Cut me some slack. Emil makes me write his memoirs. He says I face a choice, either write what he says or he'll haunt me for the rest of my days. Tells me his words will make me a famous man. I tell him Hitler was a famous man. Better he'd said rich and much younger but I'd settle for being younger. Week and a half would be nice. Enough time to duct tape the holes in my life before the dam goes.
Anyhow, that's what this aside is about. Futures that'll never happen and pasts that never lived. Don't know about you but I sure have a lot of both. When my mind wanders it leaves time in the dust. I can do pretty much what I want. Sounds pretty wild but it's not. My parochial school days are way too ingrained. Might sidle over to the cliff to see what's down below but never take the leap. 'Course Emil, being Emil, he can choose to fly.
Believe I left him standing alongside his pack atop the bridge overlooking Little John about to set off on the Border Trail. Would have proved a challenge back in September '69 seeing as how the trail was still a few years off in the future. Nope, she's not some ancient path in the woods. Probably's an amalgam of deer trails and overlooks. Same for the Kekekabic Trail he'll join up with in fifty miles or so. Doesn't phase Emil one bit. Remember what he said an entry or two ago? He bounces around in time like any good fictional uncle. Yesterday, tomorrow, what's the difference? His only fear is he'll run into himself somewhere along the way, be forced out of politeness to strike up a conversation only to find he's already heard or thought everything he has to say. So don't go checking Emil's facts on the internet. Won't do you any good. Emil's truth, like any truth, is pretty much relative. And Emil, being my mother's brother, is a relative. Guess that sums it up as clearly as anything.
Off my backside, get this toad on the road. Have the feeling I should field strip my Lucky Strike first. Old habits don't die hard, they don't die at all. Feel much better since I quit smoking but sure do miss that good-bad feeling of burnt lungs. Stopped at the end of the bridge. Looked down at the sand and gravel an inch past my sneaker toes then up the remnant of road. No more than a quarter mile of it left. Yeah there's more roads over the border but a few strides ahead lies the end of this one. What they call a jumping off point. Sounds exciting doesn't it? At the moment it sounds scary. Shouldn't be. The trail's well marked in most places. I've got maps and a compass. Should I wander off course, won't be by much and never'll be far from lakes that'll tell me where I am. Yup, no problems at all. Time to move on.
Looked down once more. Almost started before the thought hit me I was eyeball to eyeball with both barrels of another first step. Will they never end? Get used to it Emil boy. They're all first steps 'til you hit the last. I finally huffed off.
Road bent to the left rising all the way 'til it came to a wall of woods and a sign. Two foot wide by half a foot high brown one nailed to a post beneath a little triangular, metal plate. In yellow letters the board read Border Route Trail with an arrow pointing to the right. Took that to be a clue. On the metal plate the silhouette of a hiker perched on what seemed a craggy overlook towering above a blue lake stretching to the horizon. The hiker with a pack on his (?) back. Must be going somewhere. Thought hit me it'd make sense to find a walking stick along the way. Use it to fend off bears or the Mongol Horde should they feel a need to add the Arrowhead to their empire. Or maybe as a third leg when crossing a stream. Surrounding the tin-plate hiker and lake, one word per side, Border Route Trail. Guess I was in the right spot.
Been on this stretch of trail before but never let you know what it looked like. Eighteen inch wide bare, beaten earth at foot level and doing its best to avoid trees. Every so often another one of the triangular plates'd be nailed to a tree. Must have been short a few thousand to post every tree of the trail as most of the markings from this point on consisted of a dab of blue paint or an occasional cairn. My plan was to follow the blue just as Dorothy's was to follow the yellow brick rod. Pray to God I don't have to deal with all that caterwauling singing like she did. Should I come upon a metal man frozen in mid-chop I'll avoid eye contact and quietly pass by.
Thankfully the path continued its rise. That's sarcasm should you not have been paying attention. Seems the builders who cleared this course liked the high ground. Can't blame them. Had the land around here been bald I'd have always had a view. Might even see a horizon now and then. Wouldn't get anywhere, just stand in awe. The subtle nature of a forest encourages movement (though the face whipping nature of hazel brush seedling tends to do the opposite). Not that every tree's the same, you seen one you've seen them all. No, it's more the trees give comfort and warmth. A feeling of safety and ease of movement. Yeah, vistas are wonderful but usually are one wrong step from me becoming one with the broken boulders below. Given the choice I'll take a forest any day.
'Spose you're like me and've assumed the uphills counterbalance the downs just about perfectly. And, like me, you'd be wrong. Yeah, the distance balances nicely but check your watch as to time and you'll find we both spend way more time trudging up than gliding down. Might almost serve as a life lesson. But no, life lessons hint toward New Year's resolutions. Uphills? They're what you come to as soon as you finish a down.
'Bout twenty years back I came to know a one armed man by the name of George Hawkins. Actually he had most of his arm, just lost the hand. In place of the hand he had a grasping, hook-like mechanism. Could somehow manipulate it with his arm muscles so as to pick up things. Carried farmer matches and could light a cigarette just as nice as could be. Came to ask him one day how he lost the hand. Said he didn't lose it. Nope, kept it in a jar of formaldehyde in a cabinet above the ice box. Seemed odd to me at first but George said he was a devout Catholic and figured it best to be prepared for the Final Judgement when he and his hand would be reunited. 'Course this was in the days before the Ecumenical Movement. Back then all Catholic kids still learned their religion from the Baltimore Catechism - volumes I and II - that the Lord was eternal, infinite and all that. But Mother Church didn't really see it that way. In particular about body parts and their possible uses through eternity. Seems they didn't actually figure the Supreme Being could fabricate things on the spot. Yeah, George had to hold onto that hand 'cause it was the only one that'd fit his particular model of arm. One of a kind, can't make another just like it, so you best keep it in that jar George. Personally, I figured he kept it for sentimental reasons, seeing as how it was his right hand and he was a natural north paw. Had a lot of good times with it in his youth. Also kept it 'cause having a hand in a jar was a little weird and like most of us, George didn't want to seem too normal. Good man.
