice cream and syrup, whipped and eaten with a spoon. No cherry, no whipped cream (and this was back when they used real whipped cream).
"Year's ago I used to order a malt whenever I had the urge for ice cream. Liked 'em in an 'okay' kind of way. Took a few before I realized it was the malt that was foulin' up the mix. So, one day I asked for a malt without the malt, thinkin' I was inventing something new. The soda jerk says, 'oh, you want a shake.' Struck me as odd that no sooner did I create something no one in the whole world had ever thought of than they already had a name for it. Only in America Archie me lad, home of the freeze, land of the brazen."
Personally, I liked a strawberry-banana shake. Biggest they had. That combination of fruit is deadly good but only if done right. Eaten separately the flavor of a strawberry is much more distinctive than a banana. Sharper, juicier, fruitier. A banana is subtle, mellow, soft. But put them together and banana dominates. Don't know why. Don't care. That's just the way it is. Downed a few before I learned to say, "Heavy on the strawberries please." Not earth shaking by any means. At least I don't think it is. Who knows, maybe the course of history is hinged on one, well made shake. If it is, the one I had in Grand Marais may have paved the way for world peace.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Emil's Cabin X - Stone and Wood
Emil hadn't yet fallen asleep when I asked him, "What was it like leaving home when you were shipped overseas?"
Sometimes you get a question in your head that just won't go away. Didn't know whether I wanted to ask but there it was, out in the open, no turning back.
"The shippin' part wasn't bad. Coupla thousand GIs crammed in a sardine can and headin' topside when they felt the need to puke their guts out. The hard part was inside me. Hurt from my heart to my boot heels. And that pain didn't go away 'til I saw Lena again at the VA hospital down in Minneapolis. Home carries a lot of weight but compared to love it's not much more than dust on a window sill. War's a helluva position to be put in. Once you're in it there's no getting away 'til it's over. Or you're dead or close to it. At least that's the way it was in my war. And all the while you're remembering what home was like and how you'd give anything to be back there for a few hours."
Emil didn't blurt those words out. Had to pause every few seconds to catch his breath. Got the feeling he still carried the weight of those years and would 'til he died. Didn't think I'd as yet felt anything as deeply as the pain he'd felt in the war. All these years later and he sounded like he was still laying there in some God-forsaken, swamped foxhole on an island he'd never known existed 'til he was shipped there to face possible death.
We talked no more that night. I suspect my uncle laid there, eyes open, staring at the nylon above while I slept away like the ignoramus I was.
"Rise and shine Archie me lad, there's a few holes and a jack pine waitin' on our company. Don't want to disappoint them."
Hardly any need to say it was barely light enough to see my pee hit the ground. Had to go by sound and feel. And lordy, lordy did I hurt. Seemed moving boulders was tough on a body. But what did I expect? Every time I'd hit the woods with my uncle there were always a few days when I felt crippled. Experience told me it was temporary but fear told me the old man would kill me with work some day.
Since we weren't on a canoe trip, breakfast was a little more exotic but still quick to make. This morning's was French toast, sausages and coffee with oatmeal raisin cookies and an apple for desert. Oh yeah, and all the water I could pump. Since yesterday's boulder party I hadn't been able to quench my thirst. Could drink 'til I looked pregnant but still was thirsty.
Before beating the eggs for french toast Emil hoisted a corner of his homemade table, shot a look to the sky and gave it a quarter turn. Seeming not yet satisfied he moved it back a tad. Followed that with two taps to its top and looked quite happy.
Just had to ask, "What's with the table movement?"
"Orienting it properly. Can't really cook right unless the table's aligned just so."
"East-west, north-south or what?"
"Right side up. I've found it's much easier using a table that way than on its side or even upside down."
Now that may not strike most people funny but I blew snot.
We set off down the driveway with weapons of destruction in the wheelbarrow. Mixed gas, bar oil, chain sharpener, guide, wrench, screw driver, chain saw and once again, Emil's chain sling shot. I pushed the barrow, Emil carried the shovels. Men on a mission.
"Archie me lad, we're off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of logs. Yes sir, there's something about dropping a tree that excites my blood. Manly stuff right out of the movies. Paul Bunyan and all that. Like to say I'm an expert with a chain saw but I'm not. Laying a pine down exactly where you want is an art. Can't say I'm much more than a ball-parker at best."
Our victim wasn't huge. Huge isn't in the nature of a jack pine. Maybe fifteen inches on the stump and over sixty feet tall. Majestic trees aren't common in the Minnesota woods. Down on the floor there's not a lot of light. The pines, aspens and birches fight and stretch for every ray of it. All that exercise makes them half-starved beanpoles with tight growth rings. This isn't the pacific northwest where the big ones are common, sometimes have names and are centuries old. What Emil was brushing around was no more than fifty. Heck, even my uncle was older than that.
"My intention is to drop this guy straight down the driveway. Keep in mind I said 'my intention'. Mostly I want it out of here one way or the other. And I don't want either of us under it when she goes."
Once he'd cleared the brush around the tree's base and had a clear escape route, Emil notched a 'V' with the saw about a foot above the ground, halfway through the trunk and open to the direction of fall. He walked around to the opposite side, took a look up the length of the trunk and said softly, "Here goes nothin'." The McCulloch roared to life and began to eat its way toward the notch, all the while Emil was rocking the saw blade and eyeing his line closely.
No yell of 'Timber!' from Emil as the pine slowly began to tilt, just a quiet 'uf dah'. I'd like to say his aim was perfect. And it nearly was. Couldn't have been off by more than a foot. At thirty degrees of lean the pine decided to call it a day and take a break in a spreading branch of a neighboring red pine.
"Sons-a-buck!" Yup, that's what Emil said alright. Then clapped his hands and started laughing like he was excited and pleased as punch. "Hot damn! Time to pull out the sling and come-along. Oh yeah, I knew that baby'd come in handy."
First off he shagged me back to camp for some sixteen penny nails and a hammer. By the time I'd returned - took a few minutes as I wasn't quite sure where the nails were - Emil'd given the jack pine a wrap with the sling and was fixing his come-along to another pine some thirty feet away. Once the chain was rigged near taut he pinned a few of the wrapped links to the trunk with the big nails. Hammered them half way in and bent them over.
"Don't want any slippage and sure don't want a log chain bull whip. Been a coward all my life and hope to die one in about thirty years."
Lastly began the click-click-click of the come-along. Slowly the chain pulled tight as piano wire and began dragging the tree butt, inch by inch. A couple of feet of cranking and the red pine released its grip. Emil seemed quite pleased with the thud.
Didn't take but half an hour 'til the trunk was limbed and reduced to firewood lengths. While Emil removed what he could of the stump I humped the wood and kindling back to camp via wheelbarrow.
"Dulled the bejeezus out of this chain but got the stump below ground level. Not much more we can do with it but let Mother Nature run her course. Jack pine's a survivor Archie. Enough pitch in the grain to keep it solid 'til I'm an old, old man. Maybe even older than old, old."
The rest of the work day was spent in the glory of moving dirt, filling holes and low spots. There's something relaxing about having a simple task and doing it well, even if that task is heavy work. By supper time the truck was eased into camp.
Sometimes you get a question in your head that just won't go away. Didn't know whether I wanted to ask but there it was, out in the open, no turning back.
"The shippin' part wasn't bad. Coupla thousand GIs crammed in a sardine can and headin' topside when they felt the need to puke their guts out. The hard part was inside me. Hurt from my heart to my boot heels. And that pain didn't go away 'til I saw Lena again at the VA hospital down in Minneapolis. Home carries a lot of weight but compared to love it's not much more than dust on a window sill. War's a helluva position to be put in. Once you're in it there's no getting away 'til it's over. Or you're dead or close to it. At least that's the way it was in my war. And all the while you're remembering what home was like and how you'd give anything to be back there for a few hours."
Emil didn't blurt those words out. Had to pause every few seconds to catch his breath. Got the feeling he still carried the weight of those years and would 'til he died. Didn't think I'd as yet felt anything as deeply as the pain he'd felt in the war. All these years later and he sounded like he was still laying there in some God-forsaken, swamped foxhole on an island he'd never known existed 'til he was shipped there to face possible death.
We talked no more that night. I suspect my uncle laid there, eyes open, staring at the nylon above while I slept away like the ignoramus I was.
"Rise and shine Archie me lad, there's a few holes and a jack pine waitin' on our company. Don't want to disappoint them."
Hardly any need to say it was barely light enough to see my pee hit the ground. Had to go by sound and feel. And lordy, lordy did I hurt. Seemed moving boulders was tough on a body. But what did I expect? Every time I'd hit the woods with my uncle there were always a few days when I felt crippled. Experience told me it was temporary but fear told me the old man would kill me with work some day.
Since we weren't on a canoe trip, breakfast was a little more exotic but still quick to make. This morning's was French toast, sausages and coffee with oatmeal raisin cookies and an apple for desert. Oh yeah, and all the water I could pump. Since yesterday's boulder party I hadn't been able to quench my thirst. Could drink 'til I looked pregnant but still was thirsty.
Before beating the eggs for french toast Emil hoisted a corner of his homemade table, shot a look to the sky and gave it a quarter turn. Seeming not yet satisfied he moved it back a tad. Followed that with two taps to its top and looked quite happy.
Just had to ask, "What's with the table movement?"
"Orienting it properly. Can't really cook right unless the table's aligned just so."
"East-west, north-south or what?"
"Right side up. I've found it's much easier using a table that way than on its side or even upside down."
Now that may not strike most people funny but I blew snot.
We set off down the driveway with weapons of destruction in the wheelbarrow. Mixed gas, bar oil, chain sharpener, guide, wrench, screw driver, chain saw and once again, Emil's chain sling shot. I pushed the barrow, Emil carried the shovels. Men on a mission.
"Archie me lad, we're off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of logs. Yes sir, there's something about dropping a tree that excites my blood. Manly stuff right out of the movies. Paul Bunyan and all that. Like to say I'm an expert with a chain saw but I'm not. Laying a pine down exactly where you want is an art. Can't say I'm much more than a ball-parker at best."
Our victim wasn't huge. Huge isn't in the nature of a jack pine. Maybe fifteen inches on the stump and over sixty feet tall. Majestic trees aren't common in the Minnesota woods. Down on the floor there's not a lot of light. The pines, aspens and birches fight and stretch for every ray of it. All that exercise makes them half-starved beanpoles with tight growth rings. This isn't the pacific northwest where the big ones are common, sometimes have names and are centuries old. What Emil was brushing around was no more than fifty. Heck, even my uncle was older than that.
