Canada XXIX - I Hurt

     Boy it sure felt good to be back on the water.  For about five minutes.

     "Good morning Archie baby," said my muscles.  "Remember us?  We're the guys you beat up yesterday. You didn't think we'd forget you, did you?  And we sure don't want you to forget us.  Around back, just to the left of center between your shoulder blades?  Yeah, right there.  That throbbing dent is from the peanut sized rock you missed when clearing off the tent site.  Next time pay more attention, okay?  Or should I say, eh?"

     Just didn't seem fair.  I was a kid in pretty good shape.  Ate my Wheaties, played all the sports and biked or walked everywhere.  But this paddling business was in a whole 'nother league.  When I made a joke of asking Uncle Emil why I hurt, he saw through me and said, "It's all part of the game.  The growing up game that is.  You're asking your body to do things it's never done before.  Odd thing is, your body likes it.  The pain is just nature's way of saying thank you.  One thing's for sure, it'll get better, easier over time.  Or maybe the pain will eventually kill you.  Either way, you won't hurt anymore."  All of that spoken with his pipe clenched between his teeth.
     Again, just like yesterday, our canoe slid forward slowly.  That's the way of the canoe.  Quiet for  sure.  Plenty of time to look around as you move.  While I paddled, my mind drifted off to the ends of the universe.  Or maybe to a night in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn in my lap.  Then reality would come roaring back and I'd watch an otter bobbing and diving along the shore, checking us out like he'd never seen an aluminum canoe before.  Guess that made us even.  I'd never seen an otter before.
     Sure enough the lake eventually gave way to another channel.  Emil said we'd been on a river the whole time.  "The Grass River.  Doesn't sound like much of a wilderness track does it?  When she widens, she's a lake.  When she narrows. she's a channel.  When she narrows more, she's a falls or rapids.  Don't think there's actually a lake in the whole north of Manitoba.  Just river.  Except for where we're heading."  And followed his opinion with one of those deep throated laughs like he's some evil guy with a big, black slouch hat, the kind from a 1930s black and white movie where you can only see his glowing eyes and you know for sure he's not the one you want to be with when walkin' hand in hand into the sunset.  I hoped he was kidding.  Yeah, that's it, kidding.
     I followed his with a laugh of my own like I was playing along.  Only my laugh sounded more like I was auditioning for a Warner Brothers cartoon as Porkie.
     "Don't worry Archie me lad, it'll be fun."
     At the end of Second Cranberry and back on what at least looked like a river, we pulled up our paddles.  Let nature take us where she wanted while Uncle Emil stoked his pipe.  Once puffing away he carefully passed a canteen forward on his paddle blade.  Lemonade!  Seemed he brought flavor crystals along.  Sipping, listening to the play of waves on the gleaming hull, slowly turning broadside to the breeze, no hurry to be anywhere.  What a great life.
     "Put your feet up on the gunnels and lean back on the packs.  Take a load off your backside.  But do it gracefully.  The drier I am, the happier I am.  Yeah, your Uncle has rolled his share of boats.  She's not the end of the world.  No sir.  But a dunking changes the flow of the day.  Adds a sense of wet adventure a man has no need for."
     My Uncle paused a moment, sculled us a few single handed strokes forward,
     "Seems like adventure always begins when something goes wrong.  And going wrong goes hand in hand with his buddy, stupidity.  We all do stupid things in life but up here it pays to keep your eyes open.  Take your time, do it right.  Who knows, one of these days I might even listen to my own advice."
     Twenty minutes of channel later another island clustered lake opened to view.  So thickly planted with them, I couldn't separate shore from island.  All looked the same to me.  One continuous shoreline.  Good thing Emil was at the helm.
     Fifteen minutes later, for no apparent reason our canoe Emil turned us right and into a small bay accompanied by him humming a catchy tune.
     "That's a pretty neat song.  Any words to it?"
     "None that I know of.  Mozart wrote that as a piano piece.  You wouldn't think something two hundred years old would be a toe tapper.  Figure Wolfgang wore out a lot of fancy shoes tapping away while he wrote.  Some of those concertos would sure sound good bouncing off these spruces but I'm not holding my breath 'til the time they do."
     Off in the near distance a pole dock rose along the shore.
     "Is that where we're heading?"
     "More or less.  Should we be in the Lund that'd be where we'd tie up.  In the canoe it'd be asking for a bath or broken bones.  Our slide-in is along the rock shelf off to the left.  She'll be a grinder due to the rubble on the bottom.  But that's what aluminum is good for.  That and latching onto every stone in a river."
     Our offload was an Emil affair.  I helped some but as far as I was concerned the heft of the food pack said to leave it alone.  Even Uncle Emil grunted on that one.  From the rocky shore we moved our gear uphill to a little meadow about half a block inland.  From our perch we surveyed the green and blue of our world and listened to the silence.
     It was there I came to learn there's a never ending backdrop of activity no matter where you are.  Here it was a lap of waves, shush of pines, flutter of aspens, twitter of birds, hammer of woodpecker and the play of breeze as it skipped across the bay.  Yeah, those sounds were all there, all the time.  Probably back in the city also.  But how often had I ever stopped to listen to the wind?
     Emil stoked up and added the fragrance of burning tobacco.  His clouds would rise a bit, swirl, then dash off to the woods and brush behind us.  I'd already heard how bad smoking was on a body.  Many times.  But there in the surrounding wilderness it sure had the feel of something spiritual, even holy.  I could see why the Cree offered it as a gift of thanks.  Smoke was much like a prayer on its drift toward the heavens.  Then, just like a talk with God, it was gone to who knows where.  Spread to the four corners of the universe.
     Of course I wasn't thinking anything that profound at the time.  But I did think the pipe tobacco smelled good and smoke seemed a fitting thing to share our space on the edge of the forest.