Yeah, George was a survivor. Least he was 'til he was done in by a flying squirrel while in the backyard transplanting chrysanthemums. Wasn't any cartoon squirrel either. Gray squirrel. You probably don't think gray squirrels can fly. Well, neither did George. At least 'til this one caught him square on his left ear. Odd thing was the coroner said it wasn't the blow to the head and the resulting cracked cranium that killed George. More likely the heart attack from the shock. What caused the squirrel to plummet was written off as a mystery, fate, kismet, bad karma or sheer dumb luck. Maybe this was just a clumsy animal or even had a suicidal tendency. A call to a clinical animal psychologist at the U of M confirmed the last possibility as the suicide rate among gray squirrels is one of the highest in the animal kingdom. Right up there with the Australian kinkajou. Don't ever want to let a kinkajou get hold of a hand gun. When they figure it's time to leave this world they like company. Particularly redheads. Anyhow, his wife Sophie had George and the rodent buried in the same grave. Even had their nephew Ralph throw together a little squirrel casket in his high school shop class. Wasn't the best of jobs but not bad. Got a B minus and Sophie had to pay for shop supplies.
'Bout then my attention landed back on earth, realized where I was and saw a rump-sized stump that needed mine to keep it from drifting off into the firmament. Break time. Walked forty minutes. Could tell I'd slowed my pace when I hit the trail. Maybe from now on I'll walk 'til I don't feel like it anymore. Good advice. Maybe I should listen to myself more often. Don't know how far I'll make it today but do know my stash of food hangs in a tree better than forty-five miles from here. Threw an extra freeze dried meal in the pack before setting off with the idea I might run out. Didn't think that possible a month ago. Here on the trail's another story. Once again gettin' used to the idea I've no control over anything save the next step. Reminds me of the time me and Archie bushwhacked our way into the unnamed lake in Manitoba. From his point of view I knew what I was doing. From mine, I hoped we didn't die. Seems I occasionally stick my neck out into the land of stupid. Been lucky so far. Guess I'll leave it at that. Close to six miles down with over two hours 'til noon. Was hoping for twenty miles today but'll settle for eighteen. Maybe sixteen.
Seems like my breaks are stretching at about the same rate my stride is shortening. Figure I'll eventually strike a balance. Nature taking its course and me accepting the truth. Just like she did when I hit the bushes, trowel and paper in hand, a minute ago. Good sign I can still squat when needed. Better sign I can straighten up again. Should keep me light hearted 'til the morning. Been a regular guy most of my life. 'Course there was a stretch of six days after hitting the beach on Luzon when I was bound up something fierce. When I finally let go the ground swell from the impact felt like incoming artillery. One of the men in our third platoon was awarded a Purple Heart for breaking his arm when he was knocked over by the shock wave. Since then I've lived in harmony with my bowel.
'Bout a half mile uptrail is the turnaround point of my longest day hike. There the path crosses the portage from East Pike over to McFarland. The thought of a side trip to the shore of my favorite lake has crossed my mind. I'll pass on it for now. Miles to go and the climb back up from the water is a two hundred foot elevation gain. Have plenty of that simply following the trail. Knowing the lake's down there somewhere's good enough. At the moment my stomach says lunch overlooking West Pike will be a pleasure.
Not much to say about the next five miles. They were slow. Thumped along at no more than a long two miles per hour. Surely not three. 'Bout like an Army moves. Fast on the roads, slow in the bush, a tad slower than a snail's crawl when the trail ends. Was pooped when I sat to eat. Might even take a nap.
Felt like an eagle on my lunch perch. Couple hundred feet below, the lake snaked its way west to the portage from Clearwater. Four miles away as I recall. Ghost-like zephyrs left their silver footprints here and there as they skipped up lake. Rivers of current wound willy-nilly toward me trailing their courses of slick. Strikes me as odd there's rivers in a lake. But there they were, plain as day. Their directions looked to be pretty random. Doubt that was the intent. Given the choice they'd have bee-lined from one end of the lake to the other. But, a little shove here, pull there, turned them into drunkards trying to find their way atop the bar stool. Go with the flow they say these days. From up here it appears even the flow has to go with the flow.
A little closer, right beneath my dangling sneakers, floats the pine spiked island where me and Archie'd once spent three days camping. Not many islands in the area. Most of the lakes along the border are glacier cut trenches. Seems the ice was in a bad mood when leaving the Arrowhead. Had no time for any stinking islands. Didn't catch many fish on that trip but the one's we did tie into that late spring were all lakers. Most less than three pounds but each a hoot for their fight. Few animals say northland like lake trout. Have to admit I'm happy to be where I am.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Thursday, December 24, 2015
The Walk IV - Day After Day Tripper
Headed right at the end of the driveway, that being west on this part of the northbound McFarland Road, in bright sunlight. Read somewhere a journey starts with the first step. Probably in a Chinese fortune cookie. Ain't that just the sparklingest bit of wisdom? Better wash that kind of thinking out of my head before I take another step or this'll be one long, long hike.
Seems there's always some kind of discussion going on in my head as though there's more than one person living up there. And one of them's out to get my goat. Can't say I'm all that fond of my goat but seein' as how it's the only one I've got, he's stayin' with me. Said before I don't know where thoughts come from. Maybe they're stored upstairs over time from words I heard or read, maybe just a snippet of conversation on the bus to work. Might not even be aware of what's being said but the ear and brain don't miss a thing. Stores those words deep in a wrinkle to sit for who knows how long. Then on a Tuesday one of those little sparks in our brain shakes a few words loose while running around in a panic lookin' for the reason I'm standing in the kitchen. Not that that's ever happened to me. Or, on this morning, runnin' down the mental checklist of what's in the pack, tryin' to figure out what I've forgotten 'cause one of the only certainties in life is that I've forgotten something important.
Yeah, first step, has to be one I guess. Maybe not? Should've been paying more attention when heading out the door. Paused a moment on the bottom stair, jumped right over that first step and started on the second. Put that in your fortune cookie Lao Tzu and smoke it.
The rise from Aspen Brook's valley let me know thinking's not for the uphills. And from what I've seen of what lies ahead, my brain'll be plenty busy getting my heart in gear and lungs sucking deep. Lots of uphills followed by thigh pounding downs. Couple of million roots and rocks to step around and over. Look down young man, look down. Guess I'll content myself with staying upright. Think during the breaks and at night in the bag. I know, I know, my mind's sure to wander. Always does. You'd think I'd be content being where I am at the moment seein' as how I'm usually where I want to be. Doesn't seem to work that way.
