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.
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