Canada XXII - New World

     As we paddled off I gave a single backward glance toward the lodge.  From that moment all that mattered was where we were and what waited ahead.  Another of those life lessons.  And I was in the catbird seat upfront.  New world.  Every paddle stroke pried open a bit more of our future.  Yeah, it appeared to be nothing more than trees, rocks, water and sky, with a loon or gull thrown in now and then, with an old man in the back moving us in the right direction.  But it was all fresh to me.  Every foot of it.  New bays, points, boulders we skimmed over in shallow, rippled water the color of finest jade.

     Occasionally it struck me we might be passing over the best fishing of my life.  Maybe in the whole world.  And we weren't doing anything about it.  When I brought it up Uncle Emil simply said, "Nope, Archie me lad, the best fishin's up ahead.  Always was, always will be.  But from what I've learned, it's out there alright and we're closin in on it with each dip of the blade."

     Right from the get-go Emil gave me a lesson in paddling in the bow,  "You're the engine and I'm the rudder.  And since I've got the rudder I'm the boss.  What I say goes and I won't steer you wrong.  A little zig-zaggy maybe, but not wrong."

     "Most people think paddling's easy 'til they give it a try.  That's 'cause they don't do it right.  First off, one hand grips the top of the paddle, the other just above the blade.  Lean a little into the stroke, dip her straight down, all of the blade in and pull her back as vertical as you can.  A little water on the knuckles never hurt anyone.  Don't need a long stroke, just need to feel you're moving the water, not the other way around.  When you get tired, switch to the other side and don't worry about where we're heading unless I say you should.  Most of all enjoy the view."

     A few minutes later he added,  "Archie me lad, when you bring your paddle forward give your wrist a roll and turn the blade flat to the water so it doesn't catch too much wind.  That's called feathering the paddle.  Doesn't seem like it'd make much difference but over the miles it does.  When you're doing something thousands of time it doesn't take much to make a big difference."

     Slowly the green of the channel water began to darken as we entered Second Cranberry and the lake bottom began to drop away.  Wow!  I stopped paddling, straightened up and stared down the seven miles of water, hills and island.  All of it spread under stark white popcorn clouds sailing in a deep blue sky.  I'd never seen anything like it.  Then it dawned on me.

     "Uncle Emil, are we gonna paddle down this whole lake?"

     "Yup.  But not all of it today.  Just half way.  We'll set up camp on an island, eat us some steaks and fried potatoes, then go see if there's any lake trout we can fool."