Midway to McFarland where I'll catch the Border Trail as it passes by, I set the pack down and rested my kiester on a mostly dry embankment in the warmth of the rising sun. Felt good to have the weight off. Also was impatient to load up once again. Almost took an act of will to swig down some water from one of the green plastic Army canteens clipped to the pack frame and chow down half the hershey bar squirreled in my shirt pocket. Shouldered the pack and finished the bar while walking.
While the chocolate was melting in my mouth a forestry truck approached and slowed to a crawl. Took a look at my pack, then at my thin gray hair bared to the sunlight. Then back to the pack.
The ranger asked if I was okay. Said I was. Asked where I might be off to. Said my cabin. Asked where that might be. Said two miles back toward the big lake. Asked if I knew I was heading the wrong direction. Said yes but I was taking the scenic route. Maybe stop for breakfast in Ely in a week or so. He nodded, asked if I might pay him a visit on my return, let me know how breakfast was, then wished me a fine morning before driving on.
Conversation's not what I'm seeking on this walk. Wouldn't turn one down but'd rather not have to decide the issue. My nephew Archie'd find that hard to believe. In days past I've enjoyed approaching complete strangers simply to get their take on something I found interesting. More likely to learn something I was lacking. Weather, fishing, typical mukluk sizes for Inuits. You know, the usual run of things. But not this time. For conversation I'd packed a few of Archie's letters he'd mailed me from Vietnam. 'Course I'd already answered in turn but felt my words to have short changed him. Felt I was missing something big. The whatever that'd tie his words into a whole. Not that he was a great shake as far as writing. But his words were coherent and I was hoping to puzzle out some form of truth. Anyhow, that was my intention. I shouldered the pack and moseyed on.
Don't know when they changed the name of this road to the Arrowhead Trail. Heard tell the state's tourism department was behind the name change. Made it sound more scenic. My map calls it County Road 16. Locals still refer to it as the McFarland Road. Today I'll call it something to put to my rear. Don't see that happening anytime soon. Feels like every step I take's shorter than the last. Keep this up I'll be heading backward with every forward step.
Heard a while back that a life's worth living so long as a person has something to look forward to. In my case that's the bridge over the connecting stream between McFarland and Little John. Nice worthwhile spot for a break. Also the end of civilization 'til I hit the Gunflint in a couple of days or so. At the moment that seems like the other end of the world and it's less than halfway.
Always thrills me to see the bluffs towering over the south shore of McFarland. Usually means I'm heading somewhere I want to be. This time's no exception, though as much as I want to do this I'd rather be paddling the border lakes. That's just the way I am. Born of water's a good way to come into this world. Each lake I pass'll bring a little ache of something missed. Oh well, nothing wrong with standing between earth and sky. 'Specially with a length of fishing pole in my hands. Yeah, I couldn't resist. Packed my four piece traveling rod and reel. Good way to take a break or spend an evening. Maybe catch dinner? Hope springs infernal.
Not sure why but the view up Little John commands my attention. Always has. The way its cedar lined shores ease their way left and disappear, going to who knows where? Kind of invites me to set off, see what's out there. McFarland doesn't do that to me for some reason. Some things just look right, feel right. Some things don't. Meeting Lena wasn't that way at all. Little about her looked right to me at first but from the moment I saw her, she commanded my attention. Not like she asked, just that I always knew when she was around. Might have been in love with her from day one but didn't know it. Wouldn't surprise me at all. In some ways I'm plenty smart. Other ways as dense as lead. Don't know how it was with her. After all she's a woman. A whole different animal than a man. The ladies are in touch with the things that can't be seen. Being a man, I'm barely in touch with the things that can. But I sure do like the view down Little John. Doesn't matter that I don't know why.
Seems there's always some kind of discussion going on in my head as though there's more than one person living up there. And one of them's out to get my goat. Can't say I'm all that fond of my goat but seein' as how it's the only one I've got, he's stayin' with me. Said before I don't know where thoughts come from. Maybe they're stored upstairs over time from words I heard or read, maybe just a snippet of conversation on the bus to work. Might not even be aware of what's being said but the ear and brain don't miss a thing. Stores those words deep in a wrinkle to sit for who knows how long. Then on a Tuesday one of those little sparks in our brain shakes a few words loose while running around in a panic lookin' for the reason I'm standing in the kitchen. Not that that's ever happened to me. Or, on this morning, runnin' down the mental checklist of what's in the pack, tryin' to figure out what I've forgotten 'cause one of the only certainties in life is that I've forgotten something important.
Yeah, first step, has to be one I guess. Maybe not? Should've been paying more attention when heading out the door. Paused a moment on the bottom stair, jumped right over that first step and started on the second. Put that in your fortune cookie Lao Tzu and smoke it.
The rise from Aspen Brook's valley let me know thinking's not for the uphills. And from what I've seen of what lies ahead, my brain'll be plenty busy getting my heart in gear and lungs sucking deep. Lots of uphills followed by thigh pounding downs. Couple of million roots and rocks to step around and over. Look down young man, look down. Guess I'll content myself with staying upright. Think during the breaks and at night in the bag. I know, I know, my mind's sure to wander. Always does. You'd think I'd be content being where I am at the moment seein' as how I'm usually where I want to be. Doesn't seem to work that way.
Midway to McFarland where I'll catch the Border Trail as it passes by, I set the pack down and rested my kiester on a mostly dry embankment in the warmth of the rising sun. Felt good to have the weight off. Also was impatient to load up once again. Almost took an act of will to swig down some water from one of the green plastic Army canteens clipped to the pack frame and chow down half the hershey bar squirreled in my shirt pocket. Shouldered the pack and finished the bar while walking.
While the chocolate was melting in my mouth a forestry truck approached and slowed to a crawl. Took a look at my pack, then at my thin gray hair bared to the sunlight. Then back to the pack.
The ranger asked if I was okay. Said I was. Asked where I might be off to. Said my cabin. Asked where that might be. Said two miles back toward the big lake. Asked if I knew I was heading the wrong direction. Said yes but I was taking the scenic route. Maybe stop for breakfast in Ely in a week or so. He nodded, asked if I might pay him a visit on my return, let me know how breakfast was, then wished me a fine morning before driving on.
