Sitting in camp would've been a pleasure if I hadn't felt beat up, whipped, blistered, bug bit, brush lacerated and dead tired. But we were there and didn't have to leave for a while. I did the only thing that made sense, laid down in a pool of sunlight and melted to the contours of the slab. Ball cap over face, head on life jacket and in half a minute was asleep.
While I dozed Emil came and sat beside me. Didn't say a word. Fired up his pipe and stared at the water. Took in the scope of shoreline and lake from the toes of his boots on out. Damn fine spot to sit and watch the world go by.
His pipe tapping ashes on basalt brought me back. I sat up and for minutes we both wordlessly took in the scene.
Finally, "Archie, you've earned your stripes. What we did wasn't easy. No sir. She was a bear. Nothing more to say except I'm glad that part's to our rear. Now we've to drag ourselves up and set to work clearing us a campsite."
We moved rock, branches, hacked a bit at the brush, set up a fire ring. The tent went up, organized within to await the evening, fire grate leveled, packs stowed, stove set up, silverware and cups hung from the wire grate. My job was to gather several armfuls of dry wood, thumb to wrist in diameter. Emil shortened the branches with a folding saw or simply snapped them with his hands and feet. We were home.
"Now let's you and me slide out on the lake, find us some lunch and gather some water. Don't know what's out there but I'm figuring it'll go down good with some fry bread and boiled peaches. What say you Archie me lad?"
Not knowing where to begin we started our search at the beginning, thirty yards out from camp. To say it took longer to string the rods than to land three chunky, nearly black walleyes would have been no exaggeration. Another few canoe lengths out we gathered drinking water. Drank it as it came from the lake. Cold, bog stained and pure. Didn't taste like fish at all.
Hungry as I was I still wanted no part of heading back in. Geez Louise, we hadn't hardly started. I was rejuvenated, chomping at the bit, raring to go. But nooo, Emil said, "First things first. Better to put grub in our empty bellies while we've got a little energy left. Then take her easy for a while. Clean up. Eat some more. Read. Fill us up then blow our exhaust to the four winds. Come evening, head out to see what we shall see. I want to fish the life out of this lake as much as anybody ever wanted to fish. Been dreaming of it for two winters. However, a man doesn't find treasure all that often so we will take our time. Savor every moment. Enjoy every fish and every cast. We're here Archie and it's a thrill we are."
It's not easy being with a man who has a level head on his shoulders when it matters most. Don't know if it'd fully entered my awareness and sunk down to my heels where we were. The only help we had should something go wrong was the two of us. A couple of people leaning over the edge of a cliff with nothing to hold onto but our wits. Of course, I wasn't worth a hoot. All I could think of was what was out there, under the water. Dumb kid with a lot to learn. Yes, it was on Emil's shoulders and his sense of what was important.
Once ashore it seemed to me Emil had slowed to the pace of a snail. Built a fire with care. Slowly mixed and pounded his bannock batter. Took an eternity to fold in the raisins, sugar and cinnamon. All just to ruin my day. Then the lemonade, measured like chemist. Finally with the copper bottomed fry pan heated and propped to slowly bake the bread, he pulled in the stringer and set to filleting the pickerel on a paddle blade. By then I was hooked. Slowed down by the heaven of bread browning in the pan.
Second pan came out, butter went in, the battered filets put afloat in the sizzle. Emil was in his glory. Like he was a priest celebrating mass and transubstantiating bannock and lemonade into our bodies and blood. Turning walleye into Emil and Archie. Making the waters a part of us. Loaves and fishes. Oh, she was a religious moment alright when we tied that feedbag on. Food so good I had a glimpse of eternal reward. Like dining in the finest of white table cloth restaurants. Except it was melmac plates and butts on the ground for us. Didn't matter. Yes, Uncle Emil was right, the fishing could wait 'til we were ready. What was out there wasn't going anywhere, had been there for ten thousand years waiting on us. Yes, nothing out there was any better than what we had in camp. Each other and time.
Dishes done, we hit the beach. Would have worn swimsuits if we'd had them. Would also have been nice to have pre-heated the water. Brisk. Heart stopping slap in the face and elsewhere. But oh so good. Once he was knee deep Emil dove straight in, surfaced, did about a half dozen hard strokes out, rolled on his back and spouted like a whale. Back on the beach I was easing myself in. One tender spot at a time rather than all of them at once.
