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.
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