"My intention is to drop this guy straight down the driveway. Keep in mind I said 'my intention'. Mostly I want it out of here one way or the other. And I don't want either of us under it when she goes."
Once he'd cleared the brush around the tree's base and had a clear escape route, Emil notched a 'V' with the saw about a foot above the ground, halfway through the trunk and open to the direction of fall. He walked around to the opposite side, took a look up the length of the trunk and said softly, "Here goes nothin'." The McCulloch roared to life and began to eat its way toward the notch, all the while Emil was rocking the saw blade and eyeing his line closely.
No yell of 'Timber!' from Emil as the pine slowly began to tilt, just a quiet 'uf dah'. I'd like to say his aim was perfect. And it nearly was. Couldn't have been off by more than a foot. At thirty degrees of lean the pine decided to call it a day and take a break in a spreading branch of a neighboring red pine.
"Sons-a-buck!" Yup, that's what Emil said alright. Then clapped his hands and started laughing like he was excited and pleased as punch. "Hot damn! Time to pull out the sling and come-along. Oh yeah, I knew that baby'd come in handy."
First off he shagged me back to camp for some sixteen penny nails and a hammer. By the time I'd returned - took a few minutes as I wasn't quite sure where the nails were - Emil'd given the jack pine a wrap with the sling and was fixing his come-along to another pine some thirty feet away. Once the chain was rigged near taut he pinned a few of the wrapped links to the trunk with the big nails. Hammered them half way in and bent them over.
"Don't want any slippage and sure don't want a log chain bull whip. Been a coward all my life and hope to die one in about thirty years."
Lastly began the click-click-click of the come-along. Slowly the chain pulled tight as piano wire and began dragging the tree butt, inch by inch. A couple of feet of cranking and the red pine released its grip. Emil seemed quite pleased with the thud.
Didn't take but half an hour 'til the trunk was limbed and reduced to firewood lengths. While Emil removed what he could of the stump I humped the wood and kindling back to camp via wheelbarrow.
"Dulled the bejeezus out of this chain but got the stump below ground level. Not much more we can do with it but let Mother Nature run her course. Jack pine's a survivor Archie. Enough pitch in the grain to keep it solid 'til I'm an old, old man. Maybe even older than old, old."
The rest of the work day was spent in the glory of moving dirt, filling holes and low spots. There's something relaxing about having a simple task and doing it well, even if that task is heavy work. By supper time the truck was eased into camp.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Emil's Cabin IX - The Unseen
We headed up stream after dinner. I love to fish but was dragging butt. Tired to the bone. Oddly enough Emil seemed just fine. Also, when we scrubbed down with ice water from the pump he didn't look anywhere near as dirty. Got me thinking he was either in much better shape than any other fifty-nine year old man or your's truly had born the brunt. Made a vow to pay more attention when we cleaned up the mess we'd left behind in the driveway.
Emil kept his fishing gear stored under the roof of the woodshed. He'd built a simple box out of plywood and secured the contents with hasp and padlock. From it he removed a pair of ultra-light spinning rods and reels. Once in the flow, it didn't take him more than five minutes of flipping a tiny spinner to hook up with a small brook trout, laughing all the while about his expertise. Me, I was quite happy to sit on the bank and watch the man.
Like the trout he finally coaxed to shore, Emil was soon off and running, "Sorry about today. Archie me lad, you outworked me double. Would have done more had I been able but remember what I said way back in the beginning. You're the muscle in this operation, I'm the brain. Unless of course, you figure out a better angle on how to do something. This game is near as new to me as it is to you. I've driven my share of nails but never took on a whole building before. Truth be known, I've got a general idea of what we're doing but an idea ain't the same as knowing. You never know exactly what's around the corner 'til you get there. Did some research in the Uniform Building Code manual. Got some advice from friends in the trades. And checked with city hall down in Grand Marais so's I could get the needed permits. I'm as ready as can be but that doesn't mean I'm overflowing with confidence my cabin won't fall over with the first good fart."
"So here's what I learned in a nut shell. Square, level, plumb and don't skimp on the nails. Don't overdo them either. And seeing as how I'm fifty-nine, don't do any more than you can in any given day. When it comes to sheer grunt work, Archie me lad, you're my right arm."
Was he snowing me? Nah. Work was what I'd come to do and was exactly what I was doing. No complaints. Outside of sore hands, abraded arms, knees that felt like they'd hoisted the Empire State Building half an inch and absolutely no desire to fish, I felt just fine. In short, I was a walking dead man.
"So, tell me about your plans for the next few years."
Took a minute of staring at the riffle below and Emil playing and losing a brook trout of size for me to answer,
" Huh? Plans you say? Well, I suppose my plan is to get some kind of degree. And at the moment I have no idea what degree that might be. Not a clue. Don't even know why I'm actually going to college. Most everyone expects me to. Oh yeah, about all anyone has told me for the last year is (in a high falsetto voice) 'young man you're college material'. Whatever that is. Maybe that's the plan? Get a degree then stumble around for the rest of my life trying to figure out why."
Seemed college was on a lot of young men's plates in '65. There was a war going on. Not a real big one at the moment but it sure had a lot of potential. For most, the choices were college, the military or for a growing few, let your hair grow and smoke pot. As for me, none of the three appealed. Given the choice, staying up here in the woods with Uncle Emil sounded a whole lot better than any of them. A couple of my friends had been smart enough to get on a waiting list for the Air Force. They were committed to four years of service but weren't gonna die. Might even learn a trade. Had I given the matter some serious thought I'd have seen the one way ticket to Vietnam already in my pocket. Hard to see what you don't want to see.
"So I guess the plan is to go to school 'til I figure out what I want. Or it comes and finds me."
After the second trout Emil'd eased off the bank and into the brook to wade fish. Khakis rolled knee high and barefoot. Said it gave him an edge feeling the same water as the trout. Also made his feet numb so the sharp rocks didn't hurt. The serious nature of our palaver brought him out of the flow. He paused for a moment while sitting on the gravel and wiggled his toes into the beat-up Keds I'd held for him. Not far behind us, back in the woods, rose the sentinels, standing watch over their domain.
Emil gestured inland, "I sure do like those white pines. Been there for centuries and now they're forced to share their land with us. Wonder how they like it? 'Course the rocks were there a few hundred million years earlier and'll be there 'til the planet grows cold. Guess it's okay if we share their turf for a few years."
He paused for a few seconds, lost in thought.
"Archie me lad, don't think what you're going through is anything different than what we went through. Back during World War II not every one of us was fired up about fighting the Germans or the Japanese. Was more like we felt an obligation. The country called, we went, simple as that. We did what we felt had to be done. Not that every man-jack of us was hell bent for leather. You have to question the sanity of anyone who actually wants to go into combat once he realizes the horror of it. People get killed there. Lots of them. And the odds're pretty good one of them could be you."
"But you know, our war was almost a crusade compared to what you're facing. Not trying to push you one way or the other and this is just my opinion, but I can't see any reason at all why we've stuck our noses into Southeast Asia. There's no bad boys over there threatening the safety of the world like there was twenty-five years ago. But you see, that's the very reason why you're so screwed. No matter how wrong that war may or may not be, I believe you still have an obligation to our country. It's your problem to figure out what that obligation is. And how you truly feel deep down inside, how much of you is ruled by fear and how much by morality. Also, keep in mind, if you don't go, some other poor fool will. She's a dilemma alright and you're riding high on the horns."
Didn't know what to say. He was dead right. Not many World War II vets felt that way back in '65. Most said it was 'my country right or wrong' which meant keep you mouth shut, suck it up and go to war. Emil at least saw both sides of the issue. With him, as always, it was about being honest with yourself. We returned to camp in silence.
Emil kept his fishing gear stored under the roof of the woodshed. He'd built a simple box out of plywood and secured the contents with hasp and padlock. From it he removed a pair of ultra-light spinning rods and reels. Once in the flow, it didn't take him more than five minutes of flipping a tiny spinner to hook up with a small brook trout, laughing all the while about his expertise. Me, I was quite happy to sit on the bank and watch the man.
Like the trout he finally coaxed to shore, Emil was soon off and running, "Sorry about today. Archie me lad, you outworked me double. Would have done more had I been able but remember what I said way back in the beginning. You're the muscle in this operation, I'm the brain. Unless of course, you figure out a better angle on how to do something. This game is near as new to me as it is to you. I've driven my share of nails but never took on a whole building before. Truth be known, I've got a general idea of what we're doing but an idea ain't the same as knowing. You never know exactly what's around the corner 'til you get there. Did some research in the Uniform Building Code manual. Got some advice from friends in the trades. And checked with city hall down in Grand Marais so's I could get the needed permits. I'm as ready as can be but that doesn't mean I'm overflowing with confidence my cabin won't fall over with the first good fart."
"So here's what I learned in a nut shell. Square, level, plumb and don't skimp on the nails. Don't overdo them either. And seeing as how I'm fifty-nine, don't do any more than you can in any given day. When it comes to sheer grunt work, Archie me lad, you're my right arm."
Was he snowing me? Nah. Work was what I'd come to do and was exactly what I was doing. No complaints. Outside of sore hands, abraded arms, knees that felt like they'd hoisted the Empire State Building half an inch and absolutely no desire to fish, I felt just fine. In short, I was a walking dead man.
"So, tell me about your plans for the next few years."
Took a minute of staring at the riffle below and Emil playing and losing a brook trout of size for me to answer,
" Huh? Plans you say? Well, I suppose my plan is to get some kind of degree. And at the moment I have no idea what degree that might be. Not a clue. Don't even know why I'm actually going to college. Most everyone expects me to. Oh yeah, about all anyone has told me for the last year is (in a high falsetto voice) 'young man you're college material'. Whatever that is. Maybe that's the plan? Get a degree then stumble around for the rest of my life trying to figure out why."
Seemed college was on a lot of young men's plates in '65. There was a war going on. Not a real big one at the moment but it sure had a lot of potential. For most, the choices were college, the military or for a growing few, let your hair grow and smoke pot. As for me, none of the three appealed. Given the choice, staying up here in the woods with Uncle Emil sounded a whole lot better than any of them. A couple of my friends had been smart enough to get on a waiting list for the Air Force. They were committed to four years of service but weren't gonna die. Might even learn a trade. Had I given the matter some serious thought I'd have seen the one way ticket to Vietnam already in my pocket. Hard to see what you don't want to see.