"Careful on the slab. She's slick as slug snot. Don't need a head cracking to put a damper on our fishing tonight. Be we live or be we dead there's three hundred acres of never fished water out here. Don't want to screw it up now."
Took me a while and a bit of flailing but I sloshed my way out to where Emil floated. "Not bad, eh? Seein' the world from the fish's eye view gives a whole new perspective to the game. That's what it's turned into anyhow, a game. Way back when we'd be here with the idea of survival. Not so anymore. We fish for the fun of fishing. The food part's just a bonus. I've given a lot of thought as to why I like to fish. Come up with many a philosophical guess also. Some of the them downright mystical. Truth is, I don't know why but I'm willing to accept that I don't. Borderline act of faith. Oops, there I go again."
Our sweat skin salts dissolved and once our lips turned sky blue, we headed in. There, Emil fished out a small bar of soap, we waded back out and set to scrubbing. Thirty years later and we wouldn't have dared foul virgin waters like we were doing. But it was 1961. We definitely needed cleansing and didn't know any better. So that's what we did. Then, trailing a slick of hair suds, swam out for a moment of splashing and a water fight. War of laughter with no casualties.
Second sin of the day was when Emil stuffed our sweated clothes in a mesh bag, wet 'em, soaped 'em and beat them on a boulder protruding from the sunken part of our slab. Took the mess out in the deep and proceeded to rinse them while swimming once more.
Ashore we sun-dried in the breeze. Spread our somewhat cleaner clothes on the surrounding shore bushes. Dressed in fresh duds and laid back on the sun warmed slab and talked of what it was like to be alive on a day as wonderful as this.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Canada XXXV - Bushwhack
I'd thought the portage into Wedge had been one of the hardest things I'd ever done. Root, rock, mud, water, up and down. A long slog with weight. Tough on a city weenie like me. But let me tell you, what was to come was in a whole 'nother league.
After breakfast while I was in the tent packing my things Emil popped in a new eye. This one a question mark.
"Why a question mark Uncle Emil?"
"My eye says I don't know what's coming. Don't know how we'll handle the portage. Don't know what the lake will be like once we get there. Don't know how we should work our way across Wedge in this rising breeze."
Starting off our day, the wind had pumped it up a bit. Not a killer blow or a danger so long as a man kept his wits about him. That's what Emil said and the look in his good eye backed him up. The other one, not so certain. Concern and attention to detail. Plus a kid up front as his trusted charge. In a place my mother would skin Emil alive had she only known. While we were loading, Uncle Emil said danger walks in when stupidity opens the door. That's why we took the long, easy way across Wedge. Used the lee of islands whenever possible as buffers on the paddle upwind.
Easy is a relative term. The miles we covered sure weren't easy. On that day Emil demonstrated without saying a word it's not always the shortest distance between two points that's the smartest if you consider the alternative of capsizing in the back of beyond. From my seat up front this paddle was a grunter. A lower my head, lean into it for all I was worth, paddle like there was no tomorrow and trust Uncle Emil had it under control, affair. Finally, after a half hour of pure work, we turned, did a hissing downwind shoot to the far shore and up a long bay.
Sliding ashore, I immediately knew this was something different than our landing on Third Cranberry. No dock, no meadow, no nothing to let us know we were at the end of our paddle. Where we beached could have been most any unmarked spot on the lake. Water and a thin strip of brushy beach backed by forest. No sign of a portage whatsoever. The hand of man nowhere to be found.
"Archie me lad, near as I recall, this is the place. Should we be off one way or the other there'll be more swamp to deal with. Not really a problem but all the same, we best make sure this' where we want to be before we go traipsing off into knee-deep misery. Even if we're right, though it's mostly high ground, our waterproof boots will prove a boon. And it would behoove us to re-lace them tight as possible. Mud's a boot sucker to say the least. And having to hop on one foot is no respectable way to freight a load. What I'm sayin', plain and simple is don't lose a boot."
We stood on the doorstep of the land of deadfall, trees and moss. A world of green. Forest primeval. Hadn't as yet heard the term but that's what we were looking at. I doubt this stretch of land had ever seen a saw. Maybe ours were the first boots to trod this ground.