Canada XXI - The Canoe

     Uncle Emil's ten horse Johnson moved us right along.  Not like the big engines of today but still we crossed the four mile lake in under twenty minutes.  From my perch up front this was a thrill.  For the first time since he picked me up at the station we were on the water, Canadian water.  Holy crap, we were five hundred miles north of what I thought of as up north.
     I began to dream of big fish.  I mean truly huge fish.  Nothing at all like the sunnies and bullheads of the Cities.  And then there was the blue of the water beneath, the froth of the boat's wake fading to our rear and the islands we were soon passing.  Damn, this was like something out of an outdoor magazine.   The sun above sun  and its reflection from the thousand little waves we kachunk-kachunked our way over had me squinty-eyed.  I couldn't resist.  Down went my cupped hand into the spray of the wake.  First I washed my eyes then drank from First Cranberry.  Emil smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
     I pointed to the rocky outcrops of the first island we passed and yelled to Emil, "Does it have a name?"  Emil bellowed back over the motor's whiny rumble, "Probably does!  Your guess is as good as mine as to what it might be!"  Just like me he had an apple pie eating grin on his face.  I was thrilled to be where I was.  Emil seemed to feed off my joy.  And was happy being in a place he loved.  The world wasn't passing by as we puttered along, we were surrounded by it.  Could see, smell and taste it.  And from a new angle every minute.
     Not sure when it happened but Emil now had a pipe in his mouth instead of a cigarette.  "It's what I do when up here.  Kind of a tribute to the Voyageurs of a coupla centuries ago.  When in Rome….  I also like the pipe because of the loose tobacco it needs.  The Cree use tobacco to show thanks to the land, water, sky and woods around them.  Don't know if they're right and don't know if they're wrong.  But I do know it's the right thing to always be thankful for a gift.  And being up here, doing what we're doing, is a gift.  Leaving a pinch without paper at our camp sites feels right to me."
     First Cranberry was the biggest lake I'd ever been on.  Emil said it was good sized but in the general scheme of things up in the northland it was nothing out of the ordinary.  But for me it was a sea.  A sea with no outlet.  Uncle Emil said we were heading toward a channel into the next lake called Second Cranberry, an even bigger lake.  All I could see up ahead was shore, rock and trees and the slap of waves, no outlet anywhere.  Sure hoped he knew what he was doing.
     A few minutes from my first tingle of wilderness we hung a left into what had moments before been a wall of forest.  There, off to our left spread a lodge in a large clearing surrounded by birch and pines.  The Canadian flag flapped high above on a wooden pole, surrounded at the base by a little white rock bordered flower garden.  Boats, cabins, sand beach, docks and a small, clipped lawn.  Order in the boonies.  Plus a few Canadian style, good old boys clustered at the end of a pier with their mitts wrapped around brown beer bottles.  Looked like a convention of plaid shirted salesmen with time on their hands.
     Emil slipped up alongside them with a jaunty "good afternoon gentlemen."  Hopped out and secured the Lund.  "Might any of you know the whereabouts of Blair?"
     "He's up to da office, eh?  Good seein' you Emil.  How's life down in da States and who might dat young man be?  You finally bringin' someone along who'll show you da right way to wet a line, eh?"
     That led to five minutes of handshakes and short stories.  Seemed even old guys acted like kids when there were no ladies around.
     "Grab yourself a LaBatt's outta da cooler on da way up.  Might even be a coke in dere for the lad."
     All the while I had a smile on my face, said my name when introduced and even shook hands.  The old guys were kidding with me but there was something about them that said, 'there stands the next generation.'  And figured if the kid's with Emil, he's more than welcome.
     The lodge wasn't what you'd call a grand affair.  A row of small clapboard cabins, a few out buildings, boats with outboards ready to go and lined up along the pole lined shore.  The cabins were small, white painted, red trimmed affairs.  I guessed there was little need for opulence when the guests spent most of their time on the water.
     The main building was somewhat larger but still not much when compared to the pictures I'd seen of places like the lodge in Yellowstone National Park.  The stone paved path leading to the front door passed through a recently mowed lawn.  Inside stood wall coolers of bait and beverages.  The knotty pine walls were decorated with an elk's head, stuffed geese and hawks, bear skins and a variety of other critters probably killed nearby.  But what drew me were the mounted walleyes and lake trout.  Monster fish with glowing eyes, mouths open and pointy little teeth.  I searched all the surfaces but found not one pike.  Guess Uncle Emil wasn't kidding when he said the Canadians didn't think much of jack fish.
