Frustration - or - My Ego Gets Slapped Around

     So I wrote this novel. Even went so far as to get it published and the publisher did a fine job. Let me hang myself by doing my own editing. That's what I wanted so I've no complaints. A few people have read the micro-tome and have found it entertaining, maybe even a good read.

     The original intent was to print up enough copies for my children, grandchildren and a few friends. Call it a dozen or so. Yup, that's all I wanted.

     Then things changed. What the hell, I might even sell a few copies. Why not? The tale wasn't complete gibberish, even threw in a dollop of humor here and there. All in all, worth a few bucks and an evening's reading now and then. It wasn't literature though it occasionally crossed the border. Maybe enough copies would be ordered for me to break even. Maybe turn a profit. Be discovered by Hollywood and made into a thoughtful, well received indie production with Christopher Walken as Uncle Emil and Ethan Hawke as fourteen-year-old Archie. The casting would make little sense but that would only add to the unusual aura of the tale. I'd become a darling of the left-wing press and live the rest of my life being miserable and not knowing why.

     That dream flew out the window when I saw what the books would be priced at; twenty bucks for a paperback, thirty-three for hardcover. Yeah, my novel wasn't all that bad, but worth seven bucks more than something by Jonathon Franzen? Damn, and I so wanted to meet Christopher Walken. The clouds cleared and I saw the truth. The publisher allows me to by copies at a significant discount. That's good. So the only way for my novel to be sold would be by me as the seller. Yeah, that meant many hours at the keyboard establishing a network of friends and/or doing readings with the idea of hawking a few copies. In my mind that equaled working for far less than I could be making flipping burgers at McDonalds. Top that off with a lifelong history of avoiding sales in any way, shape or form. If I have to convince you that you want or need something, then the truth is that you don't really want or need it. Right or wrong, that's the view from this side of my spectacles.

     About then Uncle Emil stepped in with a little wise old man advice, "What in the Sam Hill were you thinking? Didn't you know that was going to happen from the first moment you put Archie on the train down in Minneapolis? Long story short, you buy a few copies, give them to your kids, grandkids and friends and walk away a happy man. You started with nothing, made it happen and got what you wanted. To ask for anything more is to be like the fisherman's wife in the fairy story. They didn't write those tales just to pass the time. To not get the moral is immoral. By-the-by, next time you write a story with me in it, could you make me an inch or two taller?"

     So that's where I sit at the moment, there and at the kitchen counter with the sub-zero wind howling outside.

     P.S. ebook copies are available for $2.99 at booklocker.com. Tell them Archie sent you.

Christmas post to Mike the Hairless Werewolf

                                                            Christmas - 2016

     The other day I got to thinking of what Santa Claus did for a living before he grew old, fat and bearded (no doubt inspired by John Prine’s song Jesus - The Missing Years). Also what kind of man dresses in a red and white, fur-trimmed suit? Throw in the global warming consequences of establishing a major manufacturing operation atop an ice field, his anally obsessive, judgmental list making and you’ve got yourself a man bordering on the mentally deranged. Also not too smart. So I did what any normal person would do, fired up the laptop and consulted Wikipedia, the God of All Knowledge (At the top of the page they asked for a donation, then had the gall to say ‘piss on that noise’ had no monetary value).

     There I found all kinds of references to a Polish bishop, the Norse god Odin and what hit me most, the Finnish Christmas figure of Joulupukki, also known as the Christmas Goat. And I thought Santa Claus was weird. Top that off with his outfit of “…tight red leather pants and a tight fur trimmed red leather coat….” I don’t know about you but there’s no way I’d let a goat dressed like a Fire Island hooker down my chimney. And get this; come Christmas Eve in Finland, good ole Joulupukki comes knocking on doors at random and asks, “Are there any well-behaved children here?” That kind of crap happens here in the good ole U.S. of A. and, goat or no goat, he ends up doing five to ten. 

     Sorry, I got sidetracked. You read stuff like that and the idea of Europe being at war, on and off for about three centuries, comes as no surprise. 

     So, what exactly did Santa do for a living before becoming Jolly old St. Nick? Near as I can figure, back in the days of yore he was some kind of mythological herdsman floating in the sky up there with the aurora borealis.  Years later he found employment as a Viking mercenary sailing the seas in his ship named, “I’ve got a Little Something for You.” (While searching fruitlessly for the Norwegian translation I came on this and couldn’t resist - “Luftputefartoyet mitt er fulltar al”- which translates as “My hovercraft is full of eels” - which is close enough for me.)

     In the late sixteenth century S. Claus could be found posing nude as a model for background cherubs in the heyday of the Italian Renaissance. Yup, those happy days put the jolly in old St. Nick. It was in Florence after an evening’s tryst that Santa’s red suit was born. A little mixup in the guest bedroom and Claus frolicked out the door in Cardinal Guanella’s cape.

     After a lover’s spat with Oscar Wilde in 1898, he took up acting and starred in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado as Yum-Yum with rave reviews. Santa moved to New York City in 1912, sailing aboard the Titanic as the Countess of Rothes. A spat with George M. Cohan over the lyrics to “Yankee Doodle Was a Dandy” got him blackballed on Broadway. For the next year he made a living standing outside Macy’s with a red bucket scoring spare change and waiting for Natalie Wood to show up. An opportunity in the mailroom at Coca Cola led to him posing for Haddon Sundblom and the modern image of Santa was born. No longer satisfied with the peanuts of posing and hustling envelopes, Santa moved into the advertising end of the business and for a while, ruthlessly ran Coca Cola Asia. It was he who first realized those tiny little fingers could work magic with any task set before them and do it for a bowl of rice and a bowl of opium a day. In Bangkok, Santa is still known as the Red Swine. Finally, in 1953 he fled to the North Pole where he now lives in exile with an old woman and the few remaining Munchkin’s from The Wizard of Oz. 

     Additional research is needed for the above.

                                        Merry Christmas from Uncle Emil

     

Bike Ride

     This morning there was a collision in my head. Seems global warming ran right into the original, movie version of Frankenstein. I don’t know how these things happen to me but they do. All the time. Not so much at the cabin where the roads I bike are sand and gravel. There, it’s hard to think straight when my lungs are sucking air like there’s no tomorrow. But pavement? Yeah.

     The question of why so many people in this country can’t see climate change as being even remotely possible has me puzzled. Phrases like “prepare for the worst, hope for the best,” come to mind. Also, the Bible and Joseph interpreting Pharaoh’s dream. When times are good, prepare for when they’re bad. Simple, common sense.
     Then the movie Frankenstein popped into my head. Truth is I have a fair idea where such thoughts come from. Yup, I blame it on my Uncle Emil, the man who sees the sense behind the absurd.
     You see, there was this scientist. Cutting edge man of learning. Smart enough and talented enough to make himself a real, live man from spare body parts. How many people could do that? Also, how many people had the money and the stone castle necessary for such an  enterprise? Well, Herr Frankenstein did. And also had himself a new bride. If you’ve seen the movie you know what I mean. Yeah, she was hot (in a 1930s kind of way). Just the opposite of the mish-mash Victor had hidden down in the basement. There’s a moral in there for those willing to ferret one out.
     Anyhow, things happen, Adam (that being the monster’s name) runs off and throws a little girl in a lake just ’cause the two of them ran out of daisies. That sure wasn’t nice. Adam wanders on, finds himself a blind hermit, takes up smoking cigars and finds a liking for violin music. I can understand Adam’s fondness for tobacco but my ears have never been drawn to fiddle music (except in a Cajun band). Push comes to shove, the villagers develop an attitude ’cause of the little girl and the next thing you know the pitchforks and torches come out. Oddly enough they corner Adam in a windmill, fire up the place and the loss of local wind power blacks out half the village. Kind of ironic.
     So that’s what I see is behind our lack of serious action toward climate change. About half of us just don’t trust scientists and their research even though they’ve given us such life changing improvements like polyester double knits and graphite shafted golf clubs. Also, about ten million other things we literally can’t live without (a fair number of which have contributed to climate change. Ain’t that ironic?).
     Anyhow, the temperature was above normal on my ride this morning just like it has for the last couple of weeks or years for that matter. 

Almost Done

     Seventeen reads and re-reads. You'd think I could recite my novel "Between Thought and the Treetops" by heart but I can't. Some parts still take me by surprise. Emil would put the blame on my weakening brain and I suspect he's right.

     My editor is the problem. No doubt about it. I thought the stories were fine from the get-go and didn't want anyone to lay their grubby hands on my words, so I decided to self-edit. That did no good. Even though my editor and I occupied the same brain there was a continual battle going on. Re-read by re-read I relented, beaten into a corner. Compromise after compromise with that little voice telling me "it's all about the reader." Hah! Maybe I should have asked, "What reader?" 

     Anyhow, it's done. At least that's my hope. By December I should have a copy in my hands.