The off-load called for care lest we receive a face whipping from the brush. Once the gear was toted two canoe lengths into the forest we were in a new world. One in which Wedge Lake no longer played a role. As though we'd closed a door behind us. All that mattered was where we were and what lay ahead.
"What I'm seeking is the ribbon I left hereabouts last year. And I don't see it."
Emil wasn't one to give up easily or needlessly leave any stone unturned so we searched. Five minutes of attention and there it was, a single thread of yellow hanging from a piece of brush. The ragged remainder, partially buried in the duff below.
"We're here. Ribbon was probably shredded by the weather. That we found it is all I care about. Wouldn't mind finding the next one either."
My uncle had spent a few hours traipsing these same woods the year before last, along the way stringing up bright yellow ribbon to lead him back to Wedge. Removed each on the return, save two lengths.
"More or less like Hansel and Gretel with their colored pebbles. Only I'm hoping there's no oven at the end of this road. I'm a tough old bird. Wouldn't want to give a witch indigestion."
"Our trail's no mostly straight line like the portage into Wedge. No sir. There's the swamp we have to skirt around. A shot inland, a big zig and then a long zag. Fortunately there's some high ground. Just enough. With luck, a half mile in, nearly straight south from here, we'll find a second ribbon on a spruce fronting a big swamp. She's buggy as all get out at that point. Maybe just a little bit muddy (laughter). Half a mile to our right along the wetland we'll come on high ground again. Then it's more or less south-southeast to the lake. Once there we'll seek out a rock slab on a small point I've seen. That'll be camp."
"Sound easy? Well, I won't fool you, it's not. But she's doable for two Voyageurs like us, eh?"
"First off we'll shoot us a course and proceed to tie off a line of entry with the spool of ribbon. I'm gonna trust you with the compass. Archie me lad, do me proud."
What followed was a once in a lifetime undertaking. At least for me. Not something I'd ever thought or dreamt I'd ever do. Certainly this wasn't near as scary or dangerous as back in the days when the maps hadn't yet been drawn. Those people were jumping off the end of the known world. Had no idea what was over the next hill or around the next river bend. Even when Uncle Emil made his trek the summer before last he'd known from the map he carried what his goal was and something of what to expect along the way.
I suspected Emil could have made today's bushwhack without any ribbons. He knew the gist of it. But since he had me along and since he wasn't going to do anything half-cocked, we went by compass and ribbon.
From his sun faded shirt pocket Emil pulled out an Army issue compass. Green metal case with a lid you could flip up and use for sighting, much like a rifle. With it he showed me how to shoot an azimuth and told me to sight our course two notches to the right of dead south.
"Don't worry should we be off a little bit. This isn't brain surgery. I'll head out aways, no more than fifty yards. You tell me when I'm dead on line and I'll tie off a yard or so."
For the first stretch the forest floor gently rolled up and down. Here and there, strewn about the forest floor lay mossed and rounded boulders. Uncle Emil called them erratics and said they'd been dropped by retreating glaciers. Between the trees and boulders, ankle deep moss, stumble stones hidden under the moss, branches and deadfall, it wasn't a stroll in the park. Once again, we moved in dead silence. Just the two of us making noise. Calling back and forth as to the line. Every so often a muttered burst of profanity spouted from my uncle.
Yeah, Uncle Emil cursed a bit. Usually had a purpose. Seemed he figured unseen stone and wood was out to get him. Trip him up. Yeah, he took the world personally. On portages of the past, occasionally stopped his carried canoe mid-stride with a stealthfully planted tree that'd been there since Lincoln was in office. Mostly he cussed himself for lack of foresight or agility. None of his expectrations was to be taken seriously though. It was merely his way of communicating with things that had no better way to grab his attention than cause a stumble. Each of his muttered and canoe-echoed bursts was immediately followed by a chuckle. Impediments were quickly put in his past with only the next one of any consequence.
Within the forest the breeze was dampened. Above, the distant branches marking the bottom of the sky soughed and swayed with the passing gusts. But we felt nary a puff. And quickly we began to warm under our long sleeves and pant legs.
For thirty minutes our calls went back and forth. "A little to your left. More. How about this tree? Okay." And so on 'til we reached the slough. There Emil tied off several strands that'd be easy to see on our return. Turned out we'd missed the old tags by less than thirty yards.