     In the office we were greeted by a lady named Della.  Turned out she was Blair's wife and pretty much ran the business side of the lodge.  When Blair, clad in khaki head to booted feet, came out, seems he was indisposed, it was like old home week.  At least for them.  Friendly people, no doubt about it.
     "Gotta cabin for you should you be stayin'.  Clean sheets and all."
     "Not this time Blair.  The young man and I are off to the bush for a week or two.  No roof over us.  We're pushing off soon as we can.  But maybe on our way out we'll take you up on your offer.  For the moment, all I'm stopping for is my canoe and the chance to see your lovely wife."
     "Sorry to hear that but if the backwoods is what you're after and it looks like you've got someone with you just chompin' at the bit, then it's the canoe for you, eh."
     We headed out back to a huge shed.  There, in the shadows of the deepest corner, atop a pair of saw horses, perched a soft glisten of aluminum.  The downturned Grumman had a year's layering of dust and a bird's nest resting beneath on a thwart.  Outside of that and a few deep scratches she was a thing of graceful beauty.
     Emil ducked under and pulled out three paddles.  All had razor thin, red tipped blades and were of a single piece of ash varnished to a tabletop sheen that came alive when we washed them off at the channel.  He handed them to me to set in the Lund for the moment.  Back at the shed, Emil carefully lifted out the bird nest, popped the canoe on his shoulders and we returned to the beach.
     On the way, Emil asked Blair if he could spare a small block from the ice house.  No sooner said than done.  Finally we pulled out my suitcase.  "Shoulda done this back at the car," he said.  "Guess I wasn't thinking."
     Emil sorted my clothes into two stacks, staying and going.  The staying pile was returned to the suitcase and left at the lodge.  "Best not forget this when we come back or our goose is cooked."  He then added my few things going to a green, waterproof sack already filled with what Emil figured I'd need in the bush from rain gear to long johns.  Double cinched it tight and added the sack to one of the big back packs.  Emil called them Duluth Packs.
     Once the canoe had been doused, we settled down, coke and beer in hand for a few minutes while the boat drained.  Emil stoked up his pipe and said, "Archie me lad, we're almost there."
     Our rest lasted but ten minutes.  I could see he was as excited as me.  Just itching to go.  Couldn't sit still.  From the Lund Uncle Emil pulled out a ragged bath towel and sponge to wipe and dry the inside of the canoe.
     "Good.  Look at her for a moment.  That's as clean as she'll be for a while."  And he almost giggled.
     He called to the dock, "Will you boys be willing to set down your beers for a minute and lend an old fart a hand?"  Two minutes later the Lund was well up on shore and upturned over the Johnson and gas can.
     "One more thing." Out of a pack came a pair of duck boots.  "Hope these fit.  Anyhow they're the size your mother told me."  Though I was only fourteen I was a good sized kid, taller than Emil with feet to match.  Already had an inkling of what work was like.  The prospect of spending a week or more in the boonies was exciting.  This was gonna be one fine time.
     My new boots on, laced and wrapped at the top, pants tucked in, we finished loading the canoe while it was afloat beside the dock.  Cooler under the carrying yoke, food pack in front of the cooler, clothes and gear packs to the rear, day pack under Emil's seat and Coleman stove under mine.  Lastly, the bundled rod tubes and extra paddle were stowed and the whole shebang tied to the thwarts with a length of cord.  All was between the two seats.
     Before pushing off Emil returned to the lodge.  Moments later, when he returned, there was a new glass eye in place.  This one with a canoe for a pupil.  I didn't notice it right off but a clearing of throat and a finger point from Uncle Emil got my attention.
     Emil handed me a paddle.  "This was Lena's.  Made it myself.  She never actually used it, guess it was too long but I made it for her just in case she ever decided to see what it was like to crap in the woods."  Blond wood with tip painted red and ashine with many coats of spar varnish.
     "Try this on for size."
     The green life jacket he handed me seemed to fit okay but what did I know?  A minute of Emil tugging, tightening and tying had it fitting snugly.
     "Can you breathe okay?  Don't want you suffocating just 'cause I'm tryin to keep you alive.  Archie me lad when you're in a canoe with me, you always wear your life jacket.  No ifs, ands, or buts.  Simple as that.  The boys up here razz me a bit but I don't much care.  Giving me grief is what they're supposed to do.  Me, I'm supposed to float head up if I ever fall out of a canoe.  Okay?"
     Turning toward the Grumman Emil pulled the gunwale tight to the grayed dock and told me to hop in.  "Three points of contact always.  Two hands on the gunwales, then step into the middle, one foot at a time.  Simple as pie."
     Moments later we were afloat. "See you gentlemen next year if not sooner."
     A wave and we were gone.
   