Here We Go Again

     3:48am.  Had another dream, woke up and couldn't fall back asleep.  Me and the Deans were out fishing.  Usually water dreams mean it's time to get up and pee but this one was different. You know the Deans if you've read the Deadman Lake blog.  There we were in two motor boats, gear and us in chest waders.  Must've been down south as we were heading up what looked to be a bayou surrounded by swamp.  For no apparent reason both boats sank in the shallow water.  Me and L. Dean were up in the lead boat chest deep and standing on the gunwales.  L. pulls out some kind of electronic device and sends out a signal to who knows where. Think he was trying to call his brothers out in space in the hope they'd came save him.  Next tries a cell phone with garbled results.  Yeah, L. is hooked to the electronic universe but at the moment, does us no good.  Oh me, oh my.  Then, from the opposite direction comes another boat.  The young man aboard doesn't seem to think our predicament is all that dire as over to our left about a quarter mile slog away lies the town.  There are none so blind as those who will not see.  Yup, that was us alright.  So me and L. start slogging out.  Have to stumble our way over an ancient forest of jagged submerged trees.  L. does a tumble 'cause he's trying to go too fast and gets messed up a little bit.  Not bad, just a little bit.  So we make it into town and go bowling.  Bowling?  What kind of crap is that?  Young lady at the desk is all pissed off 'cause she's got to fire up the lanes just so us two idiots can bowl.  L. starts out like everything's all fine.  Doesn't bowl all that good so I give him a few pointless pointers.  Me, I kind of mosey around a bit before rolling a ball.  One roll, one strike.  Second roll and pins start playing games with me, fallen' down, gettin' back up.  Then the lane gets shut off.  Other people start to trickle in.  Even a man used to work with.  Didn't hang out with him, just worked together.  Nice enough man but seemed to float around on the surface.  Remember Jung, all the people in dreams are simply different aspects of ourselves.
     So I laid there in bed mulling it over.  How the dream told me I was feeling about trying to publish a book of these Emil stories.  Got me thinking of Emil's cabin and how he wanted it to be made as much as possible from his own materials.  Came to realize once again I didn't write the stories.  I'm just an intermediary, the mouth.  At the moment I do this through these blogs.  Like Emil having his trees turned to lumber by the sawmill.  But they were his trees and it was his thought, his design and labor that built the cabin.  Just him and his nephew.
     Truth be know - to me mostly - I don't want to bring in outsiders to publish my words.  All I want is to write.  It's like daydreaming in print.  Do it for my own enjoyment.  And a chance to see myself in the mirror if I pay close enough attention.  Blogging is embarrassingly public enough but at least lets me pretend no one is looking or reading (pretty close to accurate).
     I'll see how I feel in the morning.

     Morning: ditto.  Sent off a letter to H.  Hope she takes it well.

   

To a T

     Sent an e-mail the other day in which I used the phrase 'to a T' (was informed it was an idiom.  Made me nervous as that word's awful close to idiot, which is even more close to the truth).  My e-mail followed the T with (tee, tea?).  Lame attempt at humor.  H - we don't know each other well enough for me to involve H in this drivel - sent me a site to click on that ran me through the history of the phrase (idiom).  My interest piqued (peeked, peaked?), I did further research and figured the weight of speculation ran back to the time of the King James Bible and its use of the word tittle, as in 'not one jot or tittle'.  Over time the word was shortened to T, meaning to hit the nail on the head and also to keep the grammar police from working overtime.  The shape of the T got me thinking of the cross and Christ being nailed to it.  Read somewhere that back in the day when crucifixion was the thing to do the typical cross was shaped like a capital T not a lower case t.  'Course that brings up the controversy of whether Christ was roped or nailed to the cross and I don't want to go there.
     All by the by till I recalled the days of my youth when I used to closely follow football.  Came to remember one of the premier pro quarterbacks, name of Y. A. Tittle (coincidence?).  Think he went by that moniker 'cause his full name was Yelvington Abraham Tittle.  I figure it was shortened to his initials to allow the TV announcers to spit his name out before the start of the next play.  Anyhow, Tittle played back in the days when the T formation was in vogue.  Tittle was one heck of a passer.  Most of his flings were works of art, perfection.  His throws usually hit the receiver on the button which suited the fans to a T.  Top that off with Abraham being in the King James Bible and you've got yourself something to ponder.
     Emil: "Yeah, it's drivel alright."
   

Dreams

       It's 3:14am.  Not sure if it's early or late.  Seems like it's more likely early as it's pretty dark outside the window.  Had a dream and couldn't go back to sleep.  If you've read this blog you know that I dream.  They tell me things.  Mostly about myself.  Also offer an occasional, tantalizing eggplant recipe.  Should I wake, find myself rollin' it over and over, there's no way I'm going back to sleep unless I rise and write it down.  So that's what I'm sittin' here doing.
     Anyhow, I was writing novels for publication.  Had written two and sent them off to a publisher.  Can't say I was happy about their content.  Sister Eleanor Marie would have called them too cut and dried and I knew it was true.  No meat.  Then got this idea for at least three more stories taken from back page newspaper articles that'd run serial-like for several days.  Put them together and flesh them out.  Voila!  Story.  Then talked the idea over with some co-workers.  Came to realize how personal I'd have to get to make the stories real.  Next found myself interviewing the family from one of the stories.  Conflicting views and emotion from all sides yet each was based on truth.  Said "there's as many sides to a story as there are to a circle."  Just inside and out or infinite in number?  Gave it some thought and felt both were right.
     A few months ago my granddaughter Mollie simply said to me, "You're Uncle Emil."  Thought of it in bed after the dream and got me thinking.
     Earlier in the evening I'd reread some of the earlier Emil and Deadman Lake entries.  Altogether there's enough strange humor in them to flesh out several stories.  Thought of the last Emil story 'The Walk' and felt it could be made into something like Bradbury's "The Illustrated Man."  Instead of Emil on the hike it's Archie.  Reminisces on scenes of his life and tales told as he walks the woods.
     Not sure yet how the dream and the story idea fit together but somehow they do.
     Been contacted by an editor from Beaver's Pond about my story.  Her name is Hanna.  Good name. Hope she can see the merit of printed idiocy.
     Worked up and scared.  Yup that sums me up nicely.  I need help, lots of help.  Or maybe it's much ado about nothing (read that somewhere).

     

   

Panic II

     What to do when you're done?  Easy.  Go back and edit the whole thing.  And when that's done?  Think on it.  Sleep on it.  See what comes to mind that doesn't sit right.  Go back and change it.  Maybe keep the entry and gut the house.  Yesterday and today it's been a couple of paragraphs about the man who isn't there.  Up in Manitoba in Grass River Provincial Park on one of the remote lakes there's an abandoned trapper's cabin.  Yup it's there alright.  And in the same place I placed it in "Ease."  On the first go around I made up a brief, convoluted story about a gnome-like man who lived there.  No matter how I wrote it the passage it felt wrong, out of place.  Bothered me enough to rewrite it.  Then rewrite it again.  Still bothers me but it's better than it was.

Panic

     The third Emil story has reached an end.  Felt like the air had gone out of my balloon and was at a loss for a couple of days.  Then decided to start over.  Reread and edit all three tales into a coherent whole.  The first entry goes back nearly three years.  Since then, the tone of the three has changed a bit.  Humor that once seemed a real knee slapper now feels like a misstep.  Yeah, it's an odd thing we do up here in the northland, polish up something of no consequence for no apparent reason.

The Walk - Epilogue

     Slept in on Friday.  Must have been near seven when the coffee started perking.  So easy here.  Could even walk about barefoot.  Sun was up and streaming through the lookout windows when I ate my last meal of camp food.  Yeah, the cupboard was pretty bare.  Needed a run down to Grand Marais for food, a store bought lunch, the library, do the laundry and see if the world still remembers I'm alive in my post office box.  Don't get much mail besides bills but you never know.  Tomorrow the plan is to recover my stashes.  Long drive but has to be done.  Hopefully, the coolers haven't spontaneously combusted from the festering contents.
     'Spose all was right with the world but couldn't shake the empty feeling that rose with me this morning.  Not of fan of things ending.  'Specially a trip like this one.  Lived as simple as simple could be for a couple of weeks.  Liked that a lot.  Hiking the trails filled me with meaning.  Nothing I could lay my finger on, just felt right.  And now that it's over… well, it's over.  Door's closed.  'Bout the only thing to do is plan a canoe trip before the lakes ice over.  Get my little world here at the cabin ship shape and head out for a few days.  But no LRRP rations.  Had enough of them for a lifetime.

     Town was still there.  Finished my rounds at the post office, Dairy Queen cherry shake in hand to help me find a few pounds I'd left back on the trail.  Fistful of bills.  Electric, phone - yeah I have a phone, use it a few times each month to check on family - truck insurance.  And a fancy envelope from Archie and Lauren.  Saw it and knew right away what it was.  Holy-moly, they were getting married tomorrow.  Guess my plans just changed.  Coolers'd have to wait.
     Now, this was back in the days when a man wore a suit to a wedding, a funeral or in the box when they buried him.  Mine wasn't exactly in style, lapels too narrow, but I sure had one.  Dark blue, wool blend, no holes, wrinkles or stains.  Even a five spot stashed in a pocket.  And a memorial card from Uncle Wilhelm's funeral.  "Yeah, though I walk through the valley of death." Uncle Willie was in the Great War and did his share of walking through that valley.  Probably crawled through it too.
     Didn't have much in the line of dress shirts.  Went with a Pendleton, plaid, said I was a man of the north who had little use for fashion but did like quality.  No tie.  Figured I'd simply button my shirt to the neck.  Buffed a coat of Kiwi on my funeral shoes and I was set.
     Service wasn't till seven on Saturday evening so I drove down in the morning.  Bummed a room from my sister Dora.  Drove over with her and her hubby, Ben.  Nice service, candle lit and all.  Had both a priest and a minister up front.  Guessed they were keeping their options open.  Options are good.  Hard to reopen a door once you've closed and locked it.  And believe you me, religions are big on locking doors.
     Got a minute with Archie later that night at Lauren's folks house.  Like to say we discussed all kinds of profound things but we didn't.  How much thought and feeling can you pack into a few seconds?  Archie had a big grin on his face.  Happy man.  I managed to squeeze back the tears, happy for him, sad for me, 'til I stepped outside.  Sat with Archie's mom, my sister Mary, on the cement steps out front.  Nice night.  Summer warm.  Bummed a smoke from her.  Kools, not my cup of tea but the occasion called for smoke.  Mary knew how much the boy meant to me.  And I knew how she felt.  Archie's not her only child but was her last by more than a dozen years.  A glance between us said enough.  We exchanged a few meaningless remembrances then simply sat smoking and enjoying the warmth of a late Indian summer evening.
     Long drive home on Sunday.  Bucked a cold, north wind all the way.  By Two Harbors, sleet.  Grand Marais, snow.  A melting inch on the ground at the cabin.  Most of the country'd see this as the arrival of winter.  Up here in the Arrowhead it spoke to me of a last canoe trip and spawning lake trout.