"So I guess the plan is to go to school 'til I figure out what I want. Or it comes and finds me."
After the second trout Emil'd eased off the bank and into the brook to wade fish. Khakis rolled knee high and barefoot. Said it gave him an edge feeling the same water as the trout. Also made his feet numb so the sharp rocks didn't hurt. The serious nature of our palaver brought him out of the flow. He paused for a moment while sitting on the gravel and wiggled his toes into the beat-up Keds I'd held for him. Not far behind us, back in the woods, rose the sentinels, standing watch over their domain.
Emil gestured inland, "I sure do like those white pines. Been there for centuries and now they're forced to share their land with us. Wonder how they like it? 'Course the rocks were there a few hundred million years earlier and'll be there 'til the planet grows cold. Guess it's okay if we share their turf for a few years."
He paused for a few seconds, lost in thought.
"Archie me lad, don't think what you're going through is anything different than what we went through. Back during World War II not every one of us was fired up about fighting the Germans or the Japanese. Was more like we felt an obligation. The country called, we went, simple as that. We did what we felt had to be done. Not that every man-jack of us was hell bent for leather. You have to question the sanity of anyone who actually wants to go into combat once he realizes the horror of it. People get killed there. Lots of them. And the odds're pretty good one of them could be you."
"But you know, our war was almost a crusade compared to what you're facing. Not trying to push you one way or the other and this is just my opinion, but I can't see any reason at all why we've stuck our noses into Southeast Asia. There's no bad boys over there threatening the safety of the world like there was twenty-five years ago. But you see, that's the very reason why you're so screwed. No matter how wrong that war may or may not be, I believe you still have an obligation to our country. It's your problem to figure out what that obligation is. And how you truly feel deep down inside, how much of you is ruled by fear and how much by morality. Also, keep in mind, if you don't go, some other poor fool will. She's a dilemma alright and you're riding high on the horns."
Didn't know what to say. He was dead right. Not many World War II vets felt that way back in '65. Most said it was 'my country right or wrong' which meant keep you mouth shut, suck it up and go to war. Emil at least saw both sides of the issue. With him, as always, it was about being honest with yourself. We returned to camp in silence.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Emil's Cabin VIII - Work Begins
Over the years I'd grown used to Emil being my alarm clock. In his working days he'd learned daylight was not something to be wasted. And he hadn't forgotten. As Emil saw it, sunlight striking the tent while he was still snuggled in the bag was the shortcut to hell. So, by sunrise we were already doing breakfast dishes.
"Doesn't take much to make a man happy. We've water aplenty, a roof of sorts over our heads, fire when required, food and best of all, four or five tons of rock to relocate. Probably could've had the Andersen's do the last few rocks but I didn't want you to miss out on the fun of boulder relocation. Would've been a lot easier had Mother Nature shown a little foresight when she was putting heat to the glaciers. The well truck was able to negotiate the trail 'cause of its high carriage. Not so the Nomad, therefore the Ford. Anyhow, that's the plan for today. Rule number one for the day is don't do anything worse than chip a nail. Number two is don't chip a nail."
Ten minutes later we were hiking through the dappled shade of the forest toward the truck, a pair of six foot, steel digging bars in hand. In the wheelbarrow, two shovels, the come-along and Emil's version of a logging chain sling shot.
"Uncle Emil, this isn't what I had in mind when thinking of how your cabin would be built. When you asked, I had visions of saws and hammers and lumber. One day we'd be looking at open ground, a week or two later we'd be pulling up to the finished building after a hard day on the water. Can't exactly say I'm surprised at what we're up to but mucking boulders sure never entered my thoughts."
"Archie me lad, the world is built from the ground up. Basics first. Even God had to start by turning on the light so He wouldn't stumble over an angel snoozing in the hallway while on His way to the john in the middle of the night."
Emil paused then asked, "Can God drink enough iced tea to overload an infinitely big bladder? Sounds like something the Cardinals might have come to fisticuffs over during the Reformation. Anyhow the point is, we can't use the lumber 'til we get the lumber. Can't get the lumber 'til the mill can make it up the driveway. Don't need the lumber 'til we finish building the piers. And building the piers is as much a mystery as the boulders waiting for us in the driveway. There's the plan in my head and there's the reality of the situation to be revealed when we break ground. Who knows what surprises might lie beneath? Spanish treasure? Viking swords? Most likely lots of rock."
We started by the truck. Emil figured the closer the Ford was to camp, the less we had to walk when heading to town. Along the way we passed a couple dozen boulders of size. Most looked like no problem for two men with steel levers, strong backs and weak minds. A couple might have been a half ton plus. Like the pier holes we wouldn't know for sure how big they were 'til we started excavating.
Warmed up with a pair of the little ones. In less than five minutes they were off the track. Our first stone of size was another story. Took near a half hour of digging, a length of birch log as a fulcrum and a whole lot of four letter encouragement before it came to rest out of harm's way. I swear my sweat stood on end when we turned the nob up to full leg and back. So it went. Then we came upon the first true beast.
"I've considered the possibility of dynamite and churned over the use of large helium balloons in hopes of floating this chunk of glacier scat off to the side. Even thought of resurrecting Archimedes and his long-enough lever to lend a hand. Unfortunately for you and me our method will involve back strain."
We dug for half an hour. Sweat every minute of it in the shade of spruce and popple. Self-caused misery in Eden. Thankfully we were there to work and were rewarded in spades. She was either a boulder iceberg or a pimple on the bedrock beneath. Finally it no longer mattered how big the grey slab might be since it'd already passed into 'too big to move' territory.
I slowly raised up out of my cramped stoop, "So what's the answer Uncle Emil?"
"Well, if we can't move the rock, we have to move the driveway." My jaw dropped. "Not the whole driveway Archie me lad. Just that jack pine ten feet back. Sure didn't want to drop anymore trees but we've no choice. First let's go catch us some lunch."
By afternoon's end all that remained was removing the jack pine. Never once did we use Emil's chain sling. My poor uncle was near tears. "A lot of thought went into its creation. And there it sits like a forgotten child. A pity, but who knows, maybe it'll come in handy as a seining net for whales?"
Turned out the second of the beasts was no more than a chip. Half ton chip to be sure but three flips and all we had left to deal with was the hole. Learned there's levels of strength in my body I didn't know existed. Can't say much more than hard's what you see coming and easy's in the past.
Also re-learned moving stone makes a body one with the earth. Seems like an inevitability when I'm with Emil. By that I don't mean anything philosophical. Both of us were coated, head to foot with mud, moss and sweat. There were places on my body to run an itty-bitty John Deere and plant a decent crop of corn. But tired and sore as we were, once back in camp we headed straight for the pump. Emil said if we didn't clean up right away we sure wouldn't feel like it come evening. And we might start to rot. Dinner was sandwiches, lots of ham and cheese sandwiches.
"Uncle Emil, this isn't what I had in mind when thinking of how your cabin would be built. When you asked, I had visions of saws and hammers and lumber. One day we'd be looking at open ground, a week or two later we'd be pulling up to the finished building after a hard day on the water. Can't exactly say I'm surprised at what we're up to but mucking boulders sure never entered my thoughts."
"Archie me lad, the world is built from the ground up. Basics first. Even God had to start by turning on the light so He wouldn't stumble over an angel snoozing in the hallway while on His way to the john in the middle of the night."
Emil paused then asked, "Can God drink enough iced tea to overload an infinitely big bladder? Sounds like something the Cardinals might have come to fisticuffs over during the Reformation. Anyhow the point is, we can't use the lumber 'til we get the lumber. Can't get the lumber 'til the mill can make it up the driveway. Don't need the lumber 'til we finish building the piers. And building the piers is as much a mystery as the boulders waiting for us in the driveway. There's the plan in my head and there's the reality of the situation to be revealed when we break ground. Who knows what surprises might lie beneath? Spanish treasure? Viking swords? Most likely lots of rock."
We started by the truck. Emil figured the closer the Ford was to camp, the less we had to walk when heading to town. Along the way we passed a couple dozen boulders of size. Most looked like no problem for two men with steel levers, strong backs and weak minds. A couple might have been a half ton plus. Like the pier holes we wouldn't know for sure how big they were 'til we started excavating.
Warmed up with a pair of the little ones. In less than five minutes they were off the track. Our first stone of size was another story. Took near a half hour of digging, a length of birch log as a fulcrum and a whole lot of four letter encouragement before it came to rest out of harm's way. I swear my sweat stood on end when we turned the nob up to full leg and back. So it went. Then we came upon the first true beast.
"I've considered the possibility of dynamite and churned over the use of large helium balloons in hopes of floating this chunk of glacier scat off to the side. Even thought of resurrecting Archimedes and his long-enough lever to lend a hand. Unfortunately for you and me our method will involve back strain."
We dug for half an hour. Sweat every minute of it in the shade of spruce and popple. Self-caused misery in Eden. Thankfully we were there to work and were rewarded in spades. She was either a boulder iceberg or a pimple on the bedrock beneath. Finally it no longer mattered how big the grey slab might be since it'd already passed into 'too big to move' territory.
I slowly raised up out of my cramped stoop, "So what's the answer Uncle Emil?"
"Well, if we can't move the rock, we have to move the driveway." My jaw dropped. "Not the whole driveway Archie me lad. Just that jack pine ten feet back. Sure didn't want to drop anymore trees but we've no choice. First let's go catch us some lunch."
By afternoon's end all that remained was removing the jack pine. Never once did we use Emil's chain sling. My poor uncle was near tears. "A lot of thought went into its creation. And there it sits like a forgotten child. A pity, but who knows, maybe it'll come in handy as a seining net for whales?"
Turned out the second of the beasts was no more than a chip. Half ton chip to be sure but three flips and all we had left to deal with was the hole. Learned there's levels of strength in my body I didn't know existed. Can't say much more than hard's what you see coming and easy's in the past.
Also re-learned moving stone makes a body one with the earth. Seems like an inevitability when I'm with Emil. By that I don't mean anything philosophical. Both of us were coated, head to foot with mud, moss and sweat. There were places on my body to run an itty-bitty John Deere and plant a decent crop of corn. But tired and sore as we were, once back in camp we headed straight for the pump. Emil said if we didn't clean up right away we sure wouldn't feel like it come evening. And we might start to rot. Dinner was sandwiches, lots of ham and cheese sandwiches.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Emil's Cabin VII - We Talk it Over
Emil let the chops simmer for over an hour.
