You'd think that after sixty-three years I might be able to add. Never did fall asleep against that aspen 'cause of the confusion of numbers. Just leaned there runnin' the miles from the cabin to Ely through my head. Finally settled on no more than a hundred-twenty. One way. Maybe. In the last month I'd talked with several people. Hikers and rangers figuring one of them could tell me how long the trails actually are. One said he had relatives from Venus who told him never to talk with a glass-eyed stranger. Hah, stranger than what? Anyhow, none were in agreement. Border Route Trail estimates ran from fifty-five to seventy-five miles. Could be the mile is no longer a standard unit of measurement. Or the earth expands and contracts when the mood strikes it. Finally decided to go with the average and knock off the section of trail that came before the two of us met on the Little John bridge. Guessing on the Kekekabic Trail also. No matter the number, mine's no epic hike. Don't want to deal with a cyclops or brave the howling wenches of Rove Lake. I'm just an aging booger out to smell the woods for a couple of weeks with the hope I don't break anything on the way.
Then there's a change of plan I'm considering. Maybe skipping the stretch from the Kekekabic trailhead to Ely. Every one of those twenty plus miles is posted county road. Way too civilized. Hard to get a feeling of wilderness when you're sucking dust from a passin Eldorado. By the time I emerge from the woods I'll be leaning toward co-habitating with bears more than people. A change of plan sure has its appeal. Ely be damned. Flexibility is a fine attribute in a rigid old man. So is bein' lazy. Lassitude to go with my latitude and attitude. Not going to Ely is a two birds trick. Doesn't matter the reason, keeping to the trail and only the trail seems fitting.
Today showed me what I'd been missing on my earlier walks. The route above West Pike has a bunch of overlooks. Each worth a minute's glance. Breathtaking? Wrong word. Breathtaking describes the uphills. Calming's better and didn't pass a one of the views without at least a peek across lake, valley and forest, all capped by blue. Figured those few seconds at each vantage point would stay with me. Stick to my mental ribs. Maybe even bend the course of my life a little. Never know where or when a man'll find a sight of joy that'll move his life path a half degree. One thing's for certain, I'd rather change because of beauty than from ugly. Yeah, there's beauty to be found in most every event. Even found plenty in the war. But I'm coming on the age, maybe even there already, when I don't like digging too deep to find something worth holding onto. Those overlooks above West Pike? Didn't take a genius to find the joy.
My mind wanders constantly on the trail. Or anywhere else for that matter. Can't help it and don't know if I care to change my ways. Read somewhere that meditation's about the same thing as awareness. Seeing, hearing and being conscious of where you are at the moment. Should that be true then I'm most aware when the possibility of losing fingers arises. Best know where each of those pinkies are when ripping a board on a table saw. Good friend of mine lost a saw flung fingertip to a barn cat. Guess the the splatter of blood on his spectacles distracted him more than it did tabby. Most times I drift in and out. I appreciate that my feet have eyes of their own, have learned to lift and not slide forward when on uneven ground or I'd've spent most of this hike becoming one with the path. Doubt that's the oneness the Buddhists have in mind.
Today, like most days, the loves of my life are paying me a visit. Probably had six or eight thousand of them. A regular harem of the mind. All but one a passing fancy. The ladies'd pass by, I'd take notice and think to myself, "fancy that." 'Spose you couldn't call any of them true loves. From my experience love's a lot more than a beguiling stride. Yeah, a whole lot more. The ladies in passing? Not much different than the overlooks I'd just passed. Those moments of beauty sure do come back and pay a visit now and then. And I don't mind one bit that they do. Got to take my happy where I find it.
The trail strolled the brush bound shore of Gogebic Lake before heading north toward Canada. Passed a few spots where I could've unpacked my rod but figured it not worth the effort. Still had miles to go and didn't want to waste the time (like fishing's ever a waste of time). That I'd passed on the chance weighed on me 'til I decided for sure to wet a spinner in West Pike. Going that way anyhow, why not? Turned out my recollection of the access at West Pike wasn't all that accurate. The plummeting lake shore I pictured turned out to be no deeper than a half foot above a jagged, aluminum striped, rock strewn bottom. Good place to scar a canoe or hang a spinner and spend a minute's misery. Better to set the pack down on a mossy hummock a few yards up the portage and take a break. Think of all the smallmouth I could've caught had the lake been more cooperating. Pulled the map and found a pair of lakeside campsites over the portage on Clearwater. Neither was assigned to us second class, trail hikers. Seemed I'd passed into the Boundary Waters a few miles back. Both were intended as canoe sites but I couldn't see how it mattered who slept on the tent pad. Not sure which one I'll choose. Guess my feet and eyes'll decide. Mostly my feet. Still have better than four hours of sun but can't see any reason to turn this into a death march.
The second appealed. Well, passing the first decided the matter. Right on the water, fire grate and a fine view of the forested hills to the south. Spruce, white pine and cedar bowered above. The dead level tent site was the clincher. Began erecting the tarp about as quick as I could find it in the pack. She's a ten by twelve and a bugger to set up. Good thing I played with it back at the cabin. Tried a lot of this and that 'til I could pull the cloth fairly taut with a dozen wire pegs sunk in the ground or topped with slabs of stone. The entry and center propped up with a pair of poles, one short and one long, I cut in the woods and pulled tight with a couple of lengths of anchored cord. Back at the store the kid didn't like the idea of homemade poles. Simply said, "good luck with that." Seems he'd tried it once and nearly drowned when the whole shebang collapsed in a rain storm. I figured it worth the chance. Hope it works out. Anyhow, my body said thank you for two pounds less carry weight. Or would've had it not been so pooped out. Come morning I'll use them as walking sticks.
Second order was water. Scooped from the lake and set to boil over the fire I'd started under the grate. Would've been nice to have a gallon pot rather than a two quart but had no space for it. No hurry to go anywhere so I was extra careful on the boil (by the way, watched pots do boil). Had considered iodine tablets to purify my water. Then recalled what they did to water back in the war. Gag reflex about sums it up. The water in Clearwater is just that, clear. Probably wouldn't be a problem to simply dunk my head and suck away. Yup. Built my fire from bone dry, thumb to wrist thick aspen. Burns hot and fast. Also smokeless. Keeps the pots clean. And clean pots do the same for the pack.
The meals I brought are called LRRP rations. Army uses them for their reconnaissance patrols in Vietnam. Supposed to be good. Best part is I can cook them in the bag. Add a pint of hot water, stir and wait a few minutes. Eat with a spoon. Instant gourmet. Hope they taste better than iodine since I packed or stored sixteen of them. Two of each kind. Breakfasts will be instant oatmeal. Three packets each morning with brown sugar and raisins. Nothing else I carry or have in the stashed coolers needs cooking. Dried fruit, chocolate, hard candy, nuts, hardtack, cheese and some sausage. Not fancy but a lot of calories. Anyhow, that's what I've got. Figured I should let you know. I'll make an effort to be more interesting in the future.
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