The Walk XX - Looking For the Ark

     Never did rain hard.  Didn't rain all the time either.  Probably no more than seventy or eighty of the next hundred hours.  And most of those hours were at night.  Like to say it was no big deal but it was no happy time.  Wasn't a sad one either.  Just a minor misery.  Like a never-ending hand pushing down ever so gently on my head.
     The forrest above and ground cover at my feet were both near the peak of autumn color when I set off.  Would've been spectacular in sunshine.  Wasn't bad in the half light of dense overcast, drizzle and mist.  Most of what I saw was framed by the visor of my ball cap and blinders of jacket hood.  Back in the tunnel.  Constantly absorbed in thought and slowly tiring of my sodden company.  Then hit another layer of acceptance.  It'd rain.  I'd get wet.  Walked through that open door and continued on.  Once I accepted, I could relax.  Oh yeah, I also tugged on a second layer of stockings.  My wet feet soon'd become abraded feet without that forgiving extra layer.  Had more socks waiting at my last re-supply.
     Didn't take long for my world to soak through.  Meals, clothes, shoes, feet, sleeping bag.  Even the water in the lakes I camped beside was wetter than usual.  Found myself jumping up and down every morning, lunch and supper to loosen the moss.  Never'd thought to bring a razor.  Never thought I'd grow orange lichens on my chin whiskers.  Looked like a damned leprechaun, smelled like a dead carp.  Yeah, I was not a pleasant presence to behold through any of the five senses on the last days of the hike.  Odd though it may seem, low grade misery grew to be my friend.  Came to relish the idiocy of what I was doing, the privacy of being hunkered in the solitude of movement and thought.
     And those thoughts kept returning to Archie.  Never had a child of my own.  Don't know what it'd feel like.  How I'd react to the responsibility.  And on the flip side, Archie never had a father to speak of.  Same boat, different lake.  We'd had the best of each other without the emotional baggage.  Years earlier, don't remember where, he'd said something to the effect that not having a father wasn't all that bad.  'Stead of having to deal with the mix of goods and bads of real flesh and blood he was able to make up the father he wanted from bits and pieces of the men he'd met in life or his reading.  Probably no man like that anywhere but in his head.  Don't know how he'd come to feel about himself when he had children of his own.  Probably feel he'd fallen short in most every way.
     Don't want to flatter myself but believe he might have seen me as being as close to his mental image as anyone.  If so, the man in his mind sure wasn't the man in the back of the canoe, though I doubt it mattered.  We took to each other pretty good.  Filled holes in each other's lives for a week or more each year.
     Not much to say over those last four days.  Rained.  Then rained more.  Got tired of LRRP meals.  Got so it was hard to choke 'em down.  On the upside, they filled me up and were warm.  What more did I want?  Except maybe a garden fresh tomato.  Or a banana.  Maybe an orange.
     On the short stretch of the Gunflint Trail a woman in a pickup truck slowed, stopped, rolled down her window and asked me if I wanted a lift.  Said,  "Sure.  Tell me a joke."  Got a stare then a laugh out of her.  Guess I gave her a lift.
     The thought of bagging the hike never entered my head.  Not that I was bull-headed just that I knew it wouldn't feel right.  Never been one to quit on something once I'd started.  Besides, like I said, I was having a good time in a low key kind of way.  Minnesota kind of way.  Yeah, there's a book full of jokes about our attitude up here in the northland.  Mostly founded on exaggeration of underlying truth.  Seems we know life's based on balance and usually stays pretty close to the fulcrum.  That it's raining today doesn't mean it'll be raining tomorrow.  Or sunny for that matter.  Life goes along its merry way doing what it has to do.  With luck a man can catch onto the ride for his three score and ten.  Take it as it comes and be ready for what's around the corner.  Though it would be nice to have dry shoes.
     Gave thoughts to what I'd do once I was home.  Wood to split, shopping in town, maybe a last canoe trip.  Then thought of the future.  My yesterdays now far outnumbered my tomorrows.  And how many of those tomorrows would be spent in good health?  And how many would be spent in my cabin?  All things a man doesn't want to deal with but knows he has no choice.  Life calls the shots and doesn't much care how any one man feels about it.  Simply put, I enjoyed my life and had no immediate intentions to move onto something new.  Figured to put faith in my feelings and, as always, my dreams.
     Sun came out for a few minutes on the bluffs above Rose Lake just past the falls.  Almost did a jig for joy.  Instead, simply enjoyed the moment of steam rising from my body.  Still some color down below but the rain had done a job on the leaves.  Mostly pine and spruce green with splashes of gold and crimson dancing off beneath roving cloud shadows to the Canadian horizon.  'Spose part of my joy was knowing I'd be home for supper the next evening.  September'd already seen its days come and go.  A fitting season for a man who was solidly in the fall of his life.  But October's a good month too.  Drops a few hints of summer here and there.  And calls for long johns more often as the days pass.
     Took my last break alongside the McFarland Road after it'd dropped the lake from view.  Thank God it was still raining.  Wouldn't have seemed fitting had the sun come out.  Almost an insult.  Been wet for four days and wanted to stay that way 'til I stripped the rotting clothes off my back.
     Came to the conclusion as stood under the shower that warm water feels better than cold.  And yeah, damn it, the rain stopped about the time I turned in the driveway.  Got me laughing.  Sometimes I think Mother Nature likes to play jokes on me.  If so, she's got a great sense of humor.

The Walk XIX - Homeward Bound

     Dear Uncle Emil,

     It's for sure.  The Ninth Division has been divided into two groups.  Two thirds of us (by us I mean me too) are going, the remainder have been reassigned to other divisions.  Of course my steps were dogged by my good friend, irony.  I'm not sure if that's the right word.  Maybe strange coincidence is more accurate but irony seems to make the story better.  As to where we're going, rumors ruled the roost until last week.  Fort Ord, California one day, Fort Collins, Colorado the next.  Once in a while Schofield Barracks in Hawaii popped up but who could believe something like that?  Well, Schofield won.  Back in infantry training when those of us with glasses were issued prescription sunglasses we joked we were getting them for our future duty in Hawaii.  Guess that turned out to be true for two out of a hundred, ninety-two of us.  Who'd have thought it would pay to be three days AWOL?

     When the sorting out process began, those staying in country were weeded out first but not all at once.  Over two cycles to the field faces changed.  New men arrived, others simply vanished to other units.  We were never told exactly what was happening during each step, things just changed.  However, with each passing day the rumors got more accurate.  Finally, we stopped going to the field and the war in the delta was taken over by the ARVNs.  Good luck with that.  From the little I'd seen of them they didn't seem to be much of a fighting force.  Hope I'm wrong.

     As the next few days passed those who were heading back to the World but had the least time in country began to be reassigned to other duty.  My two best friends ended up working at the PX.  Each morning in formation a dozen or two names were called out to be assigned.  After a week all but nine of us were either ordered to other duty or told they would remain with the company.  Finally, eight of the remaining nine were ordered to remain with Bravo Company but not me.  Last man on the fence.  It should have come as no surprise.  Part of me feared retribution from our First Sergeant for the time when he told me I wasn't paid to think.  When you're the last man it's easy to think you're being singled out for the very worst reasons.

     At last I was reassigned.  Turned out they were forming a new Field MP platoon and that's where I was headed.  Grabbed my gear and struggled off across base a happy man knowing I was on my way to Hawaii.  Would have cried for joy had it not been improper for a man who'd faced the enemy and not crapped his pants.
     So that's where I am, in a barracks filled with MPs and MPs-to-be.  We received one week of training then started working duty shifts.  Since us new guys are at the short end of the stick, we get the night shifts.  Odd how attitudes change in a heartbeat.  As grunts we had no love for MPs and now that we wear the black armband, MPs instantly turned into decent people.  Night on base sure beats night in the field and sleeping in a bunk feels much better than the floor of a rice paddy or under a haystack (yup, me and the Farmer slept under a haystack to escape a night time downpour).
    On my first shift I came to learn about the AWOL problem.  Apparently there were a few GIs who'd decided the war wasn't to their liking and walked off base with intentions of never being seen again.  Then word came down that the division was pulling out and they started to sneak back under cover of darkness, one at a time.  That first night, me and the regular MP I was riding with, had to arrest one of the AWOLs.  Felt sorry for the guy.  Both for the time he was going to spend in the stockade and for being dumb enough to do what he did and mostly for where he did it.  I figure he felt time in jail beat having to face the NVA should they win the war. 
     At night we get access to a WATS line.  I don't know if that's the right word for free long distance phone calls.  There's usually a half hour wait in line but it sure is great being able to call home.  At the moment there's a wedding in the offing.  I'm not sure of the date as it all depends on when I can get leave.  Once again rumors fly.  At the moment they're saying our leaves will come when we're finally assigned to existing units back at Schofield Barracks.  Who knows, maybe this one is right?