"No need for a knife tonight unless it's for spreading butter on the bannock. Um, um, I do like my pork chops. And like them tender to the bone. It's all about the tomatoes and onions. Throw in some broccoli to steam on top of the mix and you've got the four basic food groups, red, white, green and pig. What say we wash this down with a couple of brews. Archie me lad, that's your first go-fer."
My Uncle figured if you're going to work like a man, the laws of alcohol consumption could be stretched a bit. Besides, it was just us and the bugs. Throw in an everything in moderation and all was right with the world. I appreciated the offer. Even had a Grain Belt but to be honest I preferred water, milk, juice or coke. Hard to enjoy something if you don't like how it tastes.
A hundred feet back from camp was the cat hole for nature's necessity. Eventually it'd become an outhouse but for now it was open to the breezes. On my first visit I spied a field mouse in the pit. I questioned its choices in life. Hoped my future held better judgement but, one way or the other, me and the mouse would end up the same.
As the sun lowered we settled in to await the arrival of night. Couple of hours with time on our hands. A year to catch up with coffee and cookies to accompany our conversation.
"Spent last winter down in Florida. Not your senior citizen Florida with the early bird special. Nope, I rented a cabin on Lake Okeechobee. Came with a small boat and motor for a few bucks extra. Played bass master for four months. Don't know if that's a wise thing for a Minnesota boy like me to do. Up here a five pounder's a wall hanger. Down there it's bait. Can't even get an 'ooo-eee that's a big ol' bass' out of the locals unless it's at least ten pounds. Got so I quit bass fishing and took to sunfish instead. Only they don't call 'em sunnies down there. Call 'em brim. The word's actually bream but down south they have their own language. Even wanders over the line into english once in a while."
I had to cut in, "Ten pound bass? How could anyone get tired of ten pounders? 'Spose the brim were three pounds."
"Nope. Nary a one over two. Now the crappies were another story. Near as big as the bass. And weeds? Lord do they have weeds down there. You let a big bass get down into the sedge on the bottom and you better be on a barge with a diesel winch aboard. But I have to tell you Archie me lad, big bass or no, Florida's not Minnesota. Give me that brook down below any day. Or a canoe digging into the wind over on John Lake heading toward the portage into East Pike."
Nothing I could say about that. My mind was already in the bow seat bent into a power stroke with Emil to the rear giving me all the grief in the world. I wanted to hit the water so badly it hurt.
"What's the plan for the next week?"
"Simple, we work like dogs for ten or more hours each day. Keep at it till we run out of clean clothes and food then head to town for the laundromat and grocery store. Catch a meal while in Grand Marais, hit the saw mill, then head back up the Gunflint and do it all over again. Simple, eh?"
I could live with that but didn't exactly want to. Where was the fishing, the canoeing and the days with nothing but time on our hands? Guess the disappointment in my eyes gave it away.
"Oh yeah, almost forgot. Some evenings we'll work the stream for a few brookies. Maybe even try our luck on a couple of others. Or head off on a trip or two into the border waters. Can't put the good stuff off 'til tomorrow all the time. As I see it, we'll be on the run until you pack up and head home for school in september. Okay with you?"
"Sure." Nothing else I could say. I was there for the summer no matter what.
"Before we turn in there's something you need to see."
He rose and led me down a deer path paralleling the stream.
"Keep your distance or you'll get a face whippin' from the brush. Back in training when we learned about patrolling we were told to keep fifteen yards between us. Doubt we'll be ambushed tonight but get too close and you'll quickly learn to back off."
The trail told me deer walk head down or were shorter than I thought. Didn't know what to expect 'til they were in sight. Pines, really big pines, surrounded on the forest floor by a lake of long, narrow cones. Just a pair of the trees, indication of roots rising from the duff, side by side and rising to the sky.
"I think of them as sentinels, keeping watch over the forest, making sure all below shows respect to the land. Spotted them last fall when the woods opened up after the leaves were down. Never measured either one. Doubt I ever will. Figure they might be four feet on the stump and something over a hundred foot tall. Probably been here since Ben Franklin was a baby. Before the forest was clear cut there might have been thousands in the area even bigger. Figure these were saved by the Weldons. Smart move and a blessing. Makes me feel good just knowing these white pines are still here."
We remained staring skyward 'til our necks gave out.
In the tent, my cot with air mattress atop was as good as a bed. The day had been a glory of sun and warmth. Not so the night. In the land of frost the ground rules the night. Once the sun sets, an extra layer of protection is called for. In the bag that night I slept with a stocking cap on. Heat is good. My eyes shut and I was dead to the world.
"No need for a knife tonight unless it's for spreading butter on the bannock. Um, um, I do like my pork chops. And like them tender to the bone. It's all about the tomatoes and onions. Throw in some broccoli to steam on top of the mix and you've got the four basic food groups, red, white, green and pig. What say we wash this down with a couple of brews. Archie me lad, that's your first go-fer."
My Uncle figured if you're going to work like a man, the laws of alcohol consumption could be stretched a bit. Besides, it was just us and the bugs. Throw in an everything in moderation and all was right with the world. I appreciated the offer. Even had a Grain Belt but to be honest I preferred water, milk, juice or coke. Hard to enjoy something if you don't like how it tastes.
A hundred feet back from camp was the cat hole for nature's necessity. Eventually it'd become an outhouse but for now it was open to the breezes. On my first visit I spied a field mouse in the pit. I questioned its choices in life. Hoped my future held better judgement but, one way or the other, me and the mouse would end up the same.
As the sun lowered we settled in to await the arrival of night. Couple of hours with time on our hands. A year to catch up with coffee and cookies to accompany our conversation.
"Spent last winter down in Florida. Not your senior citizen Florida with the early bird special. Nope, I rented a cabin on Lake Okeechobee. Came with a small boat and motor for a few bucks extra. Played bass master for four months. Don't know if that's a wise thing for a Minnesota boy like me to do. Up here a five pounder's a wall hanger. Down there it's bait. Can't even get an 'ooo-eee that's a big ol' bass' out of the locals unless it's at least ten pounds. Got so I quit bass fishing and took to sunfish instead. Only they don't call 'em sunnies down there. Call 'em brim. The word's actually bream but down south they have their own language. Even wanders over the line into english once in a while."
I had to cut in, "Ten pound bass? How could anyone get tired of ten pounders? 'Spose the brim were three pounds."
"Nope. Nary a one over two. Now the crappies were another story. Near as big as the bass. And weeds? Lord do they have weeds down there. You let a big bass get down into the sedge on the bottom and you better be on a barge with a diesel winch aboard. But I have to tell you Archie me lad, big bass or no, Florida's not Minnesota. Give me that brook down below any day. Or a canoe digging into the wind over on John Lake heading toward the portage into East Pike."
Nothing I could say about that. My mind was already in the bow seat bent into a power stroke with Emil to the rear giving me all the grief in the world. I wanted to hit the water so badly it hurt.
"What's the plan for the next week?"
"Simple, we work like dogs for ten or more hours each day. Keep at it till we run out of clean clothes and food then head to town for the laundromat and grocery store. Catch a meal while in Grand Marais, hit the saw mill, then head back up the Gunflint and do it all over again. Simple, eh?"
I could live with that but didn't exactly want to. Where was the fishing, the canoeing and the days with nothing but time on our hands? Guess the disappointment in my eyes gave it away.
"Oh yeah, almost forgot. Some evenings we'll work the stream for a few brookies. Maybe even try our luck on a couple of others. Or head off on a trip or two into the border waters. Can't put the good stuff off 'til tomorrow all the time. As I see it, we'll be on the run until you pack up and head home for school in september. Okay with you?"
"Sure." Nothing else I could say. I was there for the summer no matter what.
"Before we turn in there's something you need to see."
He rose and led me down a deer path paralleling the stream.
"Keep your distance or you'll get a face whippin' from the brush. Back in training when we learned about patrolling we were told to keep fifteen yards between us. Doubt we'll be ambushed tonight but get too close and you'll quickly learn to back off."
The trail told me deer walk head down or were shorter than I thought. Didn't know what to expect 'til they were in sight. Pines, really big pines, surrounded on the forest floor by a lake of long, narrow cones. Just a pair of the trees, indication of roots rising from the duff, side by side and rising to the sky.
"I think of them as sentinels, keeping watch over the forest, making sure all below shows respect to the land. Spotted them last fall when the woods opened up after the leaves were down. Never measured either one. Doubt I ever will. Figure they might be four feet on the stump and something over a hundred foot tall. Probably been here since Ben Franklin was a baby. Before the forest was clear cut there might have been thousands in the area even bigger. Figure these were saved by the Weldons. Smart move and a blessing. Makes me feel good just knowing these white pines are still here."
We remained staring skyward 'til our necks gave out.
In the tent, my cot with air mattress atop was as good as a bed. The day had been a glory of sun and warmth. Not so the night. In the land of frost the ground rules the night. Once the sun sets, an extra layer of protection is called for. In the bag that night I slept with a stocking cap on. Heat is good. My eyes shut and I was dead to the world.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Emil's Cabin VI - Into the Forest
We left Grand Marais with a truckful of food and gear stowed in the back. A pair of large metal coolers stuffed with fresh food and ice, two boxes of canned and dry food, tools for me, a couple of hundred yards of rope and a pair of small tarps. Throw in our clothes and camping gear and she was a load. Took a right onto the Gunflint Trail at the wood cutout of a buckskinned voyageur with an upturned birch bark canoe atop. I wondered aloud if all the canoes in the old days were lettered upside down so they could easily be read by tourists when carried.
Took a minute but there was no way Emil could pass on a straight line like that, "Archie me lad, that's an astute observation and right on the money. A few years ago I read that a few of the big Montreal canoes plying the big lakes in the Voyageur days had the entire bible inscribed on their sides, not only upside down but also in reverse and in Latin. Yeah Archie, they even had codes back then. Didn't want the Good Book despoiled by non-Catholic eyes. The word of God was considered a sacred privilege entrusted solely to missionaries, not to any of the woods heathens back in the hinterlands. Rather than pack the serious weight of a leather-bound bible, after all weight was money to those fur luggers, the bishop of Montreal had scripture trimmed from leather and stitched beneath the gunwales. Even brought in Japanese kirigami artists - think that's what they call them - to do the detail work since they were better at working on a small scale. Unfortunately, it just so happened the snippers from Nippon knew Latin. Picked it up word of mouth back in the days of Marco Polo. Seems that Zen Buddhism and the Latin language shared space on the same Chinese junk from old Cathay way back in the fourteenth century."