Canada XXVIII - Back on the Water

     It rained during the night.  A soft drizzle, no more than a scampering on the canvas.  Lucky for us the rain came chilled.  Not a bitter cold but definitely not like summer in Minnesota.  It sure made the sleeping bag feel good and hard to leave in the morning.

      "Rise and shine!  Archie me lad, we've got a whole world waitin' on us out there and we're wasting it here in our fart sacks.  Day's half shot.  First orders of business for your's truly is to pay my respects to the brush and make room for breakfast.  Youth shall wait his turn."

     With that Uncle Emil unzipped and wormed his way out.  Once open, his bag told me what he meant by fart sack.  Also gave me the impetus to shake a leg before I fainted.  Emil slipped his trousers on, grabbed a roll of toilet paper, a little hand shovel and headed into the growing daylight.  Turned out his idea of a day half shot was a half hour shy of six.

     As much as I hated to admit it, I knew the man was right.  Grabbed my jeans, tugged on a sweat shirt and fresh socks.  This was back in the days when sweatshirts didn't have any writing on them and came in two colors, grey and dirty.  Outside, the air was so clean and crisp it almost hurt.  My trip into the trees had me worried I was gonna erode what little dirt there was on this half acre.  Maybe even topple trees and despoil ten thousand years of mother nature's labor.  Good thing I'd made it outside when I did.
     "Wash your face and hands in the lake.  Towel's draped on yon bush."  What followed was a scrounging through the food pack and cooler accompanied by Emil humming a tune about being on a lake in high winds or something like that.
     "Never did learn the songs of the Voyageurs so I make them up.  Danger, lost love, rum.  All of it the same now as back then.  Except for the hernia part.  They were little guys carrying seriously big loads.  A hundred-twenty pound man hoisting a hundred-eighty pounds on his back will eventually tear most anyone's gut."
     "Pardon my French Uncle Emil but what in the world is a voyageur?" Yeah, I was awake and living in Uncle Emil's world. The upshot was they paddled goods to and from the wilderness in birch bark canoes a couple of hundred years ago.  Nothing left of them now but ghosts in the rapids looking for someone to join them.
      Conversation soon gave way to the sizzle and aroma of maple sausages and eggs.  I figured if there's a heaven it'd smell like breakfast on Second Cranberry Lake.  Could be I was already dead and up there in my eternal reward.  Hello voyageurs!
     Topped off our meal with a coupla slabs of sourdough bread, buttered, fried golden and wolfed down with a little maple syrup drizzled across.  Almost felt guilty that the only noise coming outta me during the meal was chomping, grinding and gulping.  Since that's what we had, I drank some of Uncle Emil's mud.  The steaming bitterness of it only added to the joy.  And made me want to run in circles or climb trees or maybe even fly.
     "You weren't hungry were you Archie me lad?  Hope I brought enough grub.  I'd forgotten about the bottomless pit that's a young man."
     Emil paused for a slurp of coffee, "Let's you and me clear off this mess, break camp and hit the road."
     We set to work.  Good thing Emil knew the ropes.  I'd have been at dishes and packing for most of the day.  Midway through breaking down the tent I felt a stirring in my nether regions that must have found its way to my face.