     Aloha,
     Archie

     That was the last letter I received.  Might be the last ever.  Archie's life is on the fast track.  Combat, release, marriage, all in a few weeks.  Doubt he'll find the time to write.  Or get his head screwed on straight for a long time.  Maybe our trips are done for good.  That I wrote 'maybe' is the hope of an aging man knowing life is passing him by.  Boys grow to men.  Men to fathers.  Free time gone to the winds.
     Awoke in the middle of the night, tent lit by the full moon.  Lap of waves on the shore rubble and a soft rustling along the tarp walls.  Popped the flashlight on a pair of beady eyes.  Probably following the scent of crumbs on my heaped clothes.  Doused the beam and lay musing on the mouse.  And that I was able to hear his probing.  A good sound when your hearing's as poor as mine.  Passed onto thinking of the unseen and unheard layers of life.  Felt like I was close to some kind of truth.  One that was about as substantial and lasting as the froth on the morning's stream as it passed beneath the log bridge.  Fought hard to get a grip on whatever that truth was but sleep got me first.  Maybe it had me all along.
     Clouds rolled in during the early morning hours.  Didn't feel like rain but strapped my rain jacket on the outside of the pack just in case.  Thinking of Bingshick Lake for camp tonight.  Either that or Harness less than another quarter mile up the trail.  Not much excitement today, just miles.  Dreamt of a maple tree in my neighbor's yard last night.  Double trunked, both dead at the top.  The man kept dropping hints he wanted it felled by your's truly.  I took one look at the surrounding power lines and knew there was no sense in me trying.  Didn't have the skill.  Don't know what it is about people in dreams.  Not a one of them shows respect for the feelings and skills of others.  'Specially me.  Been thinking of hiring a new dream crew.  Maybe some good looking ladies instead of idiot neighbors.  Maybe a couple of comedians.  Dreams of my youth had more pizzazz.  These days it's neighbors with sick trees.  Makes me consider foregoing sleep altogether.
     Reached Bingshick lowering under clouds but with near seventy degree air.  Time for a swim.  Don't know how cold a well digger's belt buckle is but I've heard they're near as cold as the water I swam in.  Raised my voice two octaves and gave thought to a late life career with the Vienna Boys Choir.  Couple of logs intended as benches graced the fire grate.  Have no love of logs when I'm canoeing.  Six hours paddling is pain enough in a man's backside.  But after a day of walking they had their appeal.
     Slept 'til near three before I stepped outside.  Felt the first raindrop on my return.
     

The Walk XVIII - Alte Wunderkindt

     My name is Emil and I'm a creature of habit.  Should you ask me I'd say ritual.  Has a more respectable ring to it.  Like a man of God in touch with the inner, unseen workings of the universe.  But habit's more accurate.  Closer to the ground I'm walking.  Not that habit's a bad thing.  No sir.  Takes a lifetime of sifting through possibility to find the things that're most valuable to a man.  Find 'em, grab 'em, hold on to them, cherish them, polish them to a fine sheen.  Now and then add a new one or modify an old.

     Anyhow, repetition was on my mind as I set off in the morning to the tune of a tailwind.  'Course in the woods there's no such thing as a true tailwind.  Just a tendency.  Trees play havoc with a breeze.  Bend it, twist it, turn it upside down.  Down at foot level, she comes at you four ways at once.  Five on a Sunday.  Definitely no pattern.  Figured to do the same myself when finding tonight's campsite.  Two overnights on Drumstick was fine, almost a pleasure.  But had no intention to repeat any sites on my way home.  The question was, long day or short day to get me started and out of sync?  Since I was on the trail before eight and feeling spry and being who I am, there was only one answer.  Besides, two extra miles got me that much closer to home.  Not that I'm not happy to be where I am but I can feel the gravity of the cabin.  And the closer I got, the stronger it'd be.
     Once in stride I turned my thoughts back to last night's letter.  Not so much the dysentery, more the dilemma of war and the idiots who get us into such fixes.  Behind the nobility of any cause stands a bully with a gun.  What we did in WWII was truly good.  Returned order to the world.  But would have been unnecessary without thugs like Tojo, Hitler and their henchmen.  How in the hell do such people come to power?  And what's to keep us from allowing those kind of people from ruining our lives here in America?  Frustrating.  Even more so when you're like me and don't have an answer.  And here I am, winding along the solitude of the Kekekabic, conflicted thoughts running through my head.  Platitudes of newsmen and philosophers clouding a perfectly fine day.  No white steed or shining suit of armor in sight.  Couldn't ride down into the maelstrom and bring good to the world on the tip of my lance even if I wanted.  May as well go back to breathing and walking.  Absorb the day around me.
     Took a break after crossing the log bridge.  Lot of work went into carving that log and all for a handful of hikers like me.  A few moments of thought seemed the least I could do to repay the effort and skill.  'Course good intentions come on faster feet than mine….

     Wrote this story in journal form.  Yeah, that's what it is, mostly.  Started off back at the cabin with intentions of writing in detail all that happened, as it happened.  Or, at the least, writing up some detailed notes every evening.  Photographs of words.  In years to come, as my memory clouded,  I'd be able to pull out these pages and relive the walk many times.  Good intentions, a little weak as to results.  Did make a few notes every night.  Well, most every night.  Would've written more but tired feet, tired mind and a sixty-three year old body said to take it easy.  But I do have a good memory.  Those few notes were outline enough to flesh out my steps while sitting above in my lookout.  What's on these pages is pretty much what happened.  Truthful as I could make it.
     Then, in desperation, at a loss for words of truth, I strayed from the path.  Ran amok on a convoluted story of my brothers Bud and Rich that never happened.  Oh it was a funny story alright, slapstick and biblical all rolled into one.  Right up there with some of my best.  But none of it ever happened.  Would have left it in had I not had the dream of last night.  By now you must know I listen to my dreams.  Most are lightweight corrections to keep me from falling off the tight rope.  Last night's was a welter, maybe even a middleweight.  Was building either a small cabin or garage.  Kind of like the little tale I'm constructing.  She was framed up nice, from the ground up to putting on the roof trusses.  At the last moment I decided to give the roof two parallel peaks.  Like the letter M.  Well, that created some serious problems.  Would've leaked in the valley and the eaves were all catty-wampus.  Don't know who it was that pointed out how messed up my roof was.  Voice of truth and reason probably.  Looked like a man I once worked with.  Didn't much care for him but he had no problem speaking his mind.  Knew I had to gut the roof.  Tear it down and start over.  Keep it simple and get it right.  But sure as heck didn't want to.  Woke up trying not to listen to the dream but it wouldn't leave me alone.  Went for a walk.  Came back and deep-sixed close to three pages of work.  Oh me, oh my.  Never done that before but, once done, it sure felt good.  But left the title.  I like the sound of it.
     So, consider this side step to be a part of the hike.  I do.  And want to remember it as such.  A man's life doesn't always move in a line.  Moves more like interlaced fingers, back and forth, back and forth.  Now here, now yesterday, sometimes tomorrow.

     Always liked the sound of rushing water.  A hundred voices, each whispering different songs, stories.  All in different keys.  Song of water, rocks, earth, plants, froth.  Reflections of broken sky and treetops dancing on the flow.  Galloping downhill in a crowd.  A few stragglers eddying back along the shore.  Dissonant, yet somehow those many voices fit together.  Can't explain it but sure do like it.  Sat there, pack off and gape-jawed my way through the concert.
     A walk like mine doesn't travel by the hour.  The feet do but not me.  My passage was five minutes of attention here, one there.  Together my feet and thoughts moved like a man with an easily distracted dog on a long leash.  Spent a lot of time on the trails chasing the scent of days no longer there.
     Finally rose from my haze, shouldered my pack and moved on.  No hurry.  Yeah, there was a part of me wanting to be home.  Standing shoulder to shoulder with Mister Hurry-up was another side saying I'd be a fool to rush the miles.  To this point I'd walked in both sun and rain.  Warm and cold.  No matter the conditions I'd managed to get through each day.  Still had plenty of food and fuel.  Also a last resupply no more than two days away.  Plan was simple, don't do anything stupid and enjoy the scenery.  Harness Lake tonight.  The site'd looked good a couple of days earlier, no reason it wouldn't today.  Continuity in the universe is a good thing.  Nice to know where the kitchen'll be when the lights are off.
     Week and a day since I set foot out of the cabin.  Yet it feels like I just started.  Time passes in the wink of an eye.  Augenblick in German.  Nice word.  And on the nail.  Two weeks seemed a long time  looking up the trail from the fresh shoes of those first footsteps.  A wink as a memory.  Must be some kind of mental effect.  Maybe like the Doppler one with sound.  The road of time looks a long way to the next curve.  Shorter than hell in the rearview mirror.  Eeeeeeeeeeeoww.
     Longest and shortest days of my life were back in the war.  Time on ship from one island to the next stretched to the blue horizon.  Then came time to load in the LSTs and time slowed to a crawl.  Each moment an eternity.  Did some reading a few years back on Zen Buddhism and how their form of meditation is simple awareness.  That and a guy in a robe slapping you on the back of the head with a stick when your mind starts to drift into how good that supper bowl of pickled radishes'll taste.  Awareness?  Don't need any reminders when the bullets snap past your ears.  Time?  A thing of the past.  Once thought to look at my watch when we were in the thick of it.  Yeah, it wasn't moving at all.  Time at a standstill.  At least until I wound it.  Got a chuckle out of that.
     The site on Harness Lake wasn't much but enough.  Lake wasn't much more than an aggravated puddle.  Red-black with bog stain, a good sign as to water quality.  Shore was jagged rubble, tough to walk on barefoot.  Ouched my way to knee deep water, there to dip my aluminum pot.  Kept my shoes off knowing a second trip was in order.  Then a third to clean up.  Come morning I'd settle for a simple face washing.
     Thought hit me while washing, how much water, trees and earth love sunlight.  Can't do without it.  Me too.  Lifts my spirits.  Carries some of the weight of my pack when it dapples down through the trees.  Might even get me floating if the pines and popples weren't stealing so many of the rays.  Yeah, those branches grab the light like a kid with access to a cookie jar.  Good thing for me they have butter fingers and bobble enough beams to brighten my steps.
     Stood there in the stained water a few minutes simply enjoying.  Light breeze, low autumn sun, minnows tickling my toes.
   