Conversation's not what I'm seeking on this walk. Wouldn't turn one down but'd rather not have to decide the issue. My nephew Archie'd find that hard to believe. In days past I've enjoyed approaching complete strangers simply to get their take on something I found interesting. More likely to learn something I was lacking. Weather, fishing, typical mukluk sizes for Inuits. You know, the usual run of things. But not this time. For conversation I'd packed a few of Archie's letters he'd mailed me from Vietnam. 'Course I'd already answered in turn but felt my words to have short changed him. Felt I was missing something big. The whatever that'd tie his words into a whole. Not that he was a great shake as far as writing. But his words were coherent and I was hoping to puzzle out some form of truth. Anyhow, that was my intention. I shouldered the pack and moseyed on.
Don't know when they changed the name of this road to the Arrowhead Trail. Heard tell the state's tourism department was behind the name change. Made it sound more scenic. My map calls it County Road 16. Locals still refer to it as the McFarland Road. Today I'll call it something to put to my rear. Don't see that happening anytime soon. Feels like every step I take's shorter than the last. Keep this up I'll be heading backward with every forward step.
Heard a while back that a life's worth living so long as a person has something to look forward to. In my case that's the bridge over the connecting stream between McFarland and Little John. Nice worthwhile spot for a break. Also the end of civilization 'til I hit the Gunflint in a couple of days or so. At the moment that seems like the other end of the world and it's less than halfway.
Always thrills me to see the bluffs towering over the south shore of McFarland. Usually means I'm heading somewhere I want to be. This time's no exception, though as much as I want to do this I'd rather be paddling the border lakes. That's just the way I am. Born of water's a good way to come into this world. Each lake I pass'll bring a little ache of something missed. Oh well, nothing wrong with standing between earth and sky. 'Specially with a length of fishing pole in my hands. Yeah, I couldn't resist. Packed my four piece traveling rod and reel. Good way to take a break or spend an evening. Maybe catch dinner? Hope springs infernal.
Not sure why but the view up Little John commands my attention. Always has. The way its cedar lined shores ease their way left and disappear, going to who knows where? Kind of invites me to set off, see what's out there. McFarland doesn't do that to me for some reason. Some things just look right, feel right. Some things don't. Meeting Lena wasn't that way at all. Little about her looked right to me at first but from the moment I saw her, she commanded my attention. Not like she asked, just that I always knew when she was around. Might have been in love with her from day one but didn't know it. Wouldn't surprise me at all. In some ways I'm plenty smart. Other ways as dense as lead. Don't know how it was with her. After all she's a woman. A whole different animal than a man. The ladies are in touch with the things that can't be seen. Being a man, I'm barely in touch with the things that can. But I sure do like the view down Little John. Doesn't matter that I don't know why.
Friday, December 18, 2015
The Walk III - Off 'n Huffin'
Mid-September '69. All was ready but the weather. Cold and wet. Almost felt like winter settin' in. Sixty-three years of age and in a near panic over things I couldn't control. Each morning I'd rise, make coffee, grab some breakfast and head up to the lookout. There I'd sit for a few minutes in the steam of my cup watching the clouds course their way through the hills above Aspen Brook. The drizzle slithering its way down the panes in fits and starts told me to once again to don my rain gear before setting out on the morning's walk. Twenty pounds in the daypack to keep my shoulders in shape. Head up the McFarland Road 'til I sighted the bluffs then return home.
The big pack sat loaded by the side door waiting its turn. Bounced up and down, dropped slobber on my knees and ran in circles like a St. Bernard puppy. Almost broke my heart to leave it behind. Maybe tomorrow depending on the weather report. Like that mattered. Where I live the weather has a mind of its own. The tip of the Arrowhead is miles from anyone's predictions, or caring for that matter. A front comes rumblin' down out of the Yukon bent on mayhem, hangs a right at Hudson Bay, bangs into the mass of Superior and dumps whatever's been clutched in its paws since the good old days in Siberia. Wasn't but me, a handful of loggers and the rare fisherman who haunted these woods. Not enough bodies to warrant a college educated weather guesser. Gut feeling was as good as anything and my gut said no once again.
Did the stretch waterproofed from the waxed cotton fedora to heavily oiled shoe sole. And after a mile, mudded to the knee. My suit kept the rain out. That was good. Also kept the sweat in. That wasn't. By the time I stood watching rain dimples dance on McFarland my skivvies said I might as well have left the outer gear at home. Also told me, my hike to Ely'd make me feel and smell as natural as all outdoors. Maybe a wash cloth, small bar of soap and hand towel might come in handy. Oh well, another half pound to carry just to smell like a flower.
It's moments like that get me wondering things like, "What the hell am I doing?" And, "You'd think if I've been sweating this much I wouldn't have to pee so badly and could find my fly." Yeah, there wasn't a single reason in the world for me to hike to Ely and back except I'd gotten it in my head as something to do. Then built into something I had to do. But the closer the moment grew the less I wanted to go. At the same time I knew for a certainty the moment me and my pack turned our backs on the cabin it'd be two or more weeks 'til we returned. Up and down, back and forth I went. Constant debate with no compromise in sight. The German in me didn't care who won the battle. Just kept plugging ahead. A long day of driving got the two cooler stashes hung. Guess I was goin'.
And go I did. Woke up on Friday the 19th with no rain thumping on the roof. Wandered into the yard to find a crescent moon and Venus floating above the pines along the McFarland Road to the west. Everything was perfect. Except the warm little feeling in the pit of my stomach that reminded me how much I liked living in the cabin I'd built. The walls, shelves, tables, most of all the Lookout and the morning cup of coffee while surveying my domain. Ah well. Had to store that thought or it'd put me in the land of not doin'. Once the love of home notion arose the only way to put it down was to set out. Grabbed a quick breakfast, brushed my teeth, shouldered the pack, nearly fell over, bounced my way through the door and headed down the drive. Can't say the pack felt light as a feather but was tolerable. Air was cool, near chilly. Piercing blue-black sky dotted with the last fading stars. Good day for a hike. Checked my watch. Six-thirty. Thirty-five minutes should be two miles. And time to set 'er down and take a break. Or so I hoped.