     Emil caught my distress and simply said, "Trowel and paper are on the stump.  Scrape a small hole in the woods.  Grip a tree for balance and keep your trousers out of the drop zone.  Bury your leavings and praise the Lord for the sunshine.  A full belly and an empty intestine makes for a good day."
     While I was squatting, a gray bird landed on my ball cap.  To that point I'd been having little success with my business.  Could be my problems arose from the strange circumstances surrounding my efforts.  Later I figured it was the added weight of the bird or maybe it literally scared the stuffing out of me, either way what followed was like an elevator in free fall.  I know outdoor adventures don't mention some of life's necessities.  But they are necessities.  And also moments of deep, near meditational concentration when the world comes into clear focus.  Like Emil said, you generally feel better sauntering out of the woods than trotting in.
     "Whiskey Jack, properly a Canada Jay.  You don't always see them but if they're in the neighborhood and the food pack's open they're sure to come make friends.  Couple of days in a camp and they'll eat out of your hand."
     Less than an hour later, the sun over the treetops, packs in the canoe, we pushed off.  Emil said we'd be at our first carry in two hours.
     We began our day bucking a slowly freshening breeze off our left shoulder.  Instead of shooting straight down the middle of the lake Emil took us on a tack toward the right shore.  Said there were islands there that would make our way safer and easier should the wind stiffen.
     "Life on the water's about keeping the boat afloat and making your way with as little effort as possible.  When you aren't able to move forward it's time to sit on the shore and watch the world blow by.  For the moment we're doing just fine.  Steady as she goes Archie me lad."
   
   
     

Canada XXVII - The Never Ending Light of Night and a Moment of Sick Humor

     Fishing wasn't the only show on the lake.  The colors of the trees, the water and the sky all grew deeper with each passing minute.  As the sun neared the tree line, the lake calmed.  Glassed out and turned oil slick black.  Way darker than the night we were having topside.  Up here night was in no hurry at all.  Looked to me like the sun sank lower and lower and lower, leveled out, then stopped moving altogether.  As though it had no desire to turn in.  Instead wanted to stay up and play.

     Once back in camp we slathered on bug repellant, pulled up a pair of stumps and sat down to watch the world turn its back on the sun.  Emil stoked his pipe.  His fragrant tobacco cloud swirled and slowly thinned but never left us.  Don't know what concoction he was puffing but it smelled good and at the same time killed hordes of mosquitos.   

     "Archie me lad, do you remember anything at all about your dad?"

     That was a tough one for both Emil to ask and me to answer.  Bring up the dead and you never know whose toes you might be stepping on.  You see, my dad died when I was three.  I guess if a kid's to grow up fatherless, three's as good an age as any.  Didn't yet know him, so all the good and bad coming from the inevitable father-son head butting never happened.  I didn't know what I was missing and didn't much care.  It's not like I'd come to know him before he died.  He might have been a great dad or a never ending nightmare.  When it comes to parents you get what you get.