The Walk XVII - Smile and Whistle

     Woke up this morning with cobwebs in my cobwebs.  Felt like I was two steps behind myself when moving through camp and falling farther behind.  Hardly noticed the rain had stopped.  Though my body was awake enough to be heading brushward for relief, my brain was still on the other side in dreamland.  Not unusual had this been one of those middle of the night trips.  Then I do my best to hold onto my sleep side so as to nod off as soon as my head hits the pillow on my return.  But this was different.  Sleep was holding onto me, not me it.
     Normally there's two worlds - surely there's more than two but I don't want to go there at the moment - in my day, awake and asleep.  Either in one or the other.  No between.  This morning was different if only for a moment.  Maybe not even that long.  Give me an inch of measure here.  I'm not explaining something physical like an igloo.  This is more like a feeling, a hint, a breath of fog.  Anyhow, when sleep let go I had a flash of passing through something as I rose.  Like a thin layer, so thin it's almost not there.  Had the feeling it was the course of my life as it was supposed to be lived.  Kind of like a river or a strip of movie film.  Stood there for a minute watering a patch of gooseberry bushes accompanied by all kinds of philosophical notions about the layer.  What my straying from it might mean.  Yeah, all kinds of high flying notions about meaning.  As I drew my zipper and washed my hands on the big, rain-wet, green leaves I realized what a bunch of hooey my thoughts were.  The only truth was that thin layer and I had no idea what it was, only that it was there for a moment.  Time to return to earth and my morning's oatmeal.
     Everything in camp was sodden.  Not an inch of dry as far as the foot could wander except for the few square feet under the tarp.  Good job Emil.  Above, the clouds were broken and the last few stars faintly peeked through here and there.  The air cool enough to send a warming shiver through my body.  No ice on the bedewed leaves.  Couldn't be colder than thirty-five.  Stripped to my waist and washed.  Wisps of mist rose and hung over Drumstick.  A pair of loons, their checkered mating colors fading, passed, then silently slid below the surface in pursuit of breakfast.  Felt good to be cold, felt better with sleep washed from my face and hair, better still covered with three layers of cotton and checkered wool.  Best of all knowing I'd travel light today and have no camp to raise on my return.  Intended to return by mid-afternoon, hopefully in sunshine.
     To this point I'd traveled at my leisure.  Stopped to look when there was a vista, rested before I got tired.  Ate before I was hungry.  Today was a day for miles.  Fifteen or so round trip with a light load.  Water, rain gear, dirty clothes and snack food.  Lunch was waiting, three hours away.  The return would be heavier but still no more than thirty pounds.  Life was simple on the trail.  So were the joys.  Bear scat here, wolf there.  Evidence of deer and moose.  Squirrel-shucked pine cones atop logs and stumps.  A few of the stumps spoke of ancient pines reaching the sky.  Three or more feet in diameter, mossed and jagged as mountain peaks, grain raised higher than pulp.  Done in by old age, disease or lightening?  Me, I'm hoping old age'll do me in, though lightening might be a more exciting send off.                Occasional large, saucer-shaped cavities in the thin soil spoke of root boles that once were, trees that'd storm toppled and melted to soil.  The trail led me on, swam rivers of yellowed hazel brush and waded brooks of scarlet maple seedlings wherever sunlight streamed to the forest floor.  Light pack, light mind, the miles peeled away.  Clouded thoughts of the darkened morning hours had fizzed away like froth in the bottle of cola waiting on me at lunch.  Simple civilized pleasure in a green bottle.
     The few thoughts that arose drifted away on the freshening breeze, washed from my brain like the rain cleansed air in my lungs.  Damnation I was happy.  Thoughts would only cloud things.  Best to slap 'em down as they entered and get lost in the song of my footfall.  Ain't that poetic?
     Used to pray every night when I went to bed.  That's the way I was raised.  Same as my dozen brothers and sisters.  Yeah, we were a baker's dozen.  Guess God didn't want my Mom and Dad to feel like they'd been shorted when it came to help in the kitchen or the fields.  Hands make a farm work.  Probably where they got the phrase farmhand.  Every night like clockwork we were taught to say our 'Our Fathers' then proceed down the litany of 'God Blesses' for every soul close to us.  Would even've thrown in a Catholic 'Hail Mary' had I heard the an archangel pucker up and blow.  I was third in line, so in the beginning there was little challenge in remembering the 'God Blesses'.  Then every year and a half another brother or sister would sprout up.  Throw in a few uncles, aunts, mutts and friendly barn cats so by the time I was ready to leave home it was a regular recitation of the Encyclopedia of Schonnemanns.
     Don't pray as such any more but do spend time in bed thinking over the day.  Haven't even given formal praying much thought in the last few years.  That it came to mind today might be for a reason.  Maybe taking up the 'God Blesses' once again would be a good thing.  Run down the list of souls who've meant something to me. There's something of me in each of them and a bit of them in me.  We share memories, experience, helped make each other the persons we are.  Kind of a chain.  Yeah, could be it's a time to pull maintenance on the links before the chain breaks.
     Lost in the song of rustling leaves and needles above, I walked past my resupply cairn.  Seems it'd been toppled.  Bad structure or bad spirit?  Didn't matter so long as my food was intact.  The Fernberg Road told me I'd gone too far.  Also told me to mind my step lest I befoul my shoes with the dust of civilization.  Stood in the dappled shade inches from the glare of the gravel.  Too bright.  Too naked.  Over the days my eyes had come to welcome the filters of cloud and tree.  Paused for a good minute before retreating to the safety of the forest.  Felt like a reprieve from the governor not having to step onto the graded surface.  Turned and sought out my cooler.
     The single base rock of the cairn remained where I'd set it.  As did the marking blaze and cooler.  I was set.  Double rations and double clothes inside, half for the forsaken hike to and from Ely.  Way more than I needed to get me back to the final supply.  Nothing to do but strip buck naked and draw on clean.  Eat and look like a new man.  Like to say I was in no hurry but the wakening skeeters put urgency in my movements.  Also got me thinking, 'warm enough for bugs, warm enough for a swim today.'  Took an RC Cola length break, filled my shirt pockets and pack with goodies.  Ate the rest of my lunch as I strolled.  This man had a destiny with cleanliness.  No time to lose.
     The challenge of a wilderness lake bath is wet feet.  Once out of the water they'll attract every pebble, stick, leaf and needle on the beach.  'Less of course you can walk on your hands.  Could be the reason man has always wanted to fly.  Cruise along, dive in, emerge and air dry.  Slick.  Sure'd beat having to work the grime from between the toes and off the soles before yanking my socks up.  Helped to have a sunlit slab of basalt along the shore.  Once dry and dressed, couldn't help but whistle and smile.  Smile better than I whistle but that's not sayin' much.  Still had better than two hours of sun.  Went to work on dinner.
     Skeeters sacked out before I did the same.  Fine with me.  Few things louder than a loan mosquito in the dark.  Those who don't know the sound figure it to be annoying.  Those who do, know it to be violently maddening.  Idiot beast won't leave me alone even though it surely knows it's courting death.  Not tonight though.  Blessed peace once again.  And a few minutes to prop my head and flashlight another letter:

     Dear Uncle Emil,

     We had a serious water problem a few days ago.  And that led to a different water problem which put me where I am at the moment.  I don't know about the rest of the country but we get our water flown out to us around lunchtime each day.  It's the rainy season and there's no choice.  Whether from a river or moat the water here is basically thin mud.  Don't know how we could drink it no matter the number of iodine tablets thrown into a canteen.  Until a week ago the water we'd been given was decent.  Then, somehow, someway, the formula for treating the water changed and it became chemically foul.  We had no choice but to gag it down.  The only solution was to do with less.  Not good when it's a hundred above.
     We were out on patrol two days ago when a canteen was passed forward.  I was told it was flavored with a root beer fizzie.  In case you haven't had one, a fizzie is like a koolaid tablet with bicarb in it for effervescence.  Regardless of the flavor, they're all foul tasting.  But I was thirsty and figured a sip couldn't be all that bad.  At the moment I didn't know it was dipped from a Vietnamese rain barrel.  When I found out I drank no more.  At least that's how I recall it.  At the moment my brain is a little deprived of anything provided by digestion.
     Mid-afternoon found me squatting, butt to the wind, over the edge of a rice paddy dike.  The rice is real pretty now.  Like four foot high, jade colored grass.  Didn't interest me as I squatted.  The monsoon is now in full swing so we set up at night on high ground, usually around a farm yard.  It's a lot like we're taking hostages with the idea being the VC won't mortar a farm.  Long story short, me and three other men spent our night crapping our brains out.  As the night passed each of my trips to the paddies got harder and shorter.  My last was on my knees.  Come morning the four of us were medivaced out.  I didn't like it but loading up a sixty pound pack seemed an impossibility.  
     So here I sit.  Either on my bunk in the barracks or over in the outhouse.  Doesn't matter what I put in me, lately it's been nothing but water, it explodes on through in the length of time it takes me to get to the crapper.  Seems like I could move into that little house as I've come to feel at home there. 
     Outside of that it looks like we're definitely leaving country.  The division is starting to shuffle troops around filling up companies into those that are leaving for the World and those staying in country.  Don't know my fate yet but it looks good.

     As always but now a little thinner,
     Archie

     I started the letter at night and finished it in the morning.  Slept with it on my chest.  Power of the letter's suggestion had my oatmeal going down uneasy.  My experience in the war told me Archie probably had a dose of dysentery.  Saw it many times.  Not usually fatal unless you blow out your sphincter and turn inside out from downward pressure.  That's much funnier than the reality.  Yeah, he should be right slim after it's all said and done.
     Another good morning.  Blue sky, awakening breeze.  Maybe something coming.  Being on the return side has me itchy to be done but'll make an effort to not push it.  Hard to relax and take it easy when you're trying hard to relax and take it easy.