"Their's was a secret society much like the Masons. Oddly enough, the code they used when writing their bylaws was Latin, upside-down and in reverse. Even had their own handshake that imitated cranes in flight. You might want to do some research on that someday. Anyhow, it turned out those Japanese had a strange sense of humor, loved puns and had no problem altering the word of God just to get a laugh. One of their odd takes nearly got Father Hennepin Jr. skinned alive when he read from the words of St. Paul one day up by Cumberland House in Manitoba."
"Archie me lad, Father Hennepin Jr.'s a whole 'nother story in himself. No matter how holy, priest's are also men and subject to the ways of the flesh. Kind of like Christ being God and man at the same time. Back in the Voyageur days, the missionaries - sounds a lot like mercenaries doesn't it ? - would be off to the wilderness for years at a time. Men got lonely back then, still do, probably always will. Mother Church didn't say anything about such affairs so long as the loved one was a biped. Seems Hennepin Jr. was born down near what's now St. Paul. Half French from his daddy's, Father Hennepin Sr., side, half Lakota. What they used to call a Metis. Come the spring there was no doubt as to the lady's condition. After the birth Father Hennepin Sr., being the gentleman he was, sent both mother and child packing on the next slow canoe to France where Junior was raised. Studied painting in his teens at what eventually became the Sorbonne. Gave it up when his instructors said his work was too primitive. Seems his idea of art involved painting buffaloes on hide. Anyhow, with no prospects for the future Junior took up the cloth and went to go work with his dad."
"Long story short, word got back to Montreal about him nearly dying by the hands of asian irony and all the Japanese were sent home in disgrace. Lost a lot of face. Seems the Japanese never forgot the way they were treated up here in North America. Next thing you know, a few centuries later they were bombing Pearl Harbor. Talk about revenge as a dish best served cold. As usual, there's a lesson in there someplace. Beats me what it is."
Emil's tract was up the McFarland Road but since we already had six miles of the Gunflint to our rear, we continued on.
"There's a forestry road another ten miles inland that'll take us over to the McFarland Road. Slower driving but a lot shorter. With any luck we might come upon Bigfoot."
The Gunflint Trail lacked the rustic feel of the McFarland Road. Like comparing a chocolate chip cookie to a slice of homemade bread. Once wed left the mill and passed the Devil Track River, the shaded road was nothing but a slice in the forest, rarely straight, curved along lake shores or down and over streams that looked to be in an awful hurry to drop their load into the big lake a few miles below. Emil and I had been over our share of tracks in the wilderness but the Gunflint stood head and shoulders in beauty above them all. Made me almost wish my Uncle had found land up this way. Apparently his mind was elsewhere. as he rambled on,
"Last fall I concocted a refrigerator of sorts. The idea came when drilling the well. Once the water ran clear I gave it a taste. It was sweet alright but also so cold it nearly cracked my teeth. No matter how thirsty, I have to sip it carefully to avoid freezing my brain. Then this idea hatched for chilling beer and soda by pumping a bucketful of water and setting the bottles inside for twenty minutes. Worked fine. A refresh of the water and in another ten minutes the beer was icy. So I asked the boys how cold it'd be at the bottom of a hole four or five feet deep. Cold enough to keep food fresh? They gave me a shoulder shrug and a 'maybe'. Anyhow, when we get there, you'll see."
Once on the crossover I knew Emil'd made the right choice. The Gunflint was beautiful alright but way too civilized. A road on which to pull over now and then with your camera in hand. The crossover was there to transport logging trucks, locals and fishermen. Along the way Emil pointed out a few trout lakes named after vegetables. He wasn't sure the reason. Maybe the trappers and loggers who'd named them were short a few things in their diet? Emil figured there was meat aplenty to be had back in the old days. Moose, caribou, deer, squirrel, rabbit, even skunk if you let it ripen long enough. What we were passing seemed a recipe for the stew they longed for. Onion Lake, Parsnip Lake, Carrot Lake, Bean Lake. I figured Emil was blowing smoke but sure enough all those lakes were on the map.
Coming around a sharp curve just past South Bean Lake - guess which lake was to the north? - we nearly ran into the backside of an antlerless bull moose. I turned to Emil and in my best Boris Badenov voice from 'Rocky and His Friends', asked "Where is squirrel?" Emil merely pointed down and to our right. Sure enough, there atop a stump perched a pine squirrel shelling a cone for seeds.
Maybe 'cause we weren't scrambling for a camera Bullwinkle merely turned his head and gave us an unconcerned stare, "Well I'll be darned, a blue and white, four wheel drive, Ford pickup truck. Maybe if I ignore them they'll go away?" He was wrong. We waited. He waited. Then he slowly disappeared into the alder brush beside the ditch. Five miles of sand and gravel later we joined with the McFarland Road less than a mile south of Aspen Brook.
Took a lot of zig-zag and close attention to drive the rutted two track of Emil's driveway. Jostled in a hundred yards and parked.
"We're here. Any farther and it'd be 'so long oil pan'. Consider this a portage to our camp up ahead. Grab the light stuff. I've got a wheelbarrow at the site. Yessir, the wheel was one fine invention."
Hard to call the remaining few hundred yards a driveway. Rolled, bumped and thumped its way through pine and stands of brush. Puddle here, trickle there. Then opened to Emil's tract of civilization. Camp wasn't much but even I could see what it would evolve into someday. Close to an acre, brushed and cleared. Stack of split wood, tent, fire ring that'd already seen some use and an open sided shed of sorts. Didn't take but a few seconds to know we weren't alone.
"What's with these biting gnats? Near as I can figure they must have a thing for mucus and eyeballs. I've swatted a few and they squash red."
Emil laughed, "Give 'em a minute or two and their bites'll start to itch like the dickens. They're black flies and seem to like moving water. And openings in a man's head. Should've been here last week when I was digging out the refrigerator. Bad enough for me to pick up some head nets down at the Ben Franklin. In a day or two they'll be gone. Good thing too, bug spray just makes them hungry. My advice is to roll your shirt sleeves down, stuff your pants in your socks and button your shirt up tight to the neck. Also keep your hat on. You'll sweat a lot and look like a first class dufus but who's to see?"
Emil was right. I buttoned and tucked. Down below, alongside the rush of the brook the air carried a chill like it was holding onto the dregs of winter. Took a few seconds for the black flies to find us and then flocked like crows on road-kill. Wasn't sure if they wanted our blood or to cuddle up for the warmth. But the stream was sure pretty. Pool and rapids right at our feet.
"By the way, black flies and skeeters are the reasons why I've come to dress in drab colors when in the woods. Seems to make a difference. I've heard 'never wear blue' and 'never wear red'. As far as I can see it makes more sense to look like the woods. Brown, olive green, gray, even blue jeans with some wear to them. Just don't run around looking as bright as a neon sign."
Emil turned to the stream, "Near as I can figure there's trout from one end of the property line to the other. Outside of my little stretch there's nothing but public land from Devilfish Lake to the border. Oddly enough I bought this parcel from one of the lumber baron families. They don't do lumber anymore but still live like barons. Bein' a baron costs a lot these days and the dollars I paid them will keep 'em in French champagne for a coupla months.
"Should you care to take notice, down below in the pool just to the far side of the current, there's a brookie feeding. See that tiny ring on the water with the bubble in the middle?"
Took a moment to focus my eyes but the trout was there alright. Almost a shadow. Didn't appear more than hand long. Laid there finning on the graveled bottom then gracefully rose to the surface. Glup! Suckin' 'em down.
While staring at the water I asked, "What's it feeding on?"
"Don't exactly know. Mayflies or ants I suppose. Might behoove me to find out someday. With luck they're eating black flies. If so, it sure beats the flies eating us. Go get 'em brookie!"
Back up the bank Emil showed me his refrigerator. Wasn't obvious at first. Over near the backside of the clearing stood a roof supported by a half dozen poles half-filled with split and stacked firewood.
"I sat on the icebox idea for a few days. Let it age like cheese. Archie me lad, I don't know where ideas come from. One moment they're not there, the next moment the lightbulb's on. Plink! Guess you could say that a person doesn't create ideas, just let's himself be open to them. Ask a question, let it sit for a while, then sure enough, an answer pops. It was raining buckets one day when I saw the flaw in my idea. Had this vision of coolers floating in a hole. Heck, what I needed to keep the rain off was a roof. A roof big enough to cover the icebox and also store four or five cords of firewood. What you see over there is what I built. A design old as the hills. A little reading told me my cooler idea was nothing new either."
We wandered over to the wood shed. Near its center Emil showed me a four foot by three foot plywood box with a lid that could be latched and was set down into a four foot deep, hand dug hole in the ground.
"There's a few rocks on the bottom to keep my double cooler sized box high and dry. Seems to stay about forty-four degrees down at the bottom. A ten pound block of ice will last a near to a week. No way is it easy for me to hoist a cooler but Archie, that's where you come in. I'll be head chef and you'll be my go-fer, as in 'go-fer the hamburger and onions." Funny man. Good thing I had long arms.
Took about an hour to haul the rest of the gear. Then checked out the tent. Seemed my uncle had gone hi-tech 60's style. Nearly twice the size of his boonies set up. Had more than enough room for two cots and our necessaries.
Even with our early start in Minneapolis, it was pushing five o'clock. Tent up, grate over the fire pit and Coleman stove propped on a tarped over, homemade, solid as a rock, plank table. Had the canoe been beached alongside the brook, we could've been anywhere on the Canadian Shield.
"The Grumman's back in the woods a few yards. Didn't think I'd forget that did you Archie me lad? Without a boat there'd not be much reason for being where we are. As camps go this is still a tad on the rough side. Give us three months and she'll be home. Though I suppose I'm already home. The closest thing I have to a house is the tent. Houseless but not homeless in the Arrowhead. Oh me, on my. Let's you and me get to gettin'. Rustle us up some dinner."
'Til we turned in for the night it was just like old times on the canoe trail. Dinner began with building a fire. While Emil commenced chopping onions for his simmered pork chops and vegetables - yes sir, he did that well - I began mixing and pounding the bannock. We had the drill down to an art. In truth, we did manage passably and knew the art would come in a day or two.