     "Not much.  I guess most of what I do remember comes from what I've been told by other people.  I kind of remember getting off a street car with him after we'd gone to the circus on my third birthday.  That's about it.  That's the only picture I have in my head.  All the rest of what I guess you could call memories are no more than stories I've overheard and words aren't really memories are they?  The way I see it, if you don't have the picture in your head it may as well never have happened.  But I think of him a lot.  Carry him around inside my head and talk with him about what's happened in the world since he died.  It's almost like he was my kid instead of the other way around.  Kind of weird I know but that's what I do."

     By then Second Cranberry had fully mirrored out.  Made me wish we had some flat, round stones to skip over the water.  I had a pretty good arm and Uncle Emil was known to have been a fair ball player.  Since I didn't have a dad I guessed my uncle would have to do for the time being.  Could have been worse I suppose.  But I knew it wasn't the same as the real deal.  One step removed and it was a big step.  Night and day.

     Over the years other men had tried to fill the gap they figured I must have in my life.  Nice guys who took me to father-son things at school.  But all I ever felt on those days was uncomfortable.  Like I was supposed to be someone I wasn't.  Didn't even feel grateful, just wanted the affair to be over.  The dad I carried in my head was good enough for me.

      Emil blew out a string of smoke rings like he was the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, "Don't worry about me tryin' to act like I was your dad.  Lost mine around the time you were born Archie me lad.  Not the same as being three years old but I know for a fact no one can take your old man's place."
     "The way I see it, you and I are here together to have a good time.  And I expect we will.  Anything beyond that is a plus.  One thing's for sure, you don't have a thing to worry about.  We're gonna head pretty deep into the bush but we'll do it with our eyes open.  If something looks a little too close to the edge we won't do it.  Okay?"
     "Okay."
     "Also, tomorrow begins your first real day of work.  I've got two packs all set up for you.  They're going to feel heavy as death.  Your job is to get them from one end of the portage to the other.  How you do that is up to you.  Set them down a dozen times if you have to but they're yours and yours alone.  If you can, don't get them muddy. Okay?"
     What could I say?  "Okay."  Didn't know what a portage was and didn't ask.  Figured I'd learn soon enough.
     "Weather permitting we'll have camp set up and be eating lunch by noon.  I'm thinking walleyes.  Don't know if the walleyes are thinking the same thing but that's their problem."
     Half an hour later we were in the bags.  Toes warm as toast, nose cold as ice.  My first night on an island in Canada.  As much as I wanted to dwell on the importance of the moment, sleep was calling.  Hard to say no to sleep when you're dead tired.
     Guess what?  Moss wasn't quite as comfortable as my bed back home.  But it didn't matter.  I could have slept on bare stone and I guess that's pretty much what we were doing.  Turned out in the days following Emil had packed the air mattresses.  He figured this first night it would do me good to sleep as close to nature as possible.  Just like in the old days.  The fragrance of the moss beneath the ground cloth wrapped itself around me as did the waxed cotton aroma of the tent itself.
     I was half under when Uncle Emil piped up.  At least I think he did.  Maybe I'd already fallen asleep and only dreamt what followed.  It was black as black could be in the tent once the flashlight had clicked off.  I was deep in my bag.  Emil stirred for a moment, sounded like he was folding his hands behind his head,
     "Archie me lad, you ever read those stories about Winnie the Pooh?"
     Yawned a, "Yes, read them all."
     "Good, then this'll at least make some sense.  You see, me and Lena never had any kids so there was no one at home to read bedtime stories to.  Didn't even know the Pooh existed 'til one time down in the cities when I was hooked into tucking my brother Herb's boy into bed.  Dan was about seven at the time and I was in St. Paul doing some Christmas shopping."
     Here he paused a moment or two.  Ask Emil and he'd've said he was getting his ducks in line.
     "Anyhow, the two of us stumbled our way through the one about Pooh and Piglet falling into this hole they'd dug.  Kind of funny in a way.  While I was reading I got to thinking about what it would have been like if the stories had been about real animals instead of toy ones.  You know, Pooh as a grizzly.  Eight foot tall, three inch claws and teeth like razors.  I don't think his little pig buddy would have lasted very long.  Same with the kid, Christopher Robin.  All of them downed as dinner except maybe the owl since he could fly.  Kangaroo, gone in a flash.  I've got this image of Pooh grabbing the gloomy donkey by its head and swinging him around 'til its little jackass skull was crushed and spine snapped.  Just like a grizzly would.  Then Pooh'd bury the carcass and let it rot a while to age the meat.  Finally, there'd be an armageddon like battle at the end between Pooh and Tigger, six hundred pound bengal tiger.  Oof dah, blood everywhere.  Both of them would end up torn to pieces and dead.  Over the next few weeks Rabbit's little rodent relations would eat all that'd be left of them, bones and everything.  Chain of life in action.  Before I could get out a word of my version Danny'd dropped off.  How he fell asleep with me laughin' so hard I'll never know."
     "Almost spent the night so I could give Danny the fun version of the story in the morning over breakfast but Herb figured my idea of funny might be a little too real for his little boy.  Probably he was right.  Anyhow, good night Archie."
     "Are there any grizzlies around here Uncle Emil?"
     "Nope.  Not a one.  Black bears maybe.  But they're nowhere near as big.  Four hundred pounds tops."  He paused, "You didn't bring any Hershey bars in the tent did you?"