     
   
   
   

The Walk XVI - Truth

     Drumstick?  Chicken leg or tom-tom pounder?  Hoped for the latter but either way the lake's name lacks the charm of Kekekabic.  My choice, I'd call it Bath-time Lake.  The splashings I'd done in the mornings to this point had kept most of the flies away but not much more.  Needed a full fledged swim with a bar of soap.  Wasn't possible as this was Boundary Waters territory.  No soap allowed in the water.  Also wanted to dry myself when I came out.  Also not possible in this rain.  Here's where the movies'd have the rain come down in buckets.  Me standing buck naked, arms outstretched, face to the sky, triumphant music blaring in the background.  Sun'd come out and I'd dry myself with armfuls of lavender and violets under the spreading arc of a rainbow.  Maybe tomorrow.
     I creaked my way around camp.  Took some effort to string the tarp when my wrinkled fingers decided to cramp up.  They've been doing that for years when cold and wet.  Hammering, canoeing and fishing do a job to them also.  Fingers cross and lock into place.  Nothing to do but beat 'em against a white pine 'til the pain loosened 'em up.  It was a challenge to draw the tarp drum tight.  Finally decided the best way to deal with the situation was to not think about it.  Just keep moving forward 'til I was fed, water drawn for the morning, coffee made and the tarp restrung for sleeping.  Had three hours of dim light and used every minute 'til I was tucked in the bag,

     Dear Uncle Emil,

     Rumors have been flying for the last couple of weeks that we're to be the first Division pulled out of country.  One minute we're going for sure, the next we're not.  Every day a new rumor.  So many I even started a few of my own.  One came back in much the same shape as I sent it out.  Hope it didn't turn out to be true as I had us going to the eastern front to refight the battle of Stalingrad.  If there's any Ruskie spies around they might already be fortifying the city.
     My mouth got me in trouble once again.  I'm starting to think the Army isn't a democracy.  Wonder if they know that?  We'd been in the field for better than two days.  Doesn't sound like much unless you know about the effects of the monsoon on tender American feet.  On the third day we were waiting for the choppers when word came down there'd be none.  It seems another company was in trouble and needed every available Huey.  So we set out on our ten click hump to Fire Base Moore.
     Six miles isn't much of a hike.  We'd done twice that in training but all of those miles were on roads. Here with the land in flood, we had a dozen or more rivers and moats to cross.  And bitched about it every step of the way.  Didn't think of it until now but the VC do all of their traveling on foot.  Monsoon or not, they get out and do what they have to do.  Could be that's the difference in the war.  Attitude.  Simply put, they're tougher than us draftees.  Maybe because they have to be.  Communism, democracy, I don't think either of those two philosophies matter much when push comes to shove.  We were fighting a war of sketchy principles, they were fighting for their homeland.  Most of us were trying to last out our year.  Big difference and they have a home field advantage.
     Anyway, mid-afternoon we made it back to Moore.  Once I pulled off my boots my feet began to swell until the toes pointed up.  Nearly everyone was in the same shape as me.  The medics put over half the company on bed rest to get the swelling down.  That lasted about half an hour.  Seems there wasn't enough bodies to man the bunkers so, bed rest or not, a lot of us were ordered out.  Not me but it was yours truly who shot his mouth off.  The sergeant passing on the order said not a word, left and returned a minute later.  Seemed the First Sergeant wanted a talk with me.  Yeah, I knew I was in trouble.
     Top told me in ten words or less to keep my mouth shut.  Of course I jumped to my defense but got no farther than, "I thought…" before he shut me up with "The Army doesn't pay you to think!"  He had me there.  Pissed?  For sure but at least I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut this time.  
     A part of me just doesn't understand what's going on.  I'm in uniform, a soldier in an army, carrying a rifle, in a war zone and yet, I act like I'm still a student in college.  A mouth with no real concept of my circumstance.  
     Beyond that the rumors continue to fly.  Hope they're right.  This is not a good place for a fool like me.
     Archie

     The letter started me chuckling.  Not that it was funny.  Well, it was funny.  And sad at the same time.  In a nutshell, Archie was a boy trying to become a man in a world that had the jump on him.  And he's not alone.  There's thousands of boys just like him over there.  There were plenty of them in my war also.  Boys, fools, maniacs, cowards, egos run rampant.  Lots of them.  Even some men.  More and more of the latter as their time in combat grew.  Enough to get us through.  I act like I know all the answers but I don't.  I suspect no one really knows.  Where are the wise old men and women in this world?  And would we know them or listen to them if they were recognized?
     And what was I doing out here on the trail?  Wanted it bad before I started and now I wanted to be done with it.  What was the point of it anyhow?  For that matter, what's the point of anything?  So many questions, so few answers.  Nighttime thoughts.
     War does that to a man.  Gets him questioning.  Wondering it there's any meaning behind the mass stupidity he's passing through.  Maybe we're too limited to know the truth of life.  Only smart enough to ask questions.  And with luck get an occasional answer from out of the blue.  Could be the feeling I got from the return letters I received from Humphrey and McCarthy was right.  I'm not much more than a monkey in pants.  At the moment I wish those pants were dry.  Still raining when I switched off the flashlight.

The Walk XV - Oatmeal is My Friend

     Woke up with the war in Vietnam on my mind.  Wasn't uplifting but was glad it wasn't me in the jungles.  Felt more or less impotent.  Didn't like the war from the get-go but felt no need to protest.  Wrote a couple of letters to Vice President Hubert Humphrey and Senator Eugene McCarthy.  Both Minnesota men.  Thought maybe reading a few thoughtful words from a WWII combat vet might have some impact.  Could be it did but from their responses it was hard to tell.  Mostly their letters sounded like they were trying to explain the inner workings of the atom to a monkey. Had a tone of talking down from on high, not like two adults having a conversation.
     The cabin rose from those letters and my thoughts on war.  'Specially this one where we seemed the aggressor.  Had I remained in Parkers Prairie there's no way I could've stayed out of the 'America, love it or leave it' discussions.  Protesters protesting down in the cities and most of us up here in the hinterlands protesting the protesters.  Round and round she goes.  Would've ended up banging my head against the wall - or having volunteers lending me a hand - and getting nowhere for my effort.  Two sides.  Both saying the other's wrong, immoral, evil.  Could be there's a third side somewhere.  Maybe a fourth or fifth.  Time to step back and find the truth.
       When I drove north to my future one side of me felt like I was running away.  The other said there's more to life, go out and find it.  Can't have it both ways.  Bought the land in an area I loved, did the thought and prep work, called in my nephew Archie and his young back then set to work.  No regrets?  Only a liar or a fool'd say that.  No matter the course chosen, a man always second guesses.  Wisdom?  Nope, just experience.  Get used to those conflicted feelings?  Nope.  Best I could hope for was gettin' used to not gettin' used to them.  People die, attitudes die, new life is born.  Heard about a movement called born again Christians.  Good idea but bein' born again only one time doesn't cut it.  Not sure how many times a man has to change his ways.  Half dozen at least.
     Speaking of bein' reborn, I even considered not having oatmeal for breakfast.  Figured to have it for lunch.  Have to tell you I'm not having that thought again.  When a man changes his way, is reborn to a new life, the idea is to hold onto the good parts, the holy, the necessary.  Yup, I was back to oatmeal before I even left it.  Kicked my traces for almost five seconds.  Then kicked 'em right back.  What was I thinking?  No way was I foregoing one of life's true pleasures.  Even the thought of eating something else to start the day gave me the shakes.  Retrieved the water pot and headed to the lake.  Rinsed, then swirled the pot counterclockwise, once, twice, three times and gathered a bit of Gabimichigami.  Carefully returned to the grate, placed my grail on the one burner stove, snapped the rim with my middle finger to start a brief dance of water rings.  At sixty-three a man finds his foundations where he will.  Then hustled about breaking camp safe in the knowledge I'd dodged the bullet of foolishness and all was right with the world.
     Been a while since I jumped into a morning's action before my feet hit the floor.  Usually takes a bit of doing before the clouds break and the sun lights the way.  Today would be another good day.  Yup, no doubt about it.  I'd hit the trail and walk 'til I didn't feel like it any more.  Once again see what I'd see.
     What I saw through the treetop breaks was gathering clouds.  Not the kind you see in Maxwell Parish illustrations asparkle with pastel rainbow colors.  These hung treetop low and pregnant with water.  Me and the first raindrop met at my first beak of the morning.  'Bout the time I drew on my jacket the rain stopped.  Had the thought it was over but gave a second thought to the ironic nature of rain.  Should I not put on rain pants it'd be a gulley-washer for sure.  For a moment or two me and the clouds exchanged glances.  Checked each other out.  Slowly nodded and exchanged knowing smiles.  Tugged on my pants knowing there was no immediate end to the rain.  Hate to be right when it comes to all-dayers.  But I was.  Upside was its sluggish nature.  The clouds seemed bent on dropping an inch of water and in no hurry to do so.  Spread it out.  Nature punches no clock.  Has no schedule.  Felt the same way myself.  Can't say I was thrilled but was accepting.
     The rain eyed me once more, kenned my thoughts, scratched its head and figured, "What the hell, can't make the old fart completely miserable.  Might as well give him a break."
     Doubt the air warmed a single degree from sunrise to set.  Might even have fallen.  Though clad in impermeable, rubberized cloth I barely sweat a drop that day.  'Bout the only parts of me that got wet were my sneakers, socks and feet.  Feet were puckered and drained of color by day's end.  Bone white.  Could barely slide them in my bag at night.  Seems wet feet like to grip nylon.  No drain of color on my white sneakers.  As I walked they were staining into shades of red and gold.  Can't say I was all that fond of the vibrant mess peeking out beneath my rain pants.  The constant rain was sucking color as it bled through the aspen and mountain maple leaves.  Smeared the path a bright pallet of vibrant color.  Something like one of those nineteenth French garden paintings.  Monet?  Renoir?  Kind of liked the look of the trail but not my shoes.  Would have been happy had not my splattering stride streaked them like a Pollock canvas.  Century of art history there at and on my feet.  Never could see the sense or skill of Pollock's random dripping.  Would have saved him time and money had he simply walked these wet fall woods and hung his shoes to dry in an art gallery.
     As to the day, it was a thing of beauty.  Treetop clouds spawned wisps of children below.  Passed through them as I rose and fell with the landscape.  Jaw-dropping beauty. Would've compared it to a Japanese print but was done with art for the day.  Also time for a foot dunking or two.  Not sure if I was crossing a network of streams or re-crossing a winding track.  Either way, each passage was on beaver dams.  Dams were fine, shoes were not.  Wet, muddy and color smeared begs a side slide.  Or, at the least, a little jitterbugging.  All in all, I was no wetter after each crossing than before.
     Lost in thought I overshot my first break to find myself at Agamok Falls on the grayed board and l-bar metal footbridge spanning the gorge.  Gorge is a grander word than necessary for the eroded bed below but's the best I can do.  And the falls was no Niagara.  The bridge proved a fine, unmudded place to rest, legs a-dangle.  Challenge was keeping the pack contents dry when I pulled a snack.  Can't say I was perfect.  More accurately, somewhere between fair and okay.  The campsite closest to the falls would've proved the best of my hike.  Made a mental note for the return trip.  Somehow I managed to lose the note.  Or maybe the rain streaked my mental letters into brooks of illegibility.  Wrote a second note on the same bridge a few days later.
     Today was one of closeness.  The air heavy and my attention drawn inward.  Hood and bill cap hunkered around my face trying to keep it dry.  A man gets tunnel vision on such a day.  Even more so when he's one-eyed like yours truly.  Been that way for so many years the world looks normal to me though my normal may not be yours.  One foot ahead of the other.  Alternate and repeat.  Slowly I began to rise.  Back on the high ground.  Miles of deep green accented by clots of warm colors paved the forest below the heights.  Made me feel like king of the valley of the blind.  Good thing for the low overcast.  Softened the vistas and my ego to a human level.
     Acceptance paved my way.  Before setting out from the cabin I'd hoped for endless, perfect weather.  Also knew this was autumn in the northland and rain was to be expected.  Not that I was thrilled about it.  Just that I'd come to know - again - it wasn't the end of the world.  And makes me look forward to a hot meal under the tarp.  Surround myself in a warm bag come dark.  Yeah, something to look forward to at the end of the day.  Miles to make 'til then.  Makes a man feel he's accomplishing something even though it's nothing of consequence to anyone but him.
     Never did take a full lunch that day.  Snacked my way through a half dozen breaks.  The log bridge over the Thomas River gave me pause.  It'd been axed somewhat level for balanced footing.  But my wet, mudded shoes went a long ways toward evening the score.  Would have been a good spot to light a smoke and think it over had I a cigarette or desire.  Instead, I simply flat-foot, scampered across.  Seemed much easier once across.
     A rusted saw band, relic from the logging days, marked the trail to Drumstick Lake.  Figured to camp there for two days.  My re-supply hung no more than seven miles away.  Tomorrow I'd leave camp intact and head off with a light load.  Be back by nightfall.  Anyway, that was the plan.