The big pack sat loaded by the side door waiting its turn. Bounced up and down, dropped slobber on my knees and ran in circles like a St. Bernard puppy. Almost broke my heart to leave it behind. Maybe tomorrow depending on the weather report. Like that mattered. Where I live the weather has a mind of its own. The tip of the Arrowhead is miles from anyone's predictions, or caring for that matter. A front comes rumblin' down out of the Yukon bent on mayhem, hangs a right at Hudson Bay, bangs into the mass of Superior and dumps whatever's been clutched in its paws since the good old days in Siberia. Wasn't but me, a handful of loggers and the rare fisherman who haunted these woods. Not enough bodies to warrant a college educated weather guesser. Gut feeling was as good as anything and my gut said no once again.
Did the stretch waterproofed from the waxed cotton fedora to heavily oiled shoe sole. And after a mile, mudded to the knee. My suit kept the rain out. That was good. Also kept the sweat in. That wasn't. By the time I stood watching rain dimples dance on McFarland my skivvies said I might as well have left the outer gear at home. Also told me, my hike to Ely'd make me feel and smell as natural as all outdoors. Maybe a wash cloth, small bar of soap and hand towel might come in handy. Oh well, another half pound to carry just to smell like a flower.
It's moments like that get me wondering things like, "What the hell am I doing?" And, "You'd think if I've been sweating this much I wouldn't have to pee so badly and could find my fly." Yeah, there wasn't a single reason in the world for me to hike to Ely and back except I'd gotten it in my head as something to do. Then built into something I had to do. But the closer the moment grew the less I wanted to go. At the same time I knew for a certainty the moment me and my pack turned our backs on the cabin it'd be two or more weeks 'til we returned. Up and down, back and forth I went. Constant debate with no compromise in sight. The German in me didn't care who won the battle. Just kept plugging ahead. A long day of driving got the two cooler stashes hung. Guess I was goin'.
And go I did. Woke up on Friday the 19th with no rain thumping on the roof. Wandered into the yard to find a crescent moon and Venus floating above the pines along the McFarland Road to the west. Everything was perfect. Except the warm little feeling in the pit of my stomach that reminded me how much I liked living in the cabin I'd built. The walls, shelves, tables, most of all the Lookout and the morning cup of coffee while surveying my domain. Ah well. Had to store that thought or it'd put me in the land of not doin'. Once the love of home notion arose the only way to put it down was to set out. Grabbed a quick breakfast, brushed my teeth, shouldered the pack, nearly fell over, bounced my way through the door and headed down the drive. Can't say the pack felt light as a feather but was tolerable. Air was cool, near chilly. Piercing blue-black sky dotted with the last fading stars. Good day for a hike. Checked my watch. Six-thirty. Thirty-five minutes should be two miles. And time to set 'er down and take a break. Or so I hoped.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
The Walk II - Stripping Down
Damnation. Too much weight no matter how I cut it. Started to think the solution was heading out the door in shoes, socks, smile and a bag of Snickers. Bare my soul and body to the world. Then I considered that picture from the world's point of view. Guess I needed clothes. Head to foot. Maybe even a mask. And a pack to carry them in. And coffee. Dear Lord I needed coffee. What point in doing anything without a cup of joe? So I 'spose I needed matches and if it rained, a stove. And fuel. And pots and pans. And toilet paper. Had to have butt wipe or my backside would chafe something awful. And a trowel to bury my leavings. Food, rain gear, book. And so on. What to leave and what to carry? Figured I didn't have to decide 'til I set off. Last minute is always best. No need to waste any hours frettin' over every little detail.
Figuring fall'd be the best time for the hike I circled September 21st on my mental calendar. 'Course that date could move one way or the other depending on weather and leaf color. Nothing wrong with passing through glory. Start beneath green and dashes of crimson and gold. Finish atop. Begin in one season, end in the next. Maybe grow a little on the way. Never to late to grow. Grow 'til I die then grow into something else. Maybe worms and dandelions.
More and more, as the days passed, I reconsidered and expanded my idea of a stash. Maybe two. No sense in carrying anymore than I'd need over three days. Use the coolers I already had instead of boxes. In each I put two clean shirts and pants along with extra socks and underwear. Also six days of food and a backup for most everything in my pack. Maybe a book or two. Half for the way out, the other for the return. By divvying up the gear I could cut my load to around forty pounds. Maybe less.
Didn't work out that way. Even using freeze dried food, the pack weighed out at close to thirty-six pounds on the butcher scale down in Grand Marais. Throw in a couple of canteens of water and I was lookin' at about forty-one. 'Course, that'd be at the get-go and reloads. As the miles passed so would the food and water I was carrying. Buried discretely in the woods, there to give nourishment a second time. Maybe turn into worms and dandelions or simply help the forest grow.
Eased my way into carrying a pack of size. Doubt my daypack ever topped eight pounds and figured twice that would be a good startin' point. Didn't feel too bad at all. The first five miler didn't do much more than cramp my neck a little and press my feet a tad wider. I did a day on and a day off under a load but never missed a walk. Slowly increased the miles before I started in on the weight. After a month I'd learned twenty-five pounds felt a lot better sliding off than it did hoisting on.
Come August I'd done a few miles with forty-five figuring it'd make forty-two seem a breeze. What it did was make me work on excuses to get it off my back. First time out I trotted off on a six miler. Three out, take a break, three back. Didn't work out that way. Started out just fine but soon heard a pair of tiny voices. Struck me as odd bein' I was the only soul on the road. Looked around thinkin' it was Bigfoot's cousin Little. Couldn't've been, seeing as how there were two distinct voices. One with a Canadian accent, the other more like New York city seasoned with a dash of Italy. You may or may not've heard of Littlefoot seein' as how he's an elusive rapscallion. Not shy, just so small most'd never notice him under any circumstances. So minuscule he barely leaves tracks in fresh mud. Those who know say it's his constant flatulence that gives notice he's around. Smells like swamp mixed with cardamom and sugar. Kinda like a Swedish bakery after delivery of fresh lutefisk. So, hearin' the voices I raised my sniffer to the winds. Nothin' but sun on pines mixed with hot road dust. While I standing and sniffing, the voices went silent. Stayed that way through an entire downhill. Come the next up, there they were again. Only this time I could make out what they were sayin'. Went, "Sons-a-bitch, sons-a-bitch," over and over. Half a mile of that noise raised my annoyance hackles. And the voices were gettin' louder. Loud enough to hear they were rising from directly below. So I stopped to pay extra close attention. Once again not a peep. Started walking, there they were again. Had to be my shoes. Took one off, looked it up and down, turned it every which way, squeezed it, beat it. Not a sound. Then, from down below the duet piped up, "It's us, your feet, dumbass. You think you're gonna pound us from here to Ely and back you gotta 'nother think comin'." Guess I was in trouble.