Canada XX - The Dock

     The hour's drive to Cranberry Portage began with a repeat of the scenery we'd passed on the way into The Pas, sand and gravel in the ditch, swamp and forest beyond.  Then midway it changed.  Of course I was too dense to notice 'til Uncle Emil pointed them out.  Rock.  Small cliffs of it.  One with someone's name painted on the side.
    "Probably some high school graduate trying to let the world know how great it is to be them.  Up here it's like yelling in the dark when there's no one around to hear.  Lately the big thing down in the States is to paint the name of your high school on the local water tower."
     Minutes passed in silence.  The way Emil's eyes were moving back and forth, fingers waggling, I knew something was in the wind.  Finally, the Zippo and lighter appeared.  It was time for me to listen up.
     "A couple of years ago over on the other side of Wisconsin I heard this joke.  I'd been fishing the rivers with a couple of buddies and we'd stopped in at a place called Furlong's for a couple of beers.  They had Point beer on tap.  Don't get that here in Minnesota and I figured to give one a try.  One sip spoke loudly of its lack of popularity.  While sitting there a stub of a man strolled up.  The foot and a half stalk of pink gladiolus pinned to the strap of his bib overalls told us he was a splash of local color.  Anyhow, after a moment of pleasantries he went on to relate a story of an Irishman who'd had too much to drink.  Not much of a joke as jokes go but a kernel of it stuck with me.  Ate at my craw 'til I learned the truth behind it.  Yeah, even the wildest tales are usually inspired by true events."
     "Seems there was this fighter back in the thirties by the name of Kid Glove.  That wasn't his real name of course.  Just the one he fought under.  And not much of a name as names go but he had a pretty good punch considering.  Now the Kid lived up on the Iron Range in northern Minnesota.  When he wasn't working the mines he was a pro boxer.  A bantam rooster kind of guy.  Feisty.  Wasn't a great fighter but wasn't all that bad either.  Won a few more fights than he lost and was always entertaining.  When the Kid fought, someone was gonna bleed.  Usually him.  Nose looked like it was coming up on a T in the road, hit a bump then couldn't make up its mind whether to turn left or right."
     "Anyhow, the Kid had a problem with the bottle, would now and then do something off-the-wall stupid when he'd had a few too many.  This was back during the Depression.  Times were tough and a buck went a long way.  Twenty, twenty-five dollars was about all a middle of the road fighter could expect for a bout.  You have to understand I didn't see this.  Heard it second hand from a very reliable source."
     "Was a thursday night in Chisholm.  Log Cabin Bar.  One drink as usual led to another, the Kid needed a little cash, so he bet a fellow miner in the bar five dollars he could do a one arm handstand on the town's watertower.  Didn't take but a second for a handshake and the whole bar to empty and set off down the street.  Legend in the making."
     "Crowd built to the hundreds as they milled uptown and word spread bar to bar.  The Kid was feeling no pain and havin' a fine time.  Started shadow boxing his way up the street.  Even went into his car to retrieve the moccasins he wore for road training.  Yeah the kid was readier than ready.  Jumping up and down, wagging his head back and forth to loosen up.  Scampered his way up the tower's ladder like he was escaping the eternal pit after the thread of last hope had snapped.  Also had a hip flask peeking from the butt pocket of his dungarees.  Not a good idea.  Once atop the Kid downed it in a single adam's apple bobbing swig and flung it aside.  Then commenced to giving what may have been a fine speech had anyone been able to understand a word he slurred out.  Yeah, could've been the flask he stumbled on.  Whatever the reason the Kid did a half gainer in the pike position over the railing and smacked sideways onto the pavement below with a 'what the hell was that ?' look on his face.  Shook his head and popped up like nothing had happened though his left leg was all catty-whampus, twisted backwards.  The good old boys gathered 'round, patted the Kid on the back, told him what a great man he was.  Then they all headed back to the bar for a nightcap.  It was there back at the Log Cabin they discovered the Kid wasn't with them.  Seems he was still back at the base of the tower walking in counter-clockwise circles 'cause of the one leg being backwards.  Had him grip an oak tree while a couple of his buddies twisted the bent one back.  The Kid never let out a peep."
     "Wasn't 'til the following afternoon out at the mine that the Kid finally collapsed.  Deader than a door nail.  Autopsy said he'd been dead for better than a half day.  Also said his blood came out pink when they drained it.  Seems it'd been significantly thinned by cheap whiskey.  Verdict was the Kid was so drunk when he hit the asphalt he didn't know he was dead 'til the next day when he sobered up. And as far as I know that's the Gospel truth.  Has to be.  Even I don't make up tales as strange as that."
     We never did make it all the way to downtown Cranberry Portage.  Two blocks into town we hung a right and headed down to the lake.  There we found weren't alone.  A few cars in the gravel lot, all with boat trailers.  A party of four headed to the cleaning house from a boat still raining lake water.  The dock itself was a concrete affair big enough to moor a dozen boats.  Before putting in, Emil had us load our gear in the Lund.  Didn't seem like we had all that much stuff but the Lund was filled to the gills.
     Emil made it look like child's play the way he worked the boat from the trailer and secured it to the huge dock.  Started by pulling on a dull green pair of rubber duck boots, then backed the boat and trailer into the lake 'til the Nomad's exhaust pipes were all but covered.  Once there he un-cranked and slid the boat free of the trailer.  A hop and scamper aboard, a couple of pulls on the outboard and Emil backed out in the bay.  Once in the chop he gave the Johnson a few blue smoked revs, slid up to the concrete pier and tied her fore and aft.  Five minutes later, the Nomad and trailer parked, we found ourselves standing on the dock, Emil with a lit Lucky hanging from his lip.
     From what I could see the lake looked not much bigger than a pond.  This was Canada?  "Archie me lad, this isn't the lake.  Just a bay.  Beyond is First Cranberry and it's a good sized body of water.  Back home she'd be called a big lake and be known throughout the state.  Up here she's not but a spit in a fryin' pan but even so, you don't ever want to fall overboard.  The pike'll eat you alive.  A word to the wise, don't call them pike to the locals.  They won't have a clooo - thats how he pronounced it - what you're talkin' abowoot, eh.  Call them jackfish.  And walleyes are pickerel.  Got that?  Oh yeah, throw in an 'eh' at the end of every sentence and they'll think you're  a native.  Ready?  Let's get to it.  Adventure calls."