The Walk XIV - Camp on Gabimichigami

     Sure is a different world here on the Kekekabic Trail.  Don't know if I was done with overlooks and water trails snaking to the horizon but it sure appeared that way.  What'd been big lakes and views was now ponds, swamp and creeks in no hurry to get anywhere.  Maybe Minnesota's not all it's cracked up to be.  Needs the slightly foreign nearness of Canada to inspire.  Once the border faded behind miles of forest I found myself surrounded by miles of our Swedish 'not so bad, you could do worse' majesty.  Guess my state leans toward the understated.  We've got a good taciturn thing goin' on here.  Don't want any snow-capped mountains or palm-treed beaches drawing unwanted outsiders.  Minnesota, like Oklahoma, is okay.
     For the moment I passed beneath blue sky and through shadowed sunlight.  Temperature rose.  As did mosquitoes.  Balance of life strikes again.  Odd how that works out.  Gets warm enough to roll up my sleeves and my forearms sprout skeeters.  Made a mental note to dig out the bug juice on my next break.
     On that break I carefully plucked a sucker off my arm.  Didn't want to cause it any undo pain before crushing crushing her life into the next world.  Heard it's the females that lust for blood.  Maybe Bram Stoker should have named his main character Countess Draculette.  Striped butt, beady little 'look of contempt' eyes and nearly transparent wings.  Happily brought to mind the dragon fly hatches in spring when skeeters became the hunted.  Mostly it was her arrogant, peeved look that caught my attention.  Gave the feeling she might spit in my eyes.  Or maybe slap me around 'til I came to my senses.  Tough monkey.
     Camp on Gabimichigami had a split personality.  Bayward, rolling navy blue water with sunlit green shores, striped every so often by birch white.  Inward, foot pounded, dusty earth and boulder.  Paradise and prison camp.  Tight to a abrupt gray rock face sat the fire grate.  Found no sense in its placement.  No view when cooking.  A view's important to me.  Happy cooks make happy food even if they're only boiling water.  Took a few minutes 'til my attitude swung around.  The face of the stone was a world in itself.  Lichens, mosses, swirls, whirls, glittering flecks of mica.  All of them speaking of duration.  Tens of years, thousands, millions.  Hard to take life one day at a time in the face of such a story.  The slab also provided a good, if not exactly comfortable, spot to sit, lean back and wait for my water to boil.  Breeze off the bay kept the skeeters in the bushes behind camp.  Good spot for them to enjoy and impotently desire the aromas of Emil.
     Almost pulled out my fishing pole.  But would have required hiking back to my supply cooler.  Rod, reel and lures turned out to be two pounds of dead weight.  Pulled them then packed them in the cooler to await my return.  Never too late to do something needless and learn from it.  If there truly is such a time that's too late, it's as patient as this stone.  Just waiting for my brain and body to erode a little more.
     Chili in the bag for dinner tonight.  Each LRRP meal a different one so far.  More so in name than in flavor.  What the heck, they were made for the Army.  Lucky for me they weren't all powdered eggs and beans.
     Read Archie's letter by the fading light of my cooking fire.  Outside of cooking (see boiling water above), that was my work for the evening.  Learned to do nothing more than necessary when in camp.  Like Scarlett O'Hara said, "After all, tomorrow is another day."  Not bad for a fictional trollop in a novel glamorizing a way of life that briefly existed for only a few and led to the death of hundreds of thousands of Americans for differences that could have been resolved in better ways.  And that tomorrow always appreciated my feet being rested.

     Dear Uncle Emil,
     
     I'm still alive.  No thanks to my mouth.  The other day while moving into our night position I got into an argument with one of my squad leaders.  Had I been smart (had I been really smart I'd have been back home.  That alone should have been a clue I was in trouble) I'd have buttoned my lip.  After all he was my immediate commander.  But I'm not smart and haven't actually learned the ways of the Army and its chain of command so I worked hard to get the last word in.  Finally he looked me in the eye and said, "When we get out of the field I'm going to kill you."  Don't know if he meant it but the way he said it was pretty convincing.
     Didn't work out that way.  The next day Bravo Company took part in a battalion-sized operation.  More than anything the operation proved we don't know what the hell we're doing when it comes to war in the delta.  While we waited for our choppers to fly us into an area in a bend of the Mekong River called Snoopy's Nose, the nose was pounded by every piece of artillery in the regiment.  Kind of like sending the VC a calling card saying 'Here we come,' get ready.  And they did.
     Bravo went in as a sweeping force.  The idea was to drive the bad guys into another company set up as a blocking force.  Believe that's a classic hunting method dating back to the Stone Age.  As it turned out the VC knew the tactic inside out and turned the tables.  When we landed, all eighty of us got on line and moved forward.  Didn't walk quietly either.  Each of us pulled the trigger every so often.  Bang! Bang! Bang!  Here we come.
     Maybe a quarter mile later our line was split by a swamp.  Most of my platoon went left of it.  Me and a couple other troops from second squad went to the right with the rest of the company.  Once we passed the swamp the three of us hightailed it back to our platoon and left a big hole in the line.  No more than fifty yards later we came on a tree line where second platoon took fire.  Then took more fire from their rear.  Probably from the little patch of swamp we'd all ignored.  
     For the next fifteen minutes second platoon was caught in a crossfire.  Twenty-two were killed or wounded.  While this was going on the rest of us sat and waited for orders.  I even pulled my boots off to cool my feet.  Ate some crackers and peanut butter.  Finally the word came down to saddle up.  We were to flank the tree line and catch the Vietcong from the rear.  Slowly we moved forward with a brand new man, scared to the soles of his boots (couldn't blame him), walking point.  Here's where fate lent a hand.  A minute or two into our creep the squad leader who'd threatened to kill me saw a GI canteen on top of a rice paddy dike, stooped to pick it up, a rookie mistake and was shot through the hand. Had to call in a dust off to pick him up and we never saw the man again.  We never made it to the rear of the tree line.  Before our arrival, three Vietcong scampered off with third platoon in hot pursuit.
     The VCs quickly holed up in a bunker between us and third platoon.  Nothing in the third's arsenal could penetrate the concrete-like bunker and a LAW (like a little bazooka) was pulled out.  So there we in the first platoon were, hunkered down behind the bunker with a little rocket pointed our way.  Once again I kissed the ground.  While in Vietnam I've come to learn the ground is a grunt's friend.  We walk on it, sleep on it, dig in it, hide behind it, fight while pressed tight to it and pull bunker guard under bags of it.  Our bases are surrounded by walls of it.  For the moment I wanted to become one with it should the man with the cardboard tube fire just a little high.  Well, no such luck.  The rocket hit the bunker square on but had no effect on the occupants.  Once again they took off running only to be caught by a wall of bullets.
     Might be interesting to know how our engagement was written up.  We killed three of them.  They killed three of us and wounded twenty.  That doesn't sound like numbers that'd get a battalion commander promoted.  The best part from my point of view was not having our squad leader court martialed for murder.
     Of course, not all of our time is involved with fire fights and ambushes.  Thank God for that.  Usually it's pretty dull but the food is good so long as you don't have to eat it.  Sorry to lay this stuff on you but you're about the only one I can write to about what we're going through.  Can't write it to my Mom or Lauren.  I keep their letters on the tame side for fear of upsetting them.  I figure someone should know what's going on over here and that someone is you.