Time to bargain. Negotiate. Compromise. We struck a deal. My feet'd take me to and from Ely if I'd promise to: 1) keep the weight down to the forty-two pounds I'd originally planned, 2) come winter take them on a trip to Hawaii for at least two weeks and, 3) never complain about their singing once we'd hit the trail. Took my other shoe off and the three of us shook on it. Feet? Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.
Odd thing was they did sing to me every step of the way. Crush of sand and gravel, splash of puddle, ooze of mud, crunch of dry leaf and the never ending soft thud of foot strike. Not a step along the way spoke of asphalt or concrete.
Figuring fall'd be the best time for the hike I circled September 21st on my mental calendar. 'Course that date could move one way or the other depending on weather and leaf color. Nothing wrong with passing through glory. Start beneath green and dashes of crimson and gold. Finish atop. Begin in one season, end in the next. Maybe grow a little on the way. Never to late to grow. Grow 'til I die then grow into something else. Maybe worms and dandelions.
More and more, as the days passed, I reconsidered and expanded my idea of a stash. Maybe two. No sense in carrying anymore than I'd need over three days. Use the coolers I already had instead of boxes. In each I put two clean shirts and pants along with extra socks and underwear. Also six days of food and a backup for most everything in my pack. Maybe a book or two. Half for the way out, the other for the return. By divvying up the gear I could cut my load to around forty pounds. Maybe less.
Didn't work out that way. Even using freeze dried food, the pack weighed out at close to thirty-six pounds on the butcher scale down in Grand Marais. Throw in a couple of canteens of water and I was lookin' at about forty-one. 'Course, that'd be at the get-go and reloads. As the miles passed so would the food and water I was carrying. Buried discretely in the woods, there to give nourishment a second time. Maybe turn into worms and dandelions or simply help the forest grow.
Eased my way into carrying a pack of size. Doubt my daypack ever topped eight pounds and figured twice that would be a good startin' point. Didn't feel too bad at all. The first five miler didn't do much more than cramp my neck a little and press my feet a tad wider. I did a day on and a day off under a load but never missed a walk. Slowly increased the miles before I started in on the weight. After a month I'd learned twenty-five pounds felt a lot better sliding off than it did hoisting on.
Come August I'd done a few miles with forty-five figuring it'd make forty-two seem a breeze. What it did was make me work on excuses to get it off my back. First time out I trotted off on a six miler. Three out, take a break, three back. Didn't work out that way. Started out just fine but soon heard a pair of tiny voices. Struck me as odd bein' I was the only soul on the road. Looked around thinkin' it was Bigfoot's cousin Little. Couldn't've been, seeing as how there were two distinct voices. One with a Canadian accent, the other more like New York city seasoned with a dash of Italy. You may or may not've heard of Littlefoot seein' as how he's an elusive rapscallion. Not shy, just so small most'd never notice him under any circumstances. So minuscule he barely leaves tracks in fresh mud. Those who know say it's his constant flatulence that gives notice he's around. Smells like swamp mixed with cardamom and sugar. Kinda like a Swedish bakery after delivery of fresh lutefisk. So, hearin' the voices I raised my sniffer to the winds. Nothin' but sun on pines mixed with hot road dust. While I standing and sniffing, the voices went silent. Stayed that way through an entire downhill. Come the next up, there they were again. Only this time I could make out what they were sayin'. Went, "Sons-a-bitch, sons-a-bitch," over and over. Half a mile of that noise raised my annoyance hackles. And the voices were gettin' louder. Loud enough to hear they were rising from directly below. So I stopped to pay extra close attention. Once again not a peep. Started walking, there they were again. Had to be my shoes. Took one off, looked it up and down, turned it every which way, squeezed it, beat it. Not a sound. Then, from down below the duet piped up, "It's us, your feet, dumbass. You think you're gonna pound us from here to Ely and back you gotta 'nother think comin'." Guess I was in trouble.
Time to bargain. Negotiate. Compromise. We struck a deal. My feet'd take me to and from Ely if I'd promise to: 1) keep the weight down to the forty-two pounds I'd originally planned, 2) come winter take them on a trip to Hawaii for at least two weeks and, 3) never complain about their singing once we'd hit the trail. Took my other shoe off and the three of us shook on it. Feet? Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.
Odd thing was they did sing to me every step of the way. Crush of sand and gravel, splash of puddle, ooze of mud, crunch of dry leaf and the never ending soft thud of foot strike. Not a step along the way spoke of asphalt or concrete.
Friday, December 4, 2015
1969 - The Walk I - Dollars and Sense
Parameters. Believe that's the word. When to set off for Ely's more to the point? What to carry? Need maps and a pack. Rain gear. Clothes. Shoes. Butt wipe. Tent, sleeping bag, food, pots, pans, a book to read. A whole lot of stuff. So much I wonder if a sixty-three year old Dutchman like me can carry it all. Good thing it's spring and I've plenty of time to think about it and prepare 'til it's time to wise up and bag the whole thing. Like to say I'm no fool but if I'm anything, being a fool's usually at the top of my to-do list.
I make jokes about the problem of carry weight but realize what it means. Misery. Hard to have a good time and smell the roses when your shoulders are screaming bloody murder. Could have easily dropped the whole idea but once the seed was planted it grew quickly. Took root like a weed you might say. With no intention of being pulled. Done enough gardening to know weeds pull easily enough but also leave tiny little roots behind and are back and smiling in a day or so. Figured it'd be best to let my hiking weed grow 'til it found its way to Ely and back.
Hatched me a plan. First off would be a trip down to the cities to visit relatives, have a couple of free meals then hit a few outdoor stores. Thought about walking the aisles of the Army-Navy surplus in downtown Minneapolis but soon remembered the weight of that stuff. The Army's long into heavy duty. Thick, dense, enduring (like some of the cadre). Want the stuff to last through the mud and fire of a war. I'd survived my war. Done my share of misery and figured to learn from it. I wanted the pack as light as possible. Intended to visit Hoigaard's outdoor store and the brand new Burger Brother's I'd heard about. Between the pair I hoped they had what I was looking for.
