My lights-out quickly followed Mother Nature's. Read for a flashlit half hour serenaded by the rustle of wind through aspen and birch. Used my clothes for a pillow. Did that before, will do it again but can't say I recommend it. Clothing has little effect on gravity. Softens the pull for an hour 'til the pressure on my brain slaps me awake. Lena came to pay me a visit while I was drifting out. Don't care to recall her last days of cancer but they hang on with a grasp like steel. Only way to fight off the misery is recalling the joy of our early days. Those first moments of heated love when all my thoughts centered on seeing and being with her. Best days of my life. Not supposed to say things like that. Love's supposed to grow over the years. Bring on even better best days but those early days of heated passion, umm-umm, they sure were something. I gave some thought to the idea Lena might be waiting for me on the other side when it's my turn to die. Nice thought. And probably no more than that. But those first days and weeks, they did happen. Decided I'd dwell on that little piece of the past for the moment. Let the future be as it may. Fell asleep with a smile on my face.
The conflicted emotion of those first and last days may have had something to do with my dreams. Dreamt of the cabin and how I was being crowded out by the constructions of others. Cabins and houses going up all around me. Gettin' so I could barely see Aspen Brook. Some of the interlopers building so close they had to be on what was left of my ever narrower strip of land. Don't know why but gave no thought to kicking them off. Then it changed You know how it is with dreams. They go where they want and you're just along for the ride. Found myself in front of the building, seeing it was coming apart at the seams (like the ownership of my land?). Not good. Then I was inside. Yeah, the inner walls also showed the damage. Cracked, sagging, nails pulling out, she was needed a full rebuild. Next, I'm in the basement. The real cabin's built on piers but dreams don't care much about physical reality if it gets in the way. Beneath the front wall, the one that was coming apart, crossing from corner post to corner post, was a steel i-beam. Big one, the size you see in skyscrapers. Looked to me no matter how bad the damage was above ground, the foundation was solid, the building worth saving. Good news and bad but mostly good. Gave me the feeling there was work to be done in my life but it wouldn't be wasted effort. So what else is new? Spent a lifetime plugging holes only to have more appear. Part and parcel with being alive. Life is maintenance. Woke up in the dark but felt fully rested.
Not unusual for it to be cold at this time of year. Thirty above's more likely than seventy. Pulled on my shoes and headed into the softening black to see if my stream steamed. Might have had there been more light. Washing my face at the lakeshore was an act of courage but better than rain any day. Didn't matter the weather, that dream i-beam lifted me by the sneaker straps. Held me up like it did the dream cabin wall.
First order of business was water. Water is good. Needed it for dishes, coffee and oatmeal. Went with a fire again. It'd warm both me and the water. Cold enough this morning for long johns and keeping the mosquitoes down. Did a little stretching to loosen me up in body, soul and bowel. Headed uphill to the latrine the forest service had provided free of charge. The little garden trowel I carry serves double duty. Scratches out a cat hole when needed and serves as a toilet paper holder otherwise. While meditating, a pine squirrel came to visit. Chirruped a greeting from a cedar branch. Seemed he'd had a sleepless night hiding from a barred owl. Probably the same one hooting in the distance while I made my early morning pilgrimage to the underbrush. Said she was glad to see me and wouldn't mind sharing my oatmeal but only if I used more than my usual meager dollop of brown sugar. Sounded like a good idea to me. A man has to keep on the friendly side of those undersized tree rats. Cute as a button but'll chew a hole through eight inches of cinder block just to get an errant acorn stuck to the bottom of a boot. Smile and wave Emil, smile and wave. And for darned sure leave a little oatmeal.
I could hear the rolling boil of water while still on the descending path. Not a breath on the lake to disturb my mood and interfere with what hearing I had left. Bird twitter and foot scuffle. Enough of a symphony to help brighten the wakening morning.
My watch told me it was near eight when I shouldered the pack. Felt a little raw up there from yesterday's chafing. Hoped it wouldn't get more intense before the straps finally killed or at least numbed the nerves in my neck and allowed me pain free walking for the next two weeks. Ambled off in the same clothes as yesterday save a change of socks. New fluffy-white, wool Wigwams I'd started wearing in the last few years. Two bucks a pair. Always figured if I woke up one morning to find myself wealthy beyond imagination I'd wear nothing but the finest socks. Price be damned. Then, about five years ago I woke up one morning to find myself nearing my sixtieth birthday, realized what money I had would outlive me and began buying top of the line Wigwams. Yeah, these days I wear socks like I'm a regular Rockefeller. Outdoors Rockefeller that is.
Today the trail will carry me beside the border. Hiking in the U.S. and overlooking Canada. Probably will take my breath away. Hope the Canucks give it back. Again I'm passing under the bluebird skies of a cold front that'll not last forever. Wish it would but it won't. Here and there the aspens are blossoming gold. They're the first to turn and give these hills a feeling of the Rockies. No mountains in Minnesota even though that's what we call a few of our high points. The ranges out west have their appeal but I'd rather live no place more than where I am. Mountain enough for me.