What had changed was our tobacco habits. Emil no longer smoked in any shape or form and it was me who now packed the cigarettes. And had been for a couple of years. Emil had little to say about my habit except, "between you and me and the wall, I don't care," then proceeded to show me how to field strip a butt and pitch it in the campfire ring. He was always a stickler for a clean camp. Seemed he knew young men in his family well enough that somewhere down the road, I'd have my regrets and kick the habit. Or maybe die a long painful death from any one of fourteen different cancers. Or, worst of all become a door knocking Mormon.
Took a minute but there was no way Emil could pass on a straight line like that, "Archie me lad, that's an astute observation and right on the money. A few years ago I read that a few of the big Montreal canoes plying the big lakes in the Voyageur days had the entire bible inscribed on their sides, not only upside down but also in reverse and in Latin. Yeah Archie, they even had codes back then. Didn't want the Good Book despoiled by non-Catholic eyes. The word of God was considered a sacred privilege entrusted solely to missionaries, not to any of the woods heathens back in the hinterlands. Rather than pack the serious weight of a leather-bound bible, after all weight was money to those fur luggers, the bishop of Montreal had scripture trimmed from leather and stitched beneath the gunwales. Even brought in Japanese kirigami artists - think that's what they call them - to do the detail work since they were better at working on a small scale. Unfortunately, it just so happened the snippers from Nippon knew Latin. Picked it up word of mouth back in the days of Marco Polo. Seems that Zen Buddhism and the Latin language shared space on the same Chinese junk from old Cathay way back in the fourteenth century."
"Their's was a secret society much like the Masons. Oddly enough, the code they used when writing their bylaws was Latin, upside-down and in reverse. Even had their own handshake that imitated cranes in flight. You might want to do some research on that someday. Anyhow, it turned out those Japanese had a strange sense of humor, loved puns and had no problem altering the word of God just to get a laugh. One of their odd takes nearly got Father Hennepin Jr. skinned alive when he read from the words of St. Paul one day up by Cumberland House in Manitoba."
"Archie me lad, Father Hennepin Jr.'s a whole 'nother story in himself. No matter how holy, priest's are also men and subject to the ways of the flesh. Kind of like Christ being God and man at the same time. Back in the Voyageur days, the missionaries - sounds a lot like mercenaries doesn't it ? - would be off to the wilderness for years at a time. Men got lonely back then, still do, probably always will. Mother Church didn't say anything about such affairs so long as the loved one was a biped. Seems Hennepin Jr. was born down near what's now St. Paul. Half French from his daddy's, Father Hennepin Sr., side, half Lakota. What they used to call a Metis. Come the spring there was no doubt as to the lady's condition. After the birth Father Hennepin Sr., being the gentleman he was, sent both mother and child packing on the next slow canoe to France where Junior was raised. Studied painting in his teens at what eventually became the Sorbonne. Gave it up when his instructors said his work was too primitive. Seems his idea of art involved painting buffaloes on hide. Anyhow, with no prospects for the future Junior took up the cloth and went to go work with his dad."
"Long story short, word got back to Montreal about him nearly dying by the hands of asian irony and all the Japanese were sent home in disgrace. Lost a lot of face. Seems the Japanese never forgot the way they were treated up here in North America. Next thing you know, a few centuries later they were bombing Pearl Harbor. Talk about revenge as a dish best served cold. As usual, there's a lesson in there someplace. Beats me what it is."
Emil's tract was up the McFarland Road but since we already had six miles of the Gunflint to our rear, we continued on.
"There's a forestry road another ten miles inland that'll take us over to the McFarland Road. Slower driving but a lot shorter. With any luck we might come upon Bigfoot."
The Gunflint Trail lacked the rustic feel of the McFarland Road. Like comparing a chocolate chip cookie to a slice of homemade bread. Once wed left the mill and passed the Devil Track River, the shaded road was nothing but a slice in the forest, rarely straight, curved along lake shores or down and over streams that looked to be in an awful hurry to drop their load into the big lake a few miles below. Emil and I had been over our share of tracks in the wilderness but the Gunflint stood head and shoulders in beauty above them all. Made me almost wish my Uncle had found land up this way. Apparently his mind was elsewhere. as he rambled on,
"Last fall I concocted a refrigerator of sorts. The idea came when drilling the well. Once the water ran clear I gave it a taste. It was sweet alright but also so cold it nearly cracked my teeth. No matter how thirsty, I have to sip it carefully to avoid freezing my brain. Then this idea hatched for chilling beer and soda by pumping a bucketful of water and setting the bottles inside for twenty minutes. Worked fine. A refresh of the water and in another ten minutes the beer was icy. So I asked the boys how cold it'd be at the bottom of a hole four or five feet deep. Cold enough to keep food fresh? They gave me a shoulder shrug and a 'maybe'. Anyhow, when we get there, you'll see."
Once on the crossover I knew Emil'd made the right choice. The Gunflint was beautiful alright but way too civilized. A road on which to pull over now and then with your camera in hand. The crossover was there to transport logging trucks, locals and fishermen. Along the way Emil pointed out a few trout lakes named after vegetables. He wasn't sure the reason. Maybe the trappers and loggers who'd named them were short a few things in their diet? Emil figured there was meat aplenty to be had back in the old days. Moose, caribou, deer, squirrel, rabbit, even skunk if you let it ripen long enough. What we were passing seemed a recipe for the stew they longed for. Onion Lake, Parsnip Lake, Carrot Lake, Bean Lake. I figured Emil was blowing smoke but sure enough all those lakes were on the map.
Coming around a sharp curve just past South Bean Lake - guess which lake was to the north? - we nearly ran into the backside of an antlerless bull moose. I turned to Emil and in my best Boris Badenov voice from 'Rocky and His Friends', asked "Where is squirrel?" Emil merely pointed down and to our right. Sure enough, there atop a stump perched a pine squirrel shelling a cone for seeds.
Maybe 'cause we weren't scrambling for a camera Bullwinkle merely turned his head and gave us an unconcerned stare, "Well I'll be darned, a blue and white, four wheel drive, Ford pickup truck. Maybe if I ignore them they'll go away?" He was wrong. We waited. He waited. Then he slowly disappeared into the alder brush beside the ditch. Five miles of sand and gravel later we joined with the McFarland Road less than a mile south of Aspen Brook.
Took a lot of zig-zag and close attention to drive the rutted two track of Emil's driveway. Jostled in a hundred yards and parked.
"We're here. Any farther and it'd be 'so long oil pan'. Consider this a portage to our camp up ahead. Grab the light stuff. I've got a wheelbarrow at the site. Yessir, the wheel was one fine invention."
Hard to call the remaining few hundred yards a driveway. Rolled, bumped and thumped its way through pine and stands of brush. Puddle here, trickle there. Then opened to Emil's tract of civilization. Camp wasn't much but even I could see what it would evolve into someday. Close to an acre, brushed and cleared. Stack of split wood, tent, fire ring that'd already seen some use and an open sided shed of sorts. Didn't take but a few seconds to know we weren't alone.
"What's with these biting gnats? Near as I can figure they must have a thing for mucus and eyeballs. I've swatted a few and they squash red."
Emil laughed, "Give 'em a minute or two and their bites'll start to itch like the dickens. They're black flies and seem to like moving water. And openings in a man's head. Should've been here last week when I was digging out the refrigerator. Bad enough for me to pick up some head nets down at the Ben Franklin. In a day or two they'll be gone. Good thing too, bug spray just makes them hungry. My advice is to roll your shirt sleeves down, stuff your pants in your socks and button your shirt up tight to the neck. Also keep your hat on. You'll sweat a lot and look like a first class dufus but who's to see?"
Emil was right. I buttoned and tucked. Down below, alongside the rush of the brook the air carried a chill like it was holding onto the dregs of winter. Took a few seconds for the black flies to find us and then flocked like crows on road-kill. Wasn't sure if they wanted our blood or to cuddle up for the warmth. But the stream was sure pretty. Pool and rapids right at our feet.
"By the way, black flies and skeeters are the reasons why I've come to dress in drab colors when in the woods. Seems to make a difference. I've heard 'never wear blue' and 'never wear red'. As far as I can see it makes more sense to look like the woods. Brown, olive green, gray, even blue jeans with some wear to them. Just don't run around looking as bright as a neon sign."
Emil turned to the stream, "Near as I can figure there's trout from one end of the property line to the other. Outside of my little stretch there's nothing but public land from Devilfish Lake to the border. Oddly enough I bought this parcel from one of the lumber baron families. They don't do lumber anymore but still live like barons. Bein' a baron costs a lot these days and the dollars I paid them will keep 'em in French champagne for a coupla months.
"Should you care to take notice, down below in the pool just to the far side of the current, there's a brookie feeding. See that tiny ring on the water with the bubble in the middle?"
Took a moment to focus my eyes but the trout was there alright. Almost a shadow. Didn't appear more than hand long. Laid there finning on the graveled bottom then gracefully rose to the surface. Glup! Suckin' 'em down.
While staring at the water I asked, "What's it feeding on?"
"Don't exactly know. Mayflies or ants I suppose. Might behoove me to find out someday. With luck they're eating black flies. If so, it sure beats the flies eating us. Go get 'em brookie!"
Back up the bank Emil showed me his refrigerator. Wasn't obvious at first. Over near the backside of the clearing stood a roof supported by a half dozen poles half-filled with split and stacked firewood.
"I sat on the icebox idea for a few days. Let it age like cheese. Archie me lad, I don't know where ideas come from. One moment they're not there, the next moment the lightbulb's on. Plink! Guess you could say that a person doesn't create ideas, just let's himself be open to them. Ask a question, let it sit for a while, then sure enough, an answer pops. It was raining buckets one day when I saw the flaw in my idea. Had this vision of coolers floating in a hole. Heck, what I needed to keep the rain off was a roof. A roof big enough to cover the icebox and also store four or five cords of firewood. What you see over there is what I built. A design old as the hills. A little reading told me my cooler idea was nothing new either."
We wandered over to the wood shed. Near its center Emil showed me a four foot by three foot plywood box with a lid that could be latched and was set down into a four foot deep, hand dug hole in the ground.
"There's a few rocks on the bottom to keep my double cooler sized box high and dry. Seems to stay about forty-four degrees down at the bottom. A ten pound block of ice will last a near to a week. No way is it easy for me to hoist a cooler but Archie, that's where you come in. I'll be head chef and you'll be my go-fer, as in 'go-fer the hamburger and onions." Funny man. Good thing I had long arms.
Took about an hour to haul the rest of the gear. Then checked out the tent. Seemed my uncle had gone hi-tech 60's style. Nearly twice the size of his boonies set up. Had more than enough room for two cots and our necessaries.