Canada XXVI - Fish Gotta Fly

     Emil's plan for me was simple, sit there and hold the rod.  That's about it.  Not very exciting.  Well, there was more to it than just that.  To start with Emil had me practice casting.  A couple of high flies and a low bullet or two were quickly followed by a general grasp of timing.
     We started with a trip around our island, looking for likely spots to throw a lure.  There, in a little pocket off a point, I caught my first Canadian pike.  Wasn't but a hammer handle but it was mine.  Or at least it was 'til my lack of experience had me pass the rod to Emil.  He had me watch closely while he grabbed the slippery bugger behind the gills and used his pliers to twist the hook out.
     "Needle nose 'em in the water if you can.  Most times the hooks'll come out easy since I've crimped all the barbs.  Otherwise, grab the fish like you mean it.  If you get wimpy, the pike'll know you're chicken and wiggle to get free.  You'll end up doing more damage to the fish.  Simple as that.  Yeah, they're slimy as snails so don't lick your fingers after releasing a northern.  Don't pick your nose either or the whole world will smell like a pike's patoot."
     "There's a pair of pliers in your box with a length of string attached.  Tie the pliers off to the thwart behind you just in case you feel the need to drop them in the lake.  Experience tells me pliers don't float."
     Emil made his own leaders.  Instead of wire he used a short length of strong, plastic fishing line.  Said the wire ones scared off the fish, particularly lakers and walleyes.  He had me clip a silver spoon onto my leader.  About a foot and a half above the lure I attached two twist-on sinkers to help lower the spoon where the trout swam.  Good thing my Uncle was with me for I had no idea what the heck I was doing.
     I gave the rig a fling out to the lakeside exactly as told and we began slowly trolling back and forth in front of the island.  That was it.  Sitting, waiting, occasionally pulling on the rod.  Nothing happening except for a coupla crazy loons in mid-lake getting all loony as the sun once again slowly, very slowly, angled down.
     Emil got the first laker.  Also the second.  And the last.  And while he was reeling them in he was singing a victory tune about fish, dish and delish.  Me?  I got a few more small pike and one decent one.  By decent I mean it was the biggest fish I'd ever caught.  Even got a "not bad, sorry it's a pike" from my uncle. Yeah, I was a little disappointed being laker skunked.  And the old guy in the back having nothing to do with unhooking my fish.
     "You're on your own from now on unless the lure's sticking halfway out the fish's backside.  Releasing your own fish is all part of the game.  Also part of the reason pike aren't a lot of fun to catch unless they're bigguns."
     " Don't know how or why but it takes a while for fish to like a person enough to sacrifice themselves.  And they sure don't care to be caught by neophytes.  An angler has to prove himself to the fish.  So, your job is to keep accidentally hooking them 'til they get to know you.  Maybe even grow to love you like they love me.  Of course I'm better looking, on a higher scale, fin-nancially secure and generally easier for a fish to fall in love with.  Sometimes it's all I can do to keep them out of the boat.  It's not easy being so handsome you know.  And humble to boot."
   

