Five days 'til the shingles were to arrive. I figured we'd be sittin' around twiddling our thumbs for half that time. And was about right when it came to framing and sheathing the rest of the roof. But we weren't close to shingling time. Guess I forgot about having to finish putting plywood on the Lookout's wall. And pulling all the bracing. And covering the walls with tar paper. And installing all the windows and doors.
Since it was a Sunday we took it easy. By two our work was done. We'd spent our time trimming the rafters and sawing a bird's mouth in each. Not sure why a notch in wood is called a bird's mouth. Doesn't much look like a spread beak at all. The idea behind one is to have the rafter grab onto the outer wall and keep it from falling down. Seems that's the idea behind most construction. Build it up and do what you can to keep it up. As it was we had all ninety-two rafters ready to go when we stopped for the day.
"We could do more but I just don't feel like it. What I feel like is eating some perch for dinner. Haven't had a one since our first trip to Canada. So why don't you and I load up the Grumman and head over to a little lake I know is filled with 'em."
Twenty minutes later we'd loaded both fishing and cooking gear. Emil threw in a can of Spam and a half dozen eggs just in case.
"The best part about this lake is the locals don't eat perch. They'll tell you, 'da only ting dos wormy little pastiches are good for is bait. And den dere not so good even for dat.' Good for them. Just leaves more for you and me. First time I ate perch I was afraid it'd poison me. Took a little nip off the end of a filet and worked it around my mouth for a minute to see if my lips'd go numb or my glass eye'd cloud up. But it tasted good and from what I'd learned over the years, things that taste good are generally safe to eat. Still didn't keep me from keeping within trottin' distance of a biffey for a few hours."
We took the back roads. Seemed like Emil was in a hurry to take it easy and raised a cloud of dust while flying over the sand and gravel that must have looked a thunderhead to the tourists down in Grand Marais. Along the winding roads near the vegetable lakes we nearly inserted the Nomad into the backside of a moose. Seemed the roar of Emil's braked tires caught the attention of the moose as it laid a small mountain of brown eggs on the road before galumphing off into the brush. Almost expected to see a kingfisher come moseying along.
Emil didn't bat an eye over our near death, "Been meaning to do that for a while. Not run into a moose mind you, just do a slam-the-brakes-quick-stop to see if the Grumman's tied on securely." It was.
Over on my side of the front seat, after I peeled myself down from the dash, I lit up a cigarette figuring tobacco would take years to kill me and my uncle could do it in the blink of an eye.
The lake we were heading to was a widening of the Brule River. Wasn't deeper than six feet but never froze out due to the river's current. A good fishing lake with more than its share of walleyes, pike and panfish. Also had a reputation with the locals who'd motor down the mile and a quarter of placid stream into the lake whenever the water wasn't too low. Borealis Lake provided many a meal in the tip of the Arrowhead but not a one included perch.
"Archie me lad, back in my youth I could feel this day coming, living in the woods and fishing when the notion took me, then lost that vision when I fell in love with Lena. Seems I gave up a good thing for a better thing. Once we were married I figured it'd be forever. Guess the powers that be had other ideas. Took a long time to get used to Lena being gone. Hell, still haven't gotten used to it but it's not so bad anymore. Sometimes I think people are like sandstone. Not a solid rock, just layers on layers of something you could crumble up in your hands. It's those layers on top that keep the ones below from falling apart 'til there's so many the whole thing comes tumbling down. The cabin's just another layer. And a good one. It's my 'someday when I grow up' layer. And doubt I'll ever be done with it. I'll just keep on adding in one way or another 'til I can't. Just like I'll never be all grown up. Do it right and keep growing 'til I die. Maybe even after that."
Not sure exactly how but I think my uncle was giving me another angle on my next few years. The long run angle. Deal with my problems as they come up and move on. Hold onto the important things. Maybe catch some jumbo perch.
Emil guided us out, "Feels like a swamp doesn't it? Probably 'cause that's what it is. All along to our left it's nothing but reeds, brush, more cattails and dozens of little pot holes that'd be prime spawning ground for northerns. Pike don't like to waste a minute of the year. Soon's the water thaws in the shallows they set to making babies. Should times get tough, they eat those same babies. Can't say that'd be socially acceptable for people but there's an efficiency to a pike I can't help but admire. If the water in the Brule'd rise a foot or two, the size of Borealis'd more than double. From the air it probably looks that way even now."
"Those bright yellow flowers on the right are marsh marigolds. Doubt they're actually marigolds but they do like to grow in boggy ground. By this time of the year they should be bloomed out. Guess that bunch is even slower than me. All along here is prime moose territory. They muck their way down to the river to eat roots. Don't know why, probably 'cause they taste good. I've seen 'em eat lily pads and the reeds called horse tails. Maybe we should have a salad with our perch?"