Walking in the pathless woods was a slow go. Nothing at all like strolling the sidewalks of Minneapolis. And messy? Each ankle grabber taught me to pay close attention to where I was and where my foot was next planted. Nary a place to day dream and move at the same time.
Along the swamp Uncle Emil only strung a few lines. "I've got but a hundred yards of this stuff. Don't want to run out. Once we're camped the only persons in the world who'll know exactly where we are will be you and me. Blair back at the lodge has a general idea, I drew him a map but that's about it. The moral is that we not screw up. Mark our trail well and not snap any bones."
At the turn we took a short break. Ate melted chocolate and nuts seasoned with pocket lint. Drank from the canteens hanging from the Emil's day pack. For chairs we simply sat where we stood. Our trouser seats got a little wet. Met our exiting sweat half way. Back in the city I'd done my best to keep my clothes clean. Didn't have a lot of them and didn't want to wear them dirty. A city kid might sit on grass but avoided dirt. Here it was different. You didn't go out of your way to get dirty, didn't have to. You simply accepted the fact it was going to happen. If you had to sit on damp ground, so be it. Once done, Emil hoisted his pack and paddles and set off along the bog. I followed with the stove and rod tubes.
Again gaining high ground, Emil had me move the compass mark a few more notches and once again we turned south. And on we slogged 'til reaching the lake of no name. A few minutes search turned up what Emil said would do for a camp site.
"Open to the breezes and a somewhat level spot for the tent. An hour's traipse to mark. Figure forty minutes back. The return we'll take in stages. Leapfrog across. Short bursts of carry mixed with walking breaks between. It'll be slow but we'll do what we have to do. And it'll take as long as it takes. Nothin' more I can say. At least it ain't rainin'."
Here's where I'm suppose to say it slowly but surely began to rain. Built to a regular deluge and was a pure misery with lightning bolts crashing down all around us. But it didn't. Thank God.
Truth was our return to the landing was an easy stroll. A little bump and stumble with a side of mucking but pathless, northwoods easy.
Then the return began. Outside of a few ugly spots it was just work as I've since come to know it in the years since. Pick it up. Carry it for a while. Set it down. Go back for more. Do that a whole bunch of times. My packs weren't but forty-five pounds each, Emil's much more.
Back then I figured he was being easy on me since our carries weren't more than ten minutes each. But looking back from my perch of wisdom, no doubt he was doing what he was able. No more, no less. He wasn't the man he used to be. I wasn't as yet the man I would become. A balance of sorts. As we trudged our burden from dry ground to dry ground how could I have guessed my future would be based on carrying things? Envelopes, boxes, combat gear, bodies, children? Nope, didn't see that coming at all.
We sweat a lot in our long sleeves, pants and hats. Sweat right through to the open air. But it beat baring any more skin than necessary to the swarms of mosquitoes. Oh baby, let me tell you they were in love with our faces. Repellant was only good 'til our sweat washed it off. Once across we returned for the canoe and last pack.
" Uf dah! It's skeeter heaven under the canoe. They knew they had me and had me good. Felt like I was sporting a full face beard. Firing up my pipe helped some. But now I'm suffering pangs of guilt for having addicted a flock of the pesky buggers to tobacco. And where are they gonna get any up in this neck of the woods? Hey, that's almost funny seeing as how we're up to our necks in the woods. Wished I'd've thought it before I said it."
All went well considering. Except for the time my foot tangled in a branch. Like an idiot I tried to dance my way out and only succeeded in stumbling knees first into muck.
And, oh yeah, almost forgot about stepping into a pile of wolf scat. Emil said I should call it scat as that sounded more like I was a true woodsman. Never stepped in a wolf's leavings before. Someday when my grandkids ask me what were the most important events of my long life, I think I'll start off with that step. Then say, "From there on it's been mostly downhill."
The scat wasn't fresh but still released a fragrance of what had gone into its formula. Mostly mice, I suppose, with a hint of caribou. Exotic.
Once we'd passed the swamp and returned to high ground we took a snack break. Uncle Emil produced a bag of mixed nuts with a fistful of raisins thrown in from his day pack. Washed that down with lemonade. Wasn't much as far as a meal goes but it remains in my top ten to this day. Splendid meal. Tasted so good we moaned. Then set to laughing about our moaning.