Canada XXV - Emil Knows Butter

     Once the tent was up and gear stowed, the green, two burner Coleman stove gassed, pumped and fired up.  Emil said the Coleman was the only way to fly.  Added weight to the load but saved time when it came to meals.

     "Butter.  South of the Mason-Dixon line lard's the lord of the kitchen.  Up in the Northland it's butter.  Lord praise the cow and the churn.  You can fry taters in it, slather it on toast, brown onions and put a crust on steak.  Butter adds yum to the meal and keeps a man regular.  Makes his willie point to the North Star.  Then, in a pinch you can use it to navigate at night, just ask any sailor and he'll tell you the same.  For now I'm simply gonna get my two pans heating.   Once they're hot, in goes the yellow gold 'til it foams then I throw in the onions, salt and pepper."

     His cutting board was the spare paddle.  Emil drew a razor sharp sheath knife from his belt sheath.  Then it was chopping and slicing time.  Started with a pair of diced baked potatoes followed a few minutes later by the meat.  Twenty minutes later we sat to dinner at the shore atop our live jackets.  It was a  simple meal.  Steaks crusted black yet running juice when I split it open.  While we ate dish and coffee water heated on the stove.

     Eating wasn't talking time.  It was wolfing time pure and simple.  Guess we were hungry.  Conversation returned after our dishes were clean and gear stowed.  Emil broke the silence, "This is my favorite time of day, coffee in the cup, pipe lit, coupla cookies in my lap just beggin' to be eaten.  Top that off with the better part of an evening to fish."

     "Archie me lad, your job tonight is to catch fish.  And it'd be nice if you didn't fall in the lake in the process.  Unless of course you're pulled in by one of the piscatorial demons out there beneath the waves.  If that happens, don't you worry one bit and whatever you do don't let go of your rod. Your life jacket'll keep you topside so I can find you.  Not so much that I want you alive and well, though that'd be nice, but it'd be a cryin' shame to lose a fish big enough to haul an over-sized juvenile overboard."
     While he talked Emil began stringing the rods.  He'd brought five.  Four were spinning rods, complete with reels.  Having never even seen a spinning reel before.  Hadn't a clue how to use one.  I was in trouble and you know how it is when a kid's in trouble.  Maybe you don't?  My reaction to the reels was to clam up and pretend the world and all its mysterious ways were well known to me.  Why not?  I was a city kid and city kids were hip.  And sometimes a little stupid.  But fishing was going to be tough unless I opened my mouth.
     Uncle Emil was smart enough to know my game and was two steps ahead.  "Archie me lad, these here are spinning reels.  Until a coupla years ago I didn't know squat about them.  Took one look and knew something was strange because the spool was sideways.  Figured there was no way a man could cast such a contraption.  So I was standing there in the tackle shop turning it every which way, even tasted it.  Had a look on my face sayin' I'd be kicking its tires if it had any."
     "About then a young man came to the rescue and told me these were the latest thing.  From France and were gonna revolutionize fishing.  I figured, what the heck, the French make pretty good fried potatoes and toast, why not fishing reels?  Then he showed me how it worked and I was hooked.  Had to have one.  So I bought me a Garcia, rod included and had the man spool the reel with a new kind of plastic line called monofilament.  You know what?  He was right.  It still bird's nests now and then but nothing like the old bait casters.  Throws a French spinner a country mile.  Never thought an American boy like me would fish with a bunch of French gear.  But fish don't recognize national boundaries and even if they did there's a pretty fair French population in Canada so we'd be okay."
     While Emil was describing his purchase, he was also demonstrating how the reel worked.  The kindness of geezers trumps the fear of men in the budding most every time and I had my eyes glued onto his demonstration.
     "Mostly what I learned from that young man, and a whole lot of men and women in my past, was  it's okay to admit you don't know something.  People are happy to share knowledge.  Always have been, always will be."
     "By the by, I took the liberty of setting up a small tackle box for you.  Hope you don't mind.  There's most everything in there to put fish on your line, including luck.  That's what the penny is for.  Also had it blessed by a priest, bathed in smoke by a Navaho medicine man, mail ordered a voodoo amulet from New Orleans and had a distiller from Kentucky baptize it with three drops of twelve year old bourbon.  Now it's up to you."
     With that, we loaded the canoe, me in the bow - I'd have said up front but Emil said I best use proper terminology once in a while - ready to go.  Emil straddled the stern to keep the Grumman stable 'til he launched us.  I was so excited I could have peed my pants.
     