Canada XIX - Brown Gravy

     We stopped for lunch at a cafe, The Northman or maybe it was The Disappointed Appetite, I forget which.  When we walked in the door, every head in the place snapped around to check out the strangers.  Gave us an up and down, a derisive snort and went back to eating.  The place wasn't big and wasn't all that pretty.  Had a used look to it.  But was clean and the tables didn't wobble much on the cracked linoleum.  Sun streamed through the window and lit up three of the five calendars on the walls.  All but one had an outdoors scene on it.  Big fish exploding out of a lake, Mounties on horseback and elk in snow-capped mountains. The other was an ad for a bail bondsman. The curtains on the windows were the white lace kind slowly bleeding tar and nicotine yellow.  We squeaked out our chairs and sat down.

     The twin waitresses bustling about looked like they'd been there since the construction crew had built the restaurant around them during the days leading up to World War I while the ladies, probably around forty at that time, stood waiting with pencil and pad in hand.  Menus were simple plastic binders with a couple of mimeographed pages between.  Breakfast and lunch only but you could get breakfast all day long.

     Our waitress didn't even ask.  Simply turned over Uncle Emil's cup and filled it with coffee followed by a "what'll you have boys?"  Emil went for the Trapper's Surprise breakfast in hopes there was something alongside his eggs over easy that'd once felt steel jaws or at least a bullet.  Me, I had the burger, fries and a coke.
     That settled she turned to me, "Did you want the gravy over it all or just a bowlful on the side?"
     Can't say I'd ever been asked that question before.  Or since.  My simple, "No gravy for me ma'am," set her penciled-in eyebrows all aquiver.
     "You sure?  You might want to think that over young man."
     I was petty sure I wanted no gravy.  What for?  But her raised eyebrow had me wondering if I was making a big mistake.
     "Yes ma'am.  I'm sure.  No gravy for me, thank you."
     Her pencil was returned to its proper place above her right ear and stuffed into her updo along with two pens and a yard stick.  She snapped around on the gray linoleum floor and shuffled off toward the stainless steel kitchen counter.
     "You've never eaten in small town Canada before have you Archie me lad?  Up here, gravy is not only a cultural necessity but also comes in handy for other reasons as you will soon discover."  With that Emil rose and began to work the tables.
     Once again I felt embarrassed for him, mostly for me actually, when he did things like that.  Going up to total strangers and asking them how the food was.  Then I saw what he was really up to.  A few sentences in, with a laugh or two along the way, the conversation always turned toward fishing, ice-out, weather and bugs.  Nearly all of the men up in Northwest Manitoba wet a line now and then.  Spend some time nearly every day in the local outdoors.  We hadn't.  Simple enough.  All he was doing was getting the lay of the land out on the water.  And the locals had no problem filling him in.
     Emil figured people were people wherever he went.  And few would withhold information from a fellow fisherman even if he wasn't a local boy.  By the time our meals arrived he'd learned all he felt was needed.
     Lunch was, hmmm, a little different than what I'd expected.  When I asked for ketchup our waitress gave me a look that said I'd done something disgusting.  Maybe even sinful.
     "Ketchup?  What for, eh?"
     "For my fries ma'am."
     "Ketchup on fries?  That's a new one on me.  That's what the vinegar on the table is for young man."
     And that was a new one on me.  Gave it a moment's thought and decided I'd eat 'em the way the good Lord intended, saturated in molten lard and fried to a snap.  Maybe the vinegar was intended to cut through the grease?  Kinda like drain-o for the digestive tract.
     The burger was more of the same.  Oak board patty, pickle, mustard and onions on a few days old, toasted bun.  To me a burger wasn't a burger unless it had something red on it.  Maybe the tomato hadn't made it this far north yet?  Snapped off my first bite with my molars.  Figured my front teeth weren't sturdy enough for the job and might give before the patty broke apart.
     "Archie me lad, you figured out what the gravy is for yet?"
     Uncle Emil paused while my head slowly rose from my task.  I nodded no.
     "Up here they usually put it on both the fries and patty for a couple of minutes before they set to chowing it down.  Softens the fibers so it's possible to eat the stuff.  Problem is it doesn't smell good to me as it passes my nose, smells worse come morning.  That's why I ordered breakfast."
     "It's kind of a chicken and egg thing.  Don't know which came first.  The gravy to soften up the food or frying the food to a crisp so the gravy didn't make it too mushy.  Oh well, your stomach is still young.  Could probably digest concrete.  Can't say for sure if it'll make a dent in a Canadian burger though."