"Archie, this is a pleasure. As good as it gets. I'm sitting here with a slab of rock under my kiester and wouldn't trade this seat for a throne. We're as far away from the rest of the world as we can get. Look around. No one else has ever seen what we're seeing. It's a gift we've given ourselves because we were willing to put in the sweat to get here. Mark this moment. You will return to it again and again in your life."
Yeah, my mom was right. Uncle Emil was a crazy coot. But he was my kind of crazy. A man who knew when he had it good and was thankful for it.
Emil then broke the silence with the loudest hoot I'd ever heard. "That's to let the fish know we're coming and they'd better make themselves ready for the two fishingest sons a guns in these here woods. Seeing as how there's no one else in these here woods I figure that's a safe thing to say. Let's load up and finish this trek like the two good men we are."
All in all our carries took close to five hours, seven and a half miles. And one blister on the back of my left heal that Emil doctored. Seeing as how our trekking was over for a few days, a blister was no problem. Boots off, I put on fresh socks and my blue, bumper tennies.
After breakfast while I was in the tent packing my things Emil popped in a new eye. This one a question mark.
"Why a question mark Uncle Emil?"
"My eye says I don't know what's coming. Don't know how we'll handle the portage. Don't know what the lake will be like once we get there. Don't know how we should work our way across Wedge in this rising breeze."
Starting off our day, the wind had pumped it up a bit. Not a killer blow or a danger so long as a man kept his wits about him. That's what Emil said and the look in his good eye backed him up. The other one, not so certain. Concern and attention to detail. Plus a kid up front as his trusted charge. In a place my mother would skin Emil alive had she only known. While we were loading, Uncle Emil said danger walks in when stupidity opens the door. That's why we took the long, easy way across Wedge. Used the lee of islands whenever possible as buffers on the paddle upwind.
Easy is a relative term. The miles we covered sure weren't easy. On that day Emil demonstrated without saying a word it's not always the shortest distance between two points that's the smartest if you consider the alternative of capsizing in the back of beyond. From my seat up front this paddle was a grunter. A lower my head, lean into it for all I was worth, paddle like there was no tomorrow and trust Uncle Emil had it under control, affair. Finally, after a half hour of pure work, we turned, did a hissing downwind shoot to the far shore and up a long bay.
Sliding ashore, I immediately knew this was something different than our landing on Third Cranberry. No dock, no meadow, no nothing to let us know we were at the end of our paddle. Where we beached could have been most any unmarked spot on the lake. Water and a thin strip of brushy beach backed by forest. No sign of a portage whatsoever. The hand of man nowhere to be found.
"Archie me lad, near as I recall, this is the place. Should we be off one way or the other there'll be more swamp to deal with. Not really a problem but all the same, we best make sure this' where we want to be before we go traipsing off into knee-deep misery. Even if we're right, though it's mostly high ground, our waterproof boots will prove a boon. And it would behoove us to re-lace them tight as possible. Mud's a boot sucker to say the least. And having to hop on one foot is no respectable way to freight a load. What I'm sayin', plain and simple is don't lose a boot."
We stood on the doorstep of the land of deadfall, trees and moss. A world of green. Forest primeval. Hadn't as yet heard the term but that's what we were looking at. I doubt this stretch of land had ever seen a saw. Maybe ours were the first boots to trod this ground.
The off-load called for care lest we receive a face whipping from the brush. Once the gear was toted two canoe lengths into the forest we were in a new world. One in which Wedge Lake no longer played a role. As though we'd closed a door behind us. All that mattered was where we were and what lay ahead.
"What I'm seeking is the ribbon I left hereabouts last year. And I don't see it."
Emil wasn't one to give up easily or needlessly leave any stone unturned so we searched. Five minutes of attention and there it was, a single thread of yellow hanging from a piece of brush. The ragged remainder, partially buried in the duff below.
"We're here. Ribbon was probably shredded by the weather. That we found it is all I care about. Wouldn't mind finding the next one either."
My uncle had spent a few hours traipsing these same woods the year before last, along the way stringing up bright yellow ribbon to lead him back to Wedge. Removed each on the return, save two lengths.
"More or less like Hansel and Gretel with their colored pebbles. Only I'm hoping there's no oven at the end of this road. I'm a tough old bird. Wouldn't want to give a witch indigestion."