Even with our early start in Minneapolis, it was pushing five o'clock. Tent up, grate over the fire pit and Coleman stove propped on a tarped over, homemade, solid as a rock, plank table. Had the canoe been beached alongside the brook, we could've been anywhere on the Canadian Shield.
"The Grumman's back in the woods a few yards. Didn't think I'd forget that did you Archie me lad? Without a boat there'd not be much reason for being where we are. As camps go this is still a tad on the rough side. Give us three months and she'll be home. Though I suppose I'm already home. The closest thing I have to a house is the tent. Houseless but not homeless in the Arrowhead. Oh me, on my. Let's you and me get to gettin'. Rustle us up some dinner."
'Til we turned in for the night it was just like old times on the canoe trail. Dinner began with building a fire. While Emil commenced chopping onions for his simmered pork chops and vegetables - yes sir, he did that well - I began mixing and pounding the bannock. We had the drill down to an art. In truth, we did manage passably and knew the art would come in a day or two.
What had changed was our tobacco habits. Emil no longer smoked in any shape or form and it was me who now packed the cigarettes. And had been for a couple of years. Emil had little to say about my habit except, "between you and me and the wall, I don't care," then proceeded to show me how to field strip a butt and pitch it in the campfire ring. He was always a stickler for a clean camp. Seemed he knew young men in his family well enough that somewhere down the road, I'd have my regrets and kick the habit. Or maybe die a long painful death from any one of fourteen different cancers. Or, worst of all become a door knocking Mormon.
Friday, January 9, 2015
Emil's Cabin V - Lumber
Emil again:
"Never was one to put off 'til tomorrow. Especially now. At fifty-nine a man doesn't know how many sunrises he has left. The war set that nail deep. Don't want to say any more about the war than life's a gift. Pure and simple. Never regretted a moment of what I'd done in the past. Yeah, I'd stumbled my way through a lot of things but regrets? What good would they do me? The way I see it, the past is the past. Once done, learn from it and move on. And do your best to not hurt anyone on the way."
"I know, blah, blah, blah. But I was sneaking up on a time where I could barely put in a full day's work. Short and sweet, the clock was ticking. Come fall I wanted a roof over my head and a fire in the wood stove. My plan was to work the kid like a slave. At eighteen he could sweat from sunrise to sunset and eat like a horse along the way. A good night's sleep and Archie'd be ready to go at it again. Only hoped I could keep up."
"Before buying supplies we stopped at the sawmill atop the ridge above town to settle the bill and arrange delivery of my lumber."
"Over the fall and winter I'd given a lot of thought as to how my cabin would look and how it'd be built. A log structure appealed. Log cabin in the woods alongside a stream sounded about as old school Minnesotan as all get out. Maybe even hew the logs square and dovetail the corners like the Finlanders (or was that the Swedes?). But given a moment of thought I decided this should be my own building as much as possible. Logs brought in outsiders with the skills to turn an idea into reality. Had I been younger, a lot younger, I'd've had time to learn. The gray hair on my head told me to do otherwise. Heck, what I wanted was a place to live from ice out to ice up, not a philosophical statement. Frame house it had to be. Already knew how to build a stud wall and owned most of the tools."
"I could simply've headed to the lumberyard, given them a supply list and written a check. Easy as pie. Except that again brought in other people from start to finish. Their lumber, their machines. As for me I didn't have the machines but I did have sixty-two acres, most of which was forest, a fair amount mature. A lot of birch, mountain maple and big, big pines. Some cedar along the brook. Sure didn't like the idea of felling any of those trees but as I looked around one day in september, I realized the cabin was already standing around me, just in another form. All I'd have to do was rearrange the shape of the trees."
"First off was clearing a driveway and building site. Thought I could do it in a few days. Spent half a month at it. In places the woods was a jungle-like thicket. Good news and bad news. No matter how the driveway was shaped, a few trees had to come down. But those trees figured to near enough lumber to frame the cabin. Had to bring in the Andersen's and their D-9 Cat to pull stumps and drop in fill to make a drivable track. As to the driveway's course, I tried my best to follow what nature offered on the way to my building site. She ended up as a shallow double S-curve close to a quarter mile long. Still had a few rocks to move but that was where my nephew and his young back came in. Also had a two ton come-along."
"Over the months I'd felled enough extra timber to build a thirty-two by twenty-four foot, one story cabin with a little twelve by sixteen foot observatory centered atop. Couldn't see a need for a basement so the building would rest on concrete piers and wood posts. Figured on a lot of windows, 'specially up on the second floor. Put a window seat/bed, desk and a few shelves up there. Catch the breezes and watch the stream work its way to the sea. Read and write surrounded by the peace of the northwoods."
"Dropped the trees with a new yellow McCulloch chain saw. Shortened the logs to eight and a half feet, peavied them to piles near the clearing or driveway. Had the mill send up a boom truck and skidder to gather and bring the load down. Yeah, there was no way of getting around the mill. They had the machines and knowhow to do what was needed. But at least the timber came from my little piece of the world. Once there, the logs were turned into planks, studs, boards, paneling and flooring. Next came the kiln for drying. Finally the lumber was stacked and stored to await my call."
"So that's why me and Archie were there. I wanted to say hello to my wood. Let the stacks know it wouldn't be long before they could go home. I was itching to get started but we had a lot to do before the lumber was needed."
"Never was one to put off 'til tomorrow. Especially now. At fifty-nine a man doesn't know how many sunrises he has left. The war set that nail deep. Don't want to say any more about the war than life's a gift. Pure and simple. Never regretted a moment of what I'd done in the past. Yeah, I'd stumbled my way through a lot of things but regrets? What good would they do me? The way I see it, the past is the past. Once done, learn from it and move on. And do your best to not hurt anyone on the way."
"I know, blah, blah, blah. But I was sneaking up on a time where I could barely put in a full day's work. Short and sweet, the clock was ticking. Come fall I wanted a roof over my head and a fire in the wood stove. My plan was to work the kid like a slave. At eighteen he could sweat from sunrise to sunset and eat like a horse along the way. A good night's sleep and Archie'd be ready to go at it again. Only hoped I could keep up."
"Before buying supplies we stopped at the sawmill atop the ridge above town to settle the bill and arrange delivery of my lumber."
"Over the fall and winter I'd given a lot of thought as to how my cabin would look and how it'd be built. A log structure appealed. Log cabin in the woods alongside a stream sounded about as old school Minnesotan as all get out. Maybe even hew the logs square and dovetail the corners like the Finlanders (or was that the Swedes?). But given a moment of thought I decided this should be my own building as much as possible. Logs brought in outsiders with the skills to turn an idea into reality. Had I been younger, a lot younger, I'd've had time to learn. The gray hair on my head told me to do otherwise. Heck, what I wanted was a place to live from ice out to ice up, not a philosophical statement. Frame house it had to be. Already knew how to build a stud wall and owned most of the tools."
"I could simply've headed to the lumberyard, given them a supply list and written a check. Easy as pie. Except that again brought in other people from start to finish. Their lumber, their machines. As for me I didn't have the machines but I did have sixty-two acres, most of which was forest, a fair amount mature. A lot of birch, mountain maple and big, big pines. Some cedar along the brook. Sure didn't like the idea of felling any of those trees but as I looked around one day in september, I realized the cabin was already standing around me, just in another form. All I'd have to do was rearrange the shape of the trees."
"First off was clearing a driveway and building site. Thought I could do it in a few days. Spent half a month at it. In places the woods was a jungle-like thicket. Good news and bad news. No matter how the driveway was shaped, a few trees had to come down. But those trees figured to near enough lumber to frame the cabin. Had to bring in the Andersen's and their D-9 Cat to pull stumps and drop in fill to make a drivable track. As to the driveway's course, I tried my best to follow what nature offered on the way to my building site. She ended up as a shallow double S-curve close to a quarter mile long. Still had a few rocks to move but that was where my nephew and his young back came in. Also had a two ton come-along."
"Over the months I'd felled enough extra timber to build a thirty-two by twenty-four foot, one story cabin with a little twelve by sixteen foot observatory centered atop. Couldn't see a need for a basement so the building would rest on concrete piers and wood posts. Figured on a lot of windows, 'specially up on the second floor. Put a window seat/bed, desk and a few shelves up there. Catch the breezes and watch the stream work its way to the sea. Read and write surrounded by the peace of the northwoods."
"Dropped the trees with a new yellow McCulloch chain saw. Shortened the logs to eight and a half feet, peavied them to piles near the clearing or driveway. Had the mill send up a boom truck and skidder to gather and bring the load down. Yeah, there was no way of getting around the mill. They had the machines and knowhow to do what was needed. But at least the timber came from my little piece of the world. Once there, the logs were turned into planks, studs, boards, paneling and flooring. Next came the kiln for drying. Finally the lumber was stacked and stored to await my call."
"So that's why me and Archie were there. I wanted to say hello to my wood. Let the stacks know it wouldn't be long before they could go home. I was itching to get started but we had a lot to do before the lumber was needed."
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Emil's Cabin IV - The Road
We'd done the drive from the Cities to the Arrowhead on two earlier canoe trips. In the decades since I've driven the road north dozens of times. Liked it the first time we headed to the North Shore and its appeal has, if anything, grown over the years. Had a lot of good times on the forest and waters northeast of Duluth. Each trip threw a few more sticks on the fire of memory. There's an old saw saying 'the third time's the charm'. As far as I'm concerned every trip up the shore of the big lake is the charm.
Should you ever drive from Minneapolis to Grand Marais in the summertime, if you're like me one thing's for sure, you'll no doubt climb in the car sporting shorts and a t-shirt. And the first thing you'll do after climbing out for lunch in Duluth will be to climb right back for a sweatshirt and jacket. Duluth has its share of warm weather but that share tends to be mighty meager. You see, the water in Lake Superior from which the city rises is always either ice or cold enough to chill beer. And the lake is big enough to add a feel of frost to the surrounding air on any day of the year. Unless you're in the mood for suicide you don't want to spend more than a few minutes afloat in the waters of Gichigami. Or sitting outside at lunch when dressed for summer.