Canada XVIII - A Matter of Life and Death

     Once in town we filled the Nomad's tank.  While we gassed the Nomad, Emil gassed with whoever was within earshot.  Sometimes I think he's crazy to corner total strangers and start up like they're long lost neighbors.  But that's just the way he is.  And doesn't seem to care what it is he says.  At least he's usually careful enough to not bring up religion or politics.  And when he does, my uncle has a way of feeling people out, much like wading into cold water and being careful when reaching the tender parts.  When he's got a feel for the situation he seems to always know how far he can go before his nose gets broken.
     I had to take a leak and left him out there at the pump talking with a guy from North Dakota.  About my trip inside to the men's room I won't say much more than whatever passes through Canadians smells about the same as if it came from us Americans.  Kind of odd isn't it?  We think of ourselves as Americans and our neighbors as Canadians even though we're bot Americans and live in North America.  Wonder if the Canadians know that?
     Back outside, Emil and the Dakota guy were talking about what it's like to be a Lutheran.  As far as I know Uncle Emil hasn't been inside a Lutheran church in years.  Actually, I don't think he's been in any kind of church for a long, long time.  Outside of weddings and funerals that is.  And of the two, funerals are what he likes best.
     He's told me, "the only downside to a funeral concerns the dead person.  Not so much that they're dead, although, given the choice they'd probably rather be alive.  More like they're missing out on a fine party.  And they're the guest of honor.  Someone should've told them about the good church basement meal they'd miss 'cause they went and died a couple of days early.  The way I see it we should all have our funerals while we're still topside and feeling good.  People you haven't seen for twenty years could come up, slap you on the back and tell you what a great guy you are, as opposed to were and are now over there laying in a box and filled with formaldehyde and wearin' a suit for the first time in fifteen years.  And you'd remember all the good times and stuff you used to go through.  Or maybe even tell you what an total jerk you were.  Now, in my book, that'd be a good time."