The Brule was split by an island, then opened to the lake. A minute later Emil dropped the anchor. The plan was slip bobbers and a small, orange-headed ball jig tipped with a bit of pork rind.
"You think we'll find 'em here?"
"Maybe. That's the idea anyhow. There's a campsite half a mile down where we'll have supper. With luck we'll gather us some perch along the way."
And we did. Couple here, couple there. Some six inch bait robbers, a few close to a foot. The eaters Emil slipped into a wire mesh basket he'd draped over the side of the canoe. Have to admit it was a good time. Even when the action slowed there was always the bobber to watch and work. Cast it out, let it sit for a few seconds then slowly twitched the rig in. The idea was to make the jig and pork rind look like alive. When the bobber'd go down, I'd give it a three count and set the hook. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Hard to be perfect when you're going by feel alone, trying to see the unseen. Also hard to not get bit off once in a while in a lake with pike. We slowly fished our way down the right hand shore 'til we had a half dozen jumbos.
"We'll call that dinner."
Supper was perch and Emil's world famous three can special. Two cans of sliced taters, drained, salted, generously peppered, splashed with a Louisiana hot sauce and fried crisp and a jumbo can of baked beans perking in a twig fire. The filets were bathed in cracker crumbs and fried every bit as crisp as the taters.
"Best part is the two mile paddle back where we can burn off some of the bulk we've taken in. Any excess gas is good. Let's you know you're alive. Melodious and malodorous at the same time. Even our expulsions love puns." We were back in camp an hour before sunset. Puttered a few minutes, cleaned up and were soon sound asleep cradled in the northland twilight.
Monday began our seventh week of construction. Rafter time. And a time to see that errors compound errors. They weren't big and were to be expected. After all this was hand work. No matter how exacting we were, our pencil marks weren't always dead on, saw kerfs wandered a tad, and even though they're machine made, lumber dimensions vary. All those thirty-seconds of an inch added up. Some canceled each other out, some compounded.
How many times have I said Emil was a stickler as to detail? Probably not enough. He was above in the Lookout with the stack of rafters. I was below on the ladder. He'd slide one down, I'd use a precut spacer to put it in place and we'd nail it down. Three sixteen pennies up and three eight penny toe nails on the bird mouth. Emil was humming and mumbling in the glory of how well it was going. Yeah, we were smoking along at the rate of close to twenty an hour. Yup, he was a happy man 'til we hit the last rafter of the first side. Before starting my uncle had marked the finish point on the wall sill below which the last plank should hit if all had gone as planned. But it didn't. A full three-eighths short. Oh me, oh my, I thought the old man was gonna cry.
"You sure?"
"Yes sir, almost seven-sixteenths short. 'Spose you want to tear the cabin down and start over?"
"Believe me I'm considering it. Damnation. Should it have been a half inch over it'd be another story. But short? I'm surprised this whole thing hasn't fallen down by now. Archie me lad, we'd best keep this to ourselves. And make it a point to never stand under the front eave. Oh well, slide 'er to the mark and nail it down."
It was pretty much the same story when he sighted down the rafters from the end. Seems he could see a waviness in their lay. I sure couldn't. But then I had the handicap of two good eyes. Remember back in Canada when we were watching the pelicans? Emil could see the unseeable. At least that's what he claimed. Who was I to say he couldn't?
And so it went throughout the day. Imperfections here and there. Not easy on the old guy but he finally accepted his ever so slightly flawed life in construction. By dinner we had all but two corners framed.
"For all it's faults she's prettier than pretty. A man could live a good life in such a building. Fortunately that man is me."
By week's end the roof was framed and sheathed. Over forty sheets of plywood went onto the roof. But that wasn't the challenge. Over half of them had to be marked and trimmed in one way or another. Doesn't seem so bad in retrospect but the idea sawing a full sheet of plywood lengthwise still makes my eyes feel like they're full of sawdust. The upside was we were nearly done with our plywood. Only the lookout's walls were left.
"Won't be long and we should be able to take the tent down and move inside with the mice."
Close to day's end on Friday Ted drove in with our shingles. Seemed like no sooner would Emil's lumber pile go down then it'd rise again. Emil offered Ted a beer but he took a coke instead,
"Learned my lesson years ago. The more I drank to forget, the more I remembered. Seemed kind of pointless so I went cold turkey. Boy was that fun. For the first few years I fell off the wagon a couple of times and got bruised pretty badly each time. Finally my wife Emily said it was either her or the door. We're still together."
It was then Emil broached the idea of a canoe trip sometime in the future, "You don't have to say yes or no right now unless it's no. Give it some thought. Ain't the end of the world either way but it might prove a good time."
"Tell you what, I won't say no, just maybe."
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