Canada XXIV - Old School

     At the height of our island we entered a clearing which opened toward the island-lined, east shore of the lake. Uncle Emil said we'd call our site Baldy Knob after his head and a place he'd been in the Appalachians with Aunt Lena.  The fire ring we found said we weren't the first to visit.  As did the genuine, near to toppling, stick and plywood table leaning nearby.
     "The ring tells me this is used as a shore lunch spot.  Not a lot of Canucks camp out these days but they favor their beans, taters and walleye in a spot near where they caught them.  Good chance there's some fine fishing within a hundred yards of where we're standing at this very moment.  Yon table tells me the boys who eat here aren't carpenters and couldn't tell level from their kiesters.  And haven't as yet been introduced to the wheel."
     "It's true that walleyes make for a good dinner but that's not our game for this evening.  Tonight it's ribeyes in the gut and lakers on the water.  Big trout in Second Cranberry.  Not so much as Lake Atapap over on the other side of Cranberry Portage but even here we've got a shot at a twenty pounder."
     While this palaver - that's what Emil said we were having even though it was a little one-sided -  was going on, he began roaming the island with a branch saw in hand.  Said he was seeking five perfect poles.  Each one had to be long and straight, "Long enough so Jacob could get a start on his ladder and weighty enough to cold cock any Martians that might be looking to conquer the planet starting with our campsite.  Nip 'em in the bud before they get any big ideas.  No greenies from outer space better think they can get drop on Emil the Elegant and Archie the Axe."  While he mumbled among the trees I was sent down to the beach to retrieve the stove, rod tubes and last pack.
     Gotta tell you those packs were big.  And heavy.  And liked to grab every piece of brush I passed.  And grew heavier with every step I took.  But I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut and not let my Uncle think I was a wimp.  Besides, it was good exercise and would get me in shape in case we needed to save the planet.  Crazy old coot alright.  Crazy enough to put a smile on my face.
     I'd seen a couple of tents in my few years and what Emil put up was definitely a tent.  It had the shape alright, long peaked roof that A-framed to the ground.  But the poles he'd cut were on the outside.  Paired, crossed and lashed close to the top, one pair up front, the other to the rear.  A pole laid and tied lengthwise at the top from the crotch of the front X to the rear one held the frame together.  The canvas tent was hung from the frame and tied off to brush, trees and rock.  The bottoms of the sides were tucked in and a tarp placed inside as a floor.  Emil said the design was even older the he was.  Our mattress on the first night was the moss beneath the tarp.
     "We'll go with moss for our bed.   Don't know about you but for me blowing up two air mattresses for only one night holds no appeal.  I doubt our sleeping on them is the moss' idea of a good time.  Good thing those little buggers can't make much noise while they're being crushed or their whining would make it hard to get a good night's sleep.  I'd be forced to slap them around a bit so we could get some shut-eye.  Show them who's boss.  First aliens, now moss.  Archie me lad, life's not easy in the land of the Mountie."