To this point I've had no difficulty following the path. Call that a tribute to the builders. It's well marked in blue but not overly so. Appears those who cleared this strip give the hiker credit for some sense of direction. Hope they were thinking of me and my tendency to wander the paths of my mind and didn't get too cute. Probably not. Guess I'll have to stay in the ballgame at least some of the time.
Warmed to my full stride in ten minutes. About the same time as it took to wake my pores. Light wool shirt, jacket, ball cap and work gloves. More than enough to stave off the chill. Gave some thought before I started this amble as to footwear. Boots first came to mind. Been told they do a good job of protecting the ankles. Next thought was the two thousand steps over every one of the two hundred miles. Figured my German sneakers would save me many tons of lifting. Besides, those three black stripes are upliftingly spiffy against the white leather background. Happy feet don't stumble as much as tired ones. Brought an extra pair and figure to switch every day.
Not sure how many miles I did yesterday. Fifteen for sure. Hoping for as many as today. At sixty-three I'm on the downside of my strength but not so far as it should be a problem. Over the years I've come to know there's a reserve of endurance in my bones that seems near endless. Probably the same as a pike on the line has. However, a pike'll fight 'til it's dead. No doubt something I'd best avoid. Being dead'd slow me down quite a bit. Put me way behind schedule. Better I'm a little short of my intentions each day than inert. I'll make a note of that in my mental planner. 'Dead - not good.'
Another ten minutes led me to my first overlook above Mountain Lake. Couple of thousand acres of lake trout down there, a few per acre and are still better than fifty feet below the surface. Can't help it. I see a body of water I think fish. Also think to put my pack down for a minute. Ease my way into the day. Below my feet floats the twin of yesterday's pine-spiked island. Don't recall it being there. Could have to do with the headwind that's part and parcel with Mountain. Close to seven miles long and a magnet for a west wind. Was down there two years ago with Ted. Windbound for a day and a half.
Yeah, the conversation flew over those thirty-six hours. Taciturn Ojibway and a German. Probably talked more in our sleep than we did awake. Odd thing was, we didn't notice. When you've got active minds like the two of us paddling genius', sometimes you don't realize the conversation you're having isn't oral. So, I suppose we spoke in detail of everything soup to superstition, just never aloud. After that day and a half we were so talked out in our minds we started using our voices just to quiet things down a bit. Funny how that goes.
The trail continued its wander from overlook to overlook. First Mountain, then Watap, finally Rove. Fished them all with Archie and did well with walleyes. At least Archie did. Don't recall the moment it happened but one day I realized my job was setting him up with good casting angles. A half dozen practice casts into any of our later trips and he could thread a needle with a number five spinner. Had the Bible used Archie and his rod as an example rather than a camel tryin' to fit through that needle's eye there'd be a lot more rich people in heaven. Good thing they stuck with the camel.
Took my lunch at the Staircase Portage rising from Rose Lake. Nice waterfall there, or so I've been told. At the moment I was all beautied out. Also felt the need to simply eat and put my feet up. There's no way a man can smell all the roses. Too many of them. And keep in mind the one's in your backyard. Can't just smell 'em without pruning, fertilizing and picking the bugs off now and then. Besides, where I sat, leaning against the moss covered, lightening-charred remains of a jack pine stump, I was surrounded by forest. Much to see while hearing the soft, distant roar of the cascade. Thought about pulling another letter but figured it better to wait 'til I was cozied in the bag.
Napped in worse places than this. Lots worse. In combat you grab 'em where you can. The ground's your friend so long as you're above it. Maybe below also but I've got this thing against bugs eating my body. Still cool out, maybe mid-fifties. When I raised my face a ray of sun warmed it nicely. Guess I'll move on when the sun finds another patch of earth to kiss.
One thing's for sure, I wasn't a hero. 'Spose all combat vets say that, even think that, and it's true. Hero's an attitude and coincidence. Can't say exactly what that attitude might be seein' as how I never had it. Mine was, "Don't shoot me and I won't shoot you. Should you choose to put a bullet in my head I'll do whatever's necessary to stop you. And, oh yeah, don't shoot my buddies either. You do that and I'm morally obligated to help them. And that puts me in a position of jeopardy with no appeal. Got that?" Might even have worked had I been able to speak Japanese.
War's a bugger. A damned if you do, damned if you don't bugger. Could have stayed at home. Lot of men my age did and for darned good reasons. Family, crucial job, deep sense of morality. Well, it was just me and Lena and I was no saint. Half of me said to go, the other half said I was a fool. Problem was I knew which half I'd have to live with when the war was over. So I went. Simple as that. Don't think that's why we're on this earth but who am I to say? A smart pea brain keeps his trap shut and mind open to all possibility. I'm workin' on it. Maybe someday I'll figure it out. No matter how slim a chance, there's always hope. One way or the other this is one of the finest places I've ever sat. Butt in duff, back on moss and wood, head in sunshine. Sweet joy.
The overlooks continued through the afternoon. String of pearls along the border. Can't say one was any better than the other. Some views of the bluff dotted horizon to the north. Others down lake-floored canyons east and west. All of that blue below heading elsewhere with intentions of seeing the ocean. I'd say more but feel a twinge of overly-poetic nausea. Let the poets write poems. Me? I'm content to piss in the woods so long as no one is looking.
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