Second was conditioning. Yeah, I was in pretty good shape for a sixty-three year old man. But in good enough shape to hike three hundred miles through the woods of the Arrowhead with forty-five pounds on my back? Once I had my gear and pack I'd break them in - and me down - by taking us out for an evening's stroll or two. Figured once a twelve miler with a full load didn't kill me I'd give Ely a try.
Then, out of nowhere came plan number three - a stash. The Border Trail changes into the Kekekabic Trail - those were the routes I intended to follow - where it crosses the Gunflint fifty or sixty miles from the cabin. Maybe a cache of supplies in a wood box suspended from a tree somewhere around there? Hmmm. That'd cut my weight down by close to ten pounds. Got so excited when the idea hit me I had to take a leak.
My trip to the cities was an adventure. Hit town during rush hour and got swamped in a river of traffic. By the time I broke free of the current I was half way to Wisconsin. Guess I'd spent too much time in the quiet of the Arrowhead where my nearest neighbor was better than a mile away. Heavy traffic to me was anything more than a truck an hour headin' up or down the McFarland Road. Finally, I pulled off the freeway, grabbed the map and headed back to my sister's house over city streets. Much better way to travel and a whole lot less hassle. Seems the world's got it's foot on the gas pedal and pushin' down harder all the time.
First stop in the morning was Hoigaard's. Would've gone to Burger Brothers first but it turned out they wouldn't be open for another year. Those kind of things happen to me all the time. Me and the natural order of things occasionally part ways. Both forward and backward, 'Sposed to meet a buddy over at Jack the Horse Lake to wet our lines at seven in the morning and I show up two months before he's even asked me.
They say some people never show up on time, would even be late for their own funeral. Me, I've already been to my funeral. Even had a good time. 'Course a few people soiled their drawers seein' me walking around and in the coffin at the same time. Odd thing was, I wasn't both places. Only looked like I was. Even checked that out with my buddy Mike the hairless werewolf. Had him put his hand on my shoulder - bein' what he was you didn't ever want to get too close to Mike - and take a look in the coffin. So long as he was holding on and looking inside, I wasn't in the box. Soon's he'd let go, poing!, there I was, the perfect door nail.
Mike did a double-double take and laughed, "Don't that beat all. And I thought going bald every time the moon rose full was weird."
Good thing for me Hoigarrd's was already there. Had everything I was looking for - and a few things I wasn't - even if it was bein' sold by a buckskin clad, long hair to beaded moccasins, clerk. Looked like his problem with time beat mine all to pieces. Me bouncin' around a month here, a year there and him in the store lookin' like he'd showed up for work two hundred years late.
In twenty-five words or less I explained my ambitions and what I was looking for in gear, "Should weigh next to nothing and cost about the same." His grin told me my hopes were unfounded, then rocketed off on a spiel about weight, space age metals, coefficients of something or other and lifetime durability. Never once mentioned cost. While he was rambling on I was turning tags. Also asking how much each thing weighed and mentally figuring out dollars per ounce. My truck's the standard. Comes in at around sixty cents a pound. A frame pack at a buck and a half an ounce. Top that off with the truck carrying me and me having to carry the pack. Seemed ass-backwards. Would be easier and cheaper to drive to Ely much less go through the misery of a three week hike.
It's tough on an old guy to admit a kid knows more than he does. Foolish pride. What he did do and it went dead against the grain of capitalism, was to tell me how to save five pounds of weight and forty bucks at the same time. Had me exchange the idea of a tent with a waterproof, nylon tarp, bug netting, some stakes and a hundred feet of parachute cord. Even drew up instructions how to rig it. Still, it didn't make it any easier when the cash register toted up the bill. But I walked out the door feelin' pretty good about what I'd bought. Funny how that goes when you buy quality. Grumbled my way in the door, smiled my way out.
I make jokes about the problem of carry weight but realize what it means. Misery. Hard to have a good time and smell the roses when your shoulders are screaming bloody murder. Could have easily dropped the whole idea but once the seed was planted it grew quickly. Took root like a weed you might say. With no intention of being pulled. Done enough gardening to know weeds pull easily enough but also leave tiny little roots behind and are back and smiling in a day or so. Figured it'd be best to let my hiking weed grow 'til it found its way to Ely and back.
Hatched me a plan. First off would be a trip down to the cities to visit relatives, have a couple of free meals then hit a few outdoor stores. Thought about walking the aisles of the Army-Navy surplus in downtown Minneapolis but soon remembered the weight of that stuff. The Army's long into heavy duty. Thick, dense, enduring (like some of the cadre). Want the stuff to last through the mud and fire of a war. I'd survived my war. Done my share of misery and figured to learn from it. I wanted the pack as light as possible. Intended to visit Hoigaard's outdoor store and the brand new Burger Brother's I'd heard about. Between the pair I hoped they had what I was looking for.
Second was conditioning. Yeah, I was in pretty good shape for a sixty-three year old man. But in good enough shape to hike three hundred miles through the woods of the Arrowhead with forty-five pounds on my back? Once I had my gear and pack I'd break them in - and me down - by taking us out for an evening's stroll or two. Figured once a twelve miler with a full load didn't kill me I'd give Ely a try.
Then, out of nowhere came plan number three - a stash. The Border Trail changes into the Kekekabic Trail - those were the routes I intended to follow - where it crosses the Gunflint fifty or sixty miles from the cabin. Maybe a cache of supplies in a wood box suspended from a tree somewhere around there? Hmmm. That'd cut my weight down by close to ten pounds. Got so excited when the idea hit me I had to take a leak.
My trip to the cities was an adventure. Hit town during rush hour and got swamped in a river of traffic. By the time I broke free of the current I was half way to Wisconsin. Guess I'd spent too much time in the quiet of the Arrowhead where my nearest neighbor was better than a mile away. Heavy traffic to me was anything more than a truck an hour headin' up or down the McFarland Road. Finally, I pulled off the freeway, grabbed the map and headed back to my sister's house over city streets. Much better way to travel and a whole lot less hassle. Seems the world's got it's foot on the gas pedal and pushin' down harder all the time.