Canada XXIII - Camp

     "Halfway down the lake.  Halfway down the lake." If I'd have known what a mantra was that would have been mine.  Paddling Second Cranberry started fast and quickly turned endless.  Endless roads, now this.  But there was no way I was going to let out a peep about tired shoulders.  Just kept paddling, tried to find a rhythm that'd work for me and when I got tired, like Emil said, switch sides.
     Every so often the canoe would feel like it was going forward but sliding sideways at the same time. Finally, almost as much to pass the time as get advice, I asked what was going on.
     "Archie me lad, that's just me straightening us out.  Way back when, I learned how to paddle from an old timer, Noah by name.  'Course his boat was way bigger and didn't smell too good.  Told me to always grab the small end, then showed me how to turn the paddle into a rudder at the end of the stroke.  A stroke with a twist at the end.  Don't know if it has a name.  Neither did he.  But she works and the secret's in the thumb at the top of the paddle.  Starts out pointing to the side.  Ends up turning and pointing down to the gunwale.  Keeps us on course and moving forward at the same time.  Efficient you might say.  Outside of the pain in my upper arm that is.  By the by, don't forget to feather your paddle."
     Off to my left was a distant shore.  Not like it was way off on the horizon but if I had my bike with me, and if there was a bridge - guess if I can conjure up a bike why not throw in a bridge for good measure?  What the heck, throw in one of the big twenty-five ounce bottles of coke chilled in ice water while I'm at it - I figured it would take no more than eight or ten minutes to peddle over.  Guess peddling is faster than paddling (careful Archie me lad or you'll turn into Uncle Emil).  On the upside, the right shore wasn't but five minutes away.
     One thing was for darn sure, traveling in a canoe has little effect on the size of distant islands.  I'd paddle for a while, look up, and there, a spot on the horizon, floated a tiny clump of trees. Ten minutes later, same island, same spot, same size.  Then I'd look over the side of the canoe.  Yup, the water said we were moving forward alright.  Paddled for a while more.  No change.  Never closer.
     Weird thing was, all of a sudden, the island would grow real fast.  Before I knew it, we'd be passing alongside the pines, waves foaming on the rocks, birches, and dead fall lining the shore.  However, no bears or wolves.  Oh well, it was better than seeing nothing but lake as we pulled our way along.  Next minute we were back to nothing but water and another green dot afloat where the blue above met the blue below.
     What felt like a thousand miles and three days later, Emil said it was closer to five miles and something over an hour, we began to circle an island.  Seemed like this was the end of the road for the day and we were looking for a spot to land the canoe (or the old man was messing with me).  You'd think it was easy, that we could have pulled in anywhere but it turned out islands don't like visitors.  The shoreline barrier of brush and sharp stone seemed to tell us to look elsewhere.
     Finally, "Pull your paddle and duck while I slide her in.  Don't want you to lose an eye and mess up our fishing.  I'll take it from here.  Ramming speed!"
     Uncle Emil whooped it up and paddled like a demon straight at brush brush crowned slab.  Then, just before we grounded, he turned us ninety degrees to the left as though the canoe was bolted down directly under my butt and we were pivoting.
     "Just love to do that.  Sit tight while I step out."
     A wobble or two and the stern bobbed up.  My turn next.  Once ashore my job was to hold the canoe while Emil unloaded.
     "Let's go exploring and find ourselves a kitchen and bedroom."
     Not sure what he meant by that.  There was no house that I could see.  We each grabbed a pack and headed uphill with Emil leading the way.  Just like we were explorers.
     One thing was for sure, this was no tropical, desert island.  Not a palm tree in sight.  Didn't look like anybody named Friday was going to show up to make us shrunken head soup for dinner either.  The thicket of brush I was ducking and easing my through was sprouting from a half a city block-sized, jagged and cracked, chunk of rock.  A couple of dozen, half starved jack pines and a few clusters of birch trees none stretching more than thirty feet skyward, shared this rock with the brush.  All was ragged as though it was still in the process of becoming something else.  I guess paradise is in the eye of the beholder.  And this little ragged chunk did look something like the ones I'd conjured up while reading "Field and Stream."  Only this one was real.