Canada XVII - The Pas

     The Pas wasn't what I expected.  Not one bit.  No tepees, no Mounties, not an outpost in any sense.  Looked pretty much like small town America except for the flags.  That and a lot of black haired people with good tans.  Uncle Emil said most of them were Cree Indians whose ancestors came over from Asia even before he was born.
     "They used to know this country like the back of their hands.  My guess is most of them out in the backwoods still live off the land, fishing, hunting, trapping and gathering plants.  But I've got a feeling it isn't like it used to be before the trading posts turned into towns.  And paddles turned into outboard motors."
     "The long and short of it is that they're people just like us.  They see or learn a more efficient way to do something and that's what they'll do.  Probably won't be too long and this whole area will turn into what northern Minnesota's turned into.  Of course there'll always be pockets of what passes for wilderness.  But money talks.  Where there's a Canadian buck to be made you can be sure there'll be a way to turn it."
     "But I don't quite see what's up here that'll be worth much.  At least to the money grubbers.  But so long as there's still fish in the water and trees on the shore, it'll be worth a lot to me.
     "As to making money there's the trees of course.  Clear cut 'em and make two by fours by the millions.  And maybe some minerals.  Flin Flon up the road has gold mines.  Take a look at what happened to California back in the gold rush.  On second thought, don't.  It's not worth your time.  Shoot, in a couple of years they'll have paved every square foot of the 'Golden' state.  Freeways twenty lanes wide so filled with cars not a one will move .  Those stalled cars will turn into the houses of the future.  The entire state will have to be re-plumbed.  New power lines built.  All the abandoned houses bulldozed into the sea to make room for new amusement parks.  All that ruckus will trigger the Big One that's been overdue since June 16, 1841.  The ground'll open up and swallow every one of them and all their little lap dogs too.  About the time the whole shebang grinds its way up to Alaska in about a hundred million years, the state will be discovered by some alien race from outer space and opened up as a tourist attraction kind've like the LaBrea Tar Pits.  Only the dinosaurs those Martians find will smell of thirty weight oil and have tail fins.  Tell you the truth, I'd pay admission to see that, particularly if I knew the cars had come all the way from California via some form of underground subcontinental railroad.  Makes me feel good just thinking about it."
     "Sorry.  Guess I got side tracked.  Anyhow, here we are in The Pas, or La Pas, if you'll pardon my French.  That's another joke.  Laugh if you feel the need."
     "We're here with four things in mind: full tank, full belly, empty bladder and maybe a little information.  So let's get to gettin'."

Canada XVI - Brule

     Uncle Emil didn't easily give up on his dreams for the future.  The way he put it, "So long as a body's got something to look forward to, life's worth living.  Don't give me credit for that idea.  I think I read it on the back of a box of Sugar Pops.  You know, life's a lot like a box of Sugar Pops…."
     "More likely I'd buy some acreage, hopefully forty or so, along the Brule River downstream from Northern Light Lake up the Gunflint Trail from Grand Marais.  Trout in the river and fine fishing in the lake.  Again it's way off the beaten path.  Far enough so I wouldn't have electricity.  I'd need a well and an outhouse.  Heat with wood."
     "Guess that's what I like about both places.  I'm not looking for neighbors at this point in my life.  And the ones I'd meet would have to be something like me.  Or totally whacked out instead of just half crazy.  So long as none of them got their kicks from hunting old geezers I'd be okay."
     "Don't exactly know why those kind of places appeal to me but they do.  And then there's the place I'd have to build.  Now that's something to get excited about."
     "I've run all kinds of cabins through my mind.  Picked up some ideas by simply driving around and boating the lakes.  Wouldn't be big.  Maybe just one room.  Seven, eight hundred square feet tops.  Easy to heat.  Lots of windows to catch the breezes when it's hot out.  Some sun during the winter months."
     "Or maybe only live there during the warmer months.  May through October.  Then go somewhere warm.  Maybe where the fish are as big as dogs.  I could even pick up a couple of acres down in New Mexico if I wanted trout.  Or Florida for the bass.  And never, ever pick up anything other than a fly rod again.  Please excuse me, I'm startin' to sound like Lenny wanting to live off the fat of the land in 'Of Mice and Men'."
     "On the flip side there's the bugs.  Skeeters, deer flies, black flies, horse flies, ticks.  They're out and about in May and June.  Oh well, there was even a snake in Eden.  Nothing's perfect.  Maybe a home on the big lake, Superior.  Cold breezes off the lake keep the bugs down.  Could be that's the solution, two homes.  Or maybe three."
     "Gotta tell you though, I go back and forth on the whole thing.  It's not easy striking out on a new life.  I'm no spring chicken anymore but that's not the issue.  Might even make it easier.  Except maybe the physical part.  Don't know if I can do all the work myself anymore.  But if that's the way she has to be…."
     Here Uncle Emil drifted off into silence again.  What was I supposed to say to all that?  But it sounded like a good time to me.  "I'd help you build a house Uncle Emil.  We could do it together during my summer vacation."
     Emil turned to me, took a drag off of his Lucky, then turned back to the two lanes of asphalt and a sign on the side that said The Pas.  What did I expect?  At least he didn't say no.