First stop in the morning was Hoigaard's. Would've gone to Burger Brothers first but it turned out they wouldn't be open for another year. Those kind of things happen to me all the time. Me and the natural order of things occasionally part ways. Both forward and backward, 'Sposed to meet a buddy over at Jack the Horse Lake to wet our lines at seven in the morning and I show up two months before he's even asked me.
They say some people never show up on time, would even be late for their own funeral. Me, I've already been to my funeral. Even had a good time. 'Course a few people soiled their drawers seein' me walking around and in the coffin at the same time. Odd thing was, I wasn't both places. Only looked like I was. Even checked that out with my buddy Mike the hairless werewolf. Had him put his hand on my shoulder - bein' what he was you didn't ever want to get too close to Mike - and take a look in the coffin. So long as he was holding on and looking inside, I wasn't in the box. Soon's he'd let go, poing!, there I was, the perfect door nail.
Mike did a double-double take and laughed, "Don't that beat all. And I thought going bald every time the moon rose full was weird."
Good thing for me Hoigarrd's was already there. Had everything I was looking for - and a few things I wasn't - even if it was bein' sold by a buckskin clad, long hair to beaded moccasins, clerk. Looked like his problem with time beat mine all to pieces. Me bouncin' around a month here, a year there and him in the store lookin' like he'd showed up for work two hundred years late.
In twenty-five words or less I explained my ambitions and what I was looking for in gear, "Should weigh next to nothing and cost about the same." His grin told me my hopes were unfounded, then rocketed off on a spiel about weight, space age metals, coefficients of something or other and lifetime durability. Never once mentioned cost. While he was rambling on I was turning tags. Also asking how much each thing weighed and mentally figuring out dollars per ounce. My truck's the standard. Comes in at around sixty cents a pound. A frame pack at a buck and a half an ounce. Top that off with the truck carrying me and me having to carry the pack. Seemed ass-backwards. Would be easier and cheaper to drive to Ely much less go through the misery of a three week hike.
It's tough on an old guy to admit a kid knows more than he does. Foolish pride. What he did do and it went dead against the grain of capitalism, was to tell me how to save five pounds of weight and forty bucks at the same time. Had me exchange the idea of a tent with a waterproof, nylon tarp, bug netting, some stakes and a hundred feet of parachute cord. Even drew up instructions how to rig it. Still, it didn't make it any easier when the cash register toted up the bill. But I walked out the door feelin' pretty good about what I'd bought. Funny how that goes when you buy quality. Grumbled my way in the door, smiled my way out.
Thoughts on the The Walk
Don't know where this is going. And figure Emil's path may be dead ended. The idea came from his last post about maybe hiking round trip along the Border Trail to Ely, MN. Maybe two hundred fifty miles. Not exactly the Appalachian Trail in length but a tad heavier on the uncivilized side. Back in the late '60s few hikers traveled those Minnesota miles. Should something go wrong Emil'd be in what we called in Vietnam, a world of hurt. Don't know what they called it in WWII but I'm sure they had a phrase for being in a bind.
I've got a problem. Me and the Border Trail don't know each other well. Crossed it, canoe atop shoulders, a few times. Even walked a half mile of it with my son to see what the trail looked like. Turned out it was a well marked path in the woods. I've logged a few dozen miles on the North Country Trail, also in northern Minnesota and from what I've seen, they're similar. 'Course the size of the Border Trail's hills'd put more of a strain on the calves. Also, I have no idea what shape the trail was in back in 1970. Or even if it existed. Doesn't matter. Should I choose to write of it, it'll be just like I want it to be. Or maybe exactly how Emil tells me it is as he puffs along.
Wish I could go along with Emil on the hike. Maybe I will. The thought struck me as I wrote the above words that I could. Why not? No doubt Archie is gonna come home from Vietnam a little bit screwed up and a week or two up in the Arrowhead country with his uncle might be a fine thing to do.
Gotta think about that.
The Walk
Yeah, it's true. I wrote the words but Emil told me what to write. What he wanted was a journal much like Learning Curve. Only he wanted it to sound more like a real journal. Broken sentences. Images. Passing thoughts. And written a whole lot better. I didn't know that when he started dictating but soon figured it out. Maybe even got better at it. This is no long, convoluted tale. Then, Emil's walk wasn't a cross country trek. Just an exaggerated ramble. Like the two long Emil tales that preceded this, "Canada" and "Emil's Cabin", "The Walk" is written for my Grandchildren. Hopefully they can figure out who Emil and Archie are meant to be. And, truth be known, it's also written for me. There's a joy in being presented an idea and fleshing it out. Don't know how well I do it but somehow, that doesn't matter a whole lot. Like Emil and his hike I get a little advise, shoulder the pack then see where the path leads me.
I've got a problem. Me and the Border Trail don't know each other well. Crossed it, canoe atop shoulders, a few times. Even walked a half mile of it with my son to see what the trail looked like. Turned out it was a well marked path in the woods. I've logged a few dozen miles on the North Country Trail, also in northern Minnesota and from what I've seen, they're similar. 'Course the size of the Border Trail's hills'd put more of a strain on the calves. Also, I have no idea what shape the trail was in back in 1970. Or even if it existed. Doesn't matter. Should I choose to write of it, it'll be just like I want it to be. Or maybe exactly how Emil tells me it is as he puffs along.
Wish I could go along with Emil on the hike. Maybe I will. The thought struck me as I wrote the above words that I could. Why not? No doubt Archie is gonna come home from Vietnam a little bit screwed up and a week or two up in the Arrowhead country with his uncle might be a fine thing to do.
Gotta think about that.
The Walk
Yeah, it's true. I wrote the words but Emil told me what to write. What he wanted was a journal much like Learning Curve. Only he wanted it to sound more like a real journal. Broken sentences. Images. Passing thoughts. And written a whole lot better. I didn't know that when he started dictating but soon figured it out. Maybe even got better at it. This is no long, convoluted tale. Then, Emil's walk wasn't a cross country trek. Just an exaggerated ramble. Like the two long Emil tales that preceded this, "Canada" and "Emil's Cabin", "The Walk" is written for my Grandchildren. Hopefully they can figure out who Emil and Archie are meant to be. And, truth be known, it's also written for me. There's a joy in being presented an idea and fleshing it out. Don't know how well I do it but somehow, that doesn't matter a whole lot. Like Emil and his hike I get a little advise, shoulder the pack then see where the path leads me.
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