Of course Uncle Emil knew the score. Long sleeves and jeans from the get-go. Woods wear. The windows of the truck were cranked down from the moment we left town 'til we crested the hill above Duluth. Once out of the cities on US 61 we settled into a game of scoping the hawks. Emil's rules. Like playing cards with a man whose nickname included a city. Single point for being the first to spot a hawk. Double points if you're the first call a kill or see the blue of a kestrel hovering over a ditch. If you recall Emil's ability to see invisible pelicans soaring above the unnamed lake in Manitoba then you know I stood little chance of winning. Took me all the way to Moose Lake before I caught onto his game. Seemed each hawk had its own territory, half mile on a side. Also had a strong sense of honor and wouldn't trespass on a neighbor's turf. So, about a half mile past the last hawk Uncle Emil knew we'd soon come on another.
"Archie me lad, you see that one up ahead? The one atop the telephone pole?"
"Next pole or the second?"
"Neither. The one I'm seein's around the next curve, behind that stand of pine."
Now how could I see something that wasn't as yet visible? In fact neither could Emil. But he knew sure enough there'd be a hawk shortly and most likely it'd be on top of a pole checking the grasses below for a quick meal. My only points came from the kestrel. Even then Emil gave me a look like he'd seen it first and was merely tossing me a bone. Skill comes in a lot of different guises.
The road north split farmland, slowed through quiet towns, curved around lakeshore and the first naked basalt slabs then finally gained the worn remnants of the foothills of an ancient mountain range. Had we been traveling this way a few hundred million years earlier, Uncle Emil's property would have been lying thousands of feet higher and on the other side of the planet. Might also been have been on the side of a volcano where we'd have been eaten by giant millipedes.
Cresting the final hill, we could see the port cities of Duluth and Superior surrounding the ore and grain boat filled harbor. A year earlier the taconite pellets to make the steel of Emil's truck were no doubt loaded onto one of those ships. An ordinary or extraordinary thought depending on your point of view. Duluth is a beautiful city. For all practical purposes it's a sea port and would be home to a million or more people if it was able to grow palm trees alongside its boulevards. Regardless, we were descending into the most exotic location in the upper midwest.
And slowed to the pace of the nineteenth century. At the bottom of the hill Highway 61 turned into stop and go city streets and we puttered along. Should you have been riding with us, the old houses and industry of the port would have told you I was lying when I called Duluth exotic. Most everything was old, eroded, corroded, weather-beaten by countless storms or covered with a thin layer of coal and iron ore dust. Downtown wasn't much better. Aged brick and stone buildings built with boom money were now rumbling downhill faster than the ore cars descending the hill from the Iron Range - Da Rainch in Minnesotan - to the west.
We rumbled along with traffic and through stoplights 'til we reach the far side of town where the road closed in on the big lake. There the substantial houses and mansions began. Lake side of the road of course. Seemed money liked a view of water. Also was needed to pay the gas bill so residents needn't wear mukluks to bed in July. Inside Emil's car with the windows rolled up and heater on, it was easy to forget we weren't in northern California.
A few minutes later we were rolling out of town. Since I wasn't from Duluth we were driving up the North Shore. Had I lived in Duluth it'd've simply been the Shore. I didn't care either way. To me the world had changed. A highway along an inland sea and endless woods all the way to the arctic. Still is. Forty years earlier there'd been no road and our destination of Grand Marais was only accessible by ship, dog sled or foot. To me it would've been even more exotic, pioneer-like to climb off the boat into a land of trappers, loggers and fisherman. And bars and cat houses. And preachers of course.
Our first stop of the day was up the road from Two Harbors at Betty's Pies. The restaurant and name are still there opposite the lake but not Betty. Unless she's buried there. Oddly enough that was my first and last visit. Emil's too. Wasn't that the food and pie was bad. No sir. In fact both were close to perfect. Meatloaf as good as my mom's and the cherry pie worth a fair side trip. Maybe it was too good and we feared being disappointed should we ever return. More likely the stars never lined up for a second visit. To be given the honor it deserves, tasty food requires an appetite to pay it homage and hunger never again beckoned as I passed. Always other places I'd rather be farther up the road.
There're agates on the shores of Lake Superior. Emil's fault that I found out. Looking for the banded rocks is an idiot's addiction. Don't know if moseying a cobbled beach at a snail's pace while bent over and staring at the ground would be normal anywhere but in Minnesota. We take our pleasures in small quantities. Have to admit it's a mystery why anyone would spend time searching out something that'd end up forgotten in the back of a drawer. Yes, both me and Emil were numbered among those with no common sense and enough time on our hands to flaunt it.
The beaches of the big lake are home to millions of agates. Problem is there's trillions of rocks and the egg-sized treasures a rock hound tries to sniff out are few. I'm only guessing at their number as I've yet to find one that wasn't polished and lying in a rock shop. Doesn't mean I've given up. Drop me on one of those beaches and I'll search 'til I'm bleary-eyed. All well and good but on this trip our hearts were set on Grand Marais and grocery shopping. Doesn't sound exciting but Emil figured we'd eventually get hungry. Physical labor has that effect on a body.
Should you ever drive from Minneapolis to Grand Marais in the summertime, if you're like me one thing's for sure, you'll no doubt climb in the car sporting shorts and a t-shirt. And the first thing you'll do after climbing out for lunch in Duluth will be to climb right back for a sweatshirt and jacket. Duluth has its share of warm weather but that share tends to be mighty meager. You see, the water in Lake Superior from which the city rises is always either ice or cold enough to chill beer. And the lake is big enough to add a feel of frost to the surrounding air on any day of the year. Unless you're in the mood for suicide you don't want to spend more than a few minutes afloat in the waters of Gichigami. Or sitting outside at lunch when dressed for summer.
Of course Uncle Emil knew the score. Long sleeves and jeans from the get-go. Woods wear. The windows of the truck were cranked down from the moment we left town 'til we crested the hill above Duluth. Once out of the cities on US 61 we settled into a game of scoping the hawks. Emil's rules. Like playing cards with a man whose nickname included a city. Single point for being the first to spot a hawk. Double points if you're the first call a kill or see the blue of a kestrel hovering over a ditch. If you recall Emil's ability to see invisible pelicans soaring above the unnamed lake in Manitoba then you know I stood little chance of winning. Took me all the way to Moose Lake before I caught onto his game. Seemed each hawk had its own territory, half mile on a side. Also had a strong sense of honor and wouldn't trespass on a neighbor's turf. So, about a half mile past the last hawk Uncle Emil knew we'd soon come on another.
"Archie me lad, you see that one up ahead? The one atop the telephone pole?"
"Next pole or the second?"
"Neither. The one I'm seein's around the next curve, behind that stand of pine."
Now how could I see something that wasn't as yet visible? In fact neither could Emil. But he knew sure enough there'd be a hawk shortly and most likely it'd be on top of a pole checking the grasses below for a quick meal. My only points came from the kestrel. Even then Emil gave me a look like he'd seen it first and was merely tossing me a bone. Skill comes in a lot of different guises.
The road north split farmland, slowed through quiet towns, curved around lakeshore and the first naked basalt slabs then finally gained the worn remnants of the foothills of an ancient mountain range. Had we been traveling this way a few hundred million years earlier, Uncle Emil's property would have been lying thousands of feet higher and on the other side of the planet. Might also been have been on the side of a volcano where we'd have been eaten by giant millipedes.
Cresting the final hill, we could see the port cities of Duluth and Superior surrounding the ore and grain boat filled harbor. A year earlier the taconite pellets to make the steel of Emil's truck were no doubt loaded onto one of those ships. An ordinary or extraordinary thought depending on your point of view. Duluth is a beautiful city. For all practical purposes it's a sea port and would be home to a million or more people if it was able to grow palm trees alongside its boulevards. Regardless, we were descending into the most exotic location in the upper midwest.
And slowed to the pace of the nineteenth century. At the bottom of the hill Highway 61 turned into stop and go city streets and we puttered along. Should you have been riding with us, the old houses and industry of the port would have told you I was lying when I called Duluth exotic. Most everything was old, eroded, corroded, weather-beaten by countless storms or covered with a thin layer of coal and iron ore dust. Downtown wasn't much better. Aged brick and stone buildings built with boom money were now rumbling downhill faster than the ore cars descending the hill from the Iron Range - Da Rainch in Minnesotan - to the west.
We rumbled along with traffic and through stoplights 'til we reach the far side of town where the road closed in on the big lake. There the substantial houses and mansions began. Lake side of the road of course. Seemed money liked a view of water. Also was needed to pay the gas bill so residents needn't wear mukluks to bed in July. Inside Emil's car with the windows rolled up and heater on, it was easy to forget we weren't in northern California.
A few minutes later we were rolling out of town. Since I wasn't from Duluth we were driving up the North Shore. Had I lived in Duluth it'd've simply been the Shore. I didn't care either way. To me the world had changed. A highway along an inland sea and endless woods all the way to the arctic. Still is. Forty years earlier there'd been no road and our destination of Grand Marais was only accessible by ship, dog sled or foot. To me it would've been even more exotic, pioneer-like to climb off the boat into a land of trappers, loggers and fisherman. And bars and cat houses. And preachers of course.
Our first stop of the day was up the road from Two Harbors at Betty's Pies. The restaurant and name are still there opposite the lake but not Betty. Unless she's buried there. Oddly enough that was my first and last visit. Emil's too. Wasn't that the food and pie was bad. No sir. In fact both were close to perfect. Meatloaf as good as my mom's and the cherry pie worth a fair side trip. Maybe it was too good and we feared being disappointed should we ever return. More likely the stars never lined up for a second visit. To be given the honor it deserves, tasty food requires an appetite to pay it homage and hunger never again beckoned as I passed. Always other places I'd rather be farther up the road.
There're agates on the shores of Lake Superior. Emil's fault that I found out. Looking for the banded rocks is an idiot's addiction. Don't know if moseying a cobbled beach at a snail's pace while bent over and staring at the ground would be normal anywhere but in Minnesota. We take our pleasures in small quantities. Have to admit it's a mystery why anyone would spend time searching out something that'd end up forgotten in the back of a drawer. Yes, both me and Emil were numbered among those with no common sense and enough time on our hands to flaunt it.
The beaches of the big lake are home to millions of agates. Problem is there's trillions of rocks and the egg-sized treasures a rock hound tries to sniff out are few. I'm only guessing at their number as I've yet to find one that wasn't polished and lying in a rock shop. Doesn't mean I've given up. Drop me on one of those beaches and I'll search 'til I'm bleary-eyed. All well and good but on this trip our hearts were set on Grand Marais and grocery shopping. Doesn't sound exciting but Emil figured we'd eventually get hungry. Physical labor has that effect on a body.
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