     I asked for it,
     Archie

     Folded the letter and returned it to its sleeve.  What a piddly-assed war.  The kind that'll wear a country down little by little.  I know there's a bunch of Vietnamese that want us there.  Even more that want us out.  And should we happen to win - whatever that might mean - the war wouldn't be over unless we killed each and every one of the North Vietnamese and Vietcong.  Or stayed there forever and built bases like we have in Europe.  We'd be pouring money and lives down that hole for generations.  And to what end?  Simplest thing would be to do what we're doing at the moment and pull out.  Peace with honor is what President Nixon calls it.  Must have himself some good PR men to come up with a fine sounding bag of gas like that.  No matter how they say it, to me it says we lost our first war.  Didn't like it when we went in full force, don't like it that we're leaving such a mess behind.  Oh well, it'll all resolve itself over the years.  Always does.  What's a few million needless deaths?  Done that before.
     Oh yeah, what about the soldiers who're still there?  Who's going to be the last to die?  By now Archie's out of that mess so it won't be him.  The last seven to leave Vietnam will be a dead soldier and the six men needed to load the box.  No parades for any of them.  That lesson was learned on the West Coast.  Half the people for the war, half against it.  College students burning draft cards, GIs burning villages, Detroit in flames over the Civil Rights movement.  Half a million men at war, a hundred million watching it on TV while eating supper.  Man on the moon, men in the jungles.  Total mess.  Going to be hard to sleep tonight.

The Walk XIII - Visitor From Space

     Wasn't long before I passed the lodge.  Part of me was drawn to it.  Moth to flame, needle to north, crows tire flattened skunk.  Passed on the notion and an early lunch.  Heard the food was extra special.  Maybe even better than eating LRRP rations with a big spoon.  Wasn't as yet hungry and not conversation starved enough to drop in.
     Already mentioned I appreciate the quiet of my own company.  Might be the result of being among the tens of millions who went to war.  A man gets used to withdrawing from the scene around him when in combat.  Other places he'd rather be.  Other people he'd rather be with.  I know, I know, me and the men around me were like brothers.  Not brothers exactly, only like brothers.  Didn't come from the same woman, live in the same house, learn from the same old man.  No two ways about it I'd have much rather been home sharing a few beers with my real brothers.    
     Strikes me and no doubt has struck you I'm a conflicted man, contrary in his ways.  Says one thing, too often does another.  Call it a human condition.  A few years back me and Lena used to make an annual pilgrimage to the state fair down in the cities.  She loved the glitz of the scene.  I was smart enough to say I did also.  The food on a stick, crafts, barns, farmers kicking tractor tires and the excitement of the crowds.  I have to admit I liked the food.  Mostly the foot long hotdogs - weren't quite a foot long, I figured them at a size 7 1/2 - smothered in browned onions with a thin stripe of yellow mustard.  Even liked the crafts.  Oddly enough the quilts on display drew me the most.  Canvas' of colored patterns, some designs going back centuries, with many hours of handwork and thought behind each.  Couldn't see much sense in the baked goods.  What good's a strawberry rhubarb pie when a sheet of plate glass stands in the way.  My, ain't that pretty, where's my fork?
     But the crowds?  Best I can say is I survived them.  Always have felt more at home with at most a few people.  Those I shared blood with, those I worked beside in the open air.  Nothing like working up a sweat to bring people together.  A hundred thousand people spread over a few acres would never have been on my list of places to be had it not been for Lena.  Not that I'm complaining.  Any experience can have its pleasures when you're with someone you love.  Gave the lodge a glance and a smile.  Moved on.
     Set my compass to one of the border land's oddities, Magnetic Rock.  Nearby hung my resupply cooler.  One place or the other, I'd take my lunch.  Never seen the rock before but'd heard of it.  Been told it was magnetic.  Could be the reason for the name.  I believed the namers were telling the truth and felt no need to pull the compass out of my pocket.  Also had the thought if every other rock in the world had been named The Non-Magnetic Rock, the one I was approaching could have gone unnamed.  Given the choice I suppose naming just this one was more efficient.  Once I saw the beast I figured it poorly named.  Magnetic be damned.  What I stood before, gape-jawed, was as tall as the surrounding pines.  Black and jagged monolith, it looked like it'd been shot down from outer space and plugged deep in the earth.  Maybe an errant spearhead from an interstellar war among spaceship flying cavemen.  Last year I'd seen the movie "2001: A Space Odyssey."  Magnetic Rock made me want to cuddle up and stroke it like one of my long lost ancestors from the movie and beg to be transported to the far side of the universe.  Or at least be given the answers to all of the questions from the beginning of time.  Or maybe a new toothbrush as mine was getting a little ragged around the edges.  After a minute of awe I made a sign of the cross, bowed from the waist and genuflected twice before slowly backing away.  No way was I going to turn my back on that beast.  Lunch would be at my resupply.  This place was way too spooky for my blood.
     I'd given forethought to where I'd hung the cooler.  Green metal box draped by a rope from the widespread limb of a white pine would be sure to attract attention.  Might be a good half dozen wanderers strolling this path during any given month.  Yeah, a regular plethora of possible cooler thieves.  Hoped to keep it from all those prying eyes but not from mine.  Don't have the eye of an osprey any more.  Doubt I ever did even when there was a pair.   Hung the cooler a hard to see hundred yards off the trail.  Built a small cairn to mark the spot and a blaze on a mountain maple ten yards inward to give me direction.  Worse came to worst and I found that a bear had eaten my stash cooler, rope and all, I could always hitch hike down the Gunflint Trail and work my way home.
     Turned out I worried needlessly.  Peeled off and spread my wet rain gear and tarp to dry while I ate lunch beside the trail.  Blessed relief to let my body breathe once again.  'Bout my only regret to this point was not being strong enough to carry more water.  Figured as much before I set off.  Six days of freeze dry, snacks and underclothes left enough room in the cooler for two bottles of RC Cola.  Big ones, sixteen ouncers.  Would've added baked goods had I felt they'd have kept.  Popped the cap with my pocket knife and polished off one of the bottles with lunch.  The other'd have to bide its time 'til I returned in eighty miles or so.  Did the same at the west end of the Kekekabic Trail.  Sat and used the cooler as a stool and snacked away.  Not a scenic spot like most of my lunch breaks.  Didn't matter.  Panorama goes unappreciated while wolfing down lunch and napping when done.  Enough to see at my feet.  Stones, dirt, grasses, an ant or two working the larder of my crumbs, a stand of the little club mosses they call fairy pines, bunch berries sporting full red fruit, tell-tale leaves of trillium saying this'd be a fine spot to sit come spring and take in the show of pink-white blossoms.  Yeah, a veritable garden in miniature drifting downslope to a patch of bog.
     Once up and moving, the trail led me to the Gunflint Trail (sometimes I wasn't sure which of us was moving, me west or the trail east.  I knew one of us was.  Beyond that I didn't care).  Hung a left and kept an eye open for the metal stake and sign that'd mark my exit.  The carefully graded road and lack of roots to trip over spoke of civilization.  Good to see if only for a few minutes.  As did the forestry truck heading north trailing a plume of dust.  A raised index finger from the driver told me all was right with the world.  Figured my pack told him I'd been out of touch with the six o'clock news.  Might even have stopped to let me know if the world had been nuked out of existence while I was meandering the wilderness.  Found the post, passed between a pair of maples in full fall golds and scarlets, breathed a sigh of relief and once again was off to see the wizard wherever he might be.
     My map marked the campsite alongside Gabimichigami Lake I hoped to make by late afternoon.  Dressed in fresh socks and dry shoes my feet sang a happy song.  First half mile of trail was well trod.  Once again bordered here and there by tape and cairns.  Guess I wasn't the first to get the cairn idea or could it be the forest was festooned with Coleman coolers filled with goodies for me to raid if needed?  What'd be the odds on there being more fools like me in the north country?  Hadn't seen any to this point.  Possibly they were there in hiding much like the 'man who wasn't there' up on Wedge Lake in Manitoba was (or wasn't).  I've yet to see him but that doesn't mean he's not there.  Call me woods crazy.
     Thoughts like the one above strike me all the time when my mind's as free to wander as my feet.  Images, possibilities, idiocy often stroll through my consciousness looking for a stool to rest on.  More often than not they float beneath the surface like a school of bait fish.  Don't know they're there unless I peek below.  Plunge my head, look around 'til my lungs give out.  Need a glassed out lake for that.  Not something to do when the wind's up.  Sometimes the little fish're driven up by the bigger ones rising from the depths to feed.  Doesn't take a genius to see bait fish when they're roiling the glassed surface in fear.  Time then to ignore the little buggers and cast to the feeders below.  Maybe latch onto and enjoy the colors of a keeper.  I call them keepers but release each and every one.  Not that they're completely gone, once seen truth leaves a shadow in my memory.  Something like my moments along the overlooks.  There to bend the course of my life just a little.  Should I live another century or two I might even be moving in the right direction.  For the moment I'll satisfy myself with passing the next cairn.