"Our trail's no mostly straight line like the portage into Wedge. No sir. There's the swamp we have to skirt around. A shot inland, a big zig and then a long zag. Fortunately there's some high ground. Just enough. With luck, a half mile in, nearly straight south from here, we'll find a second ribbon on a spruce fronting a big swamp. She's buggy as all get out at that point. Maybe just a little bit muddy (laughter). Half a mile to our right along the wetland we'll come on high ground again. Then it's more or less south-southeast to the lake. Once there we'll seek out a rock slab on a small point I've seen. That'll be camp."
"Sound easy? Well, I won't fool you, it's not. But she's doable for two Voyageurs like us, eh?"
"First off we'll shoot us a course and proceed to tie off a line of entry with the spool of ribbon. I'm gonna trust you with the compass. Archie me lad, do me proud."
What followed was a once in a lifetime undertaking. At least for me. Not something I'd ever thought or dreamt I'd ever do. Certainly this wasn't near as scary or dangerous as back in the days when the maps hadn't yet been drawn. Those people were jumping off the end of the known world. Had no idea what was over the next hill or around the next river bend. Even when Uncle Emil made his trek the summer before last he'd known from the map he carried what his goal was and something of what to expect along the way.
I suspected Emil could have made today's bushwhack without any ribbons. He knew the gist of it. But since he had me along and since he wasn't going to do anything half-cocked, we went by compass and ribbon.
From his sun faded shirt pocket Emil pulled out an Army issue compass. Green metal case with a lid you could flip up and use for sighting, much like a rifle. With it he showed me how to shoot an azimuth and told me to sight our course two notches to the right of dead south.
"Don't worry should we be off a little bit. This isn't brain surgery. I'll head out aways, no more than fifty yards. You tell me when I'm dead on line and I'll tie off a yard or so."
For the first stretch the forest floor gently rolled up and down. Here and there, strewn about the forest floor lay mossed and rounded boulders. Uncle Emil called them erratics and said they'd been dropped by retreating glaciers. Between the trees and boulders, ankle deep moss, stumble stones hidden under the moss, branches and deadfall, it wasn't a stroll in the park. Once again, we moved in dead silence. Just the two of us making noise. Calling back and forth as to the line. Every so often a muttered burst of profanity spouted from my uncle.
Yeah, Uncle Emil cursed a bit. Usually had a purpose. Seemed he figured unseen stone and wood was out to get him. Trip him up. Yeah, he took the world personally. On portages of the past, occasionally stopped his carried canoe mid-stride with a stealthfully planted tree that'd been there since Lincoln was in office. Mostly he cussed himself for lack of foresight or agility. None of his expectrations was to be taken seriously though. It was merely his way of communicating with things that had no better way to grab his attention than cause a stumble. Each of his muttered and canoe-echoed bursts was immediately followed by a chuckle. Impediments were quickly put in his past with only the next one of any consequence.
Within the forest the breeze was dampened. Above, the distant branches marking the bottom of the sky soughed and swayed with the passing gusts. But we felt nary a puff. And quickly we began to warm under our long sleeves and pant legs.
For thirty minutes our calls went back and forth. "A little to your left. More. How about this tree? Okay." And so on 'til we reached the slough. There Emil tied off several strands that'd be easy to see on our return. Turned out we'd missed the old tags by less than thirty yards.
Walking in the pathless woods was a slow go. Nothing at all like strolling the sidewalks of Minneapolis. And messy? Each ankle grabber taught me to pay close attention to where I was and where my foot was next planted. Nary a place to day dream and move at the same time.
Along the swamp Uncle Emil only strung a few lines. "I've got but a hundred yards of this stuff. Don't want to run out. Once we're camped the only persons in the world who'll know exactly where we are will be you and me. Blair back at the lodge has a general idea, I drew him a map but that's about it. The moral is that we not screw up. Mark our trail well and not snap any bones."
At the turn we took a short break. Ate melted chocolate and nuts seasoned with pocket lint. Drank from the canteens hanging from the Emil's day pack. For chairs we simply sat where we stood. Our trouser seats got a little wet. Met our exiting sweat half way. Back in the city I'd done my best to keep my clothes clean. Didn't have a lot of them and didn't want to wear them dirty. A city kid might sit on grass but avoided dirt. Here it was different. You didn't go out of your way to get dirty, didn't have to. You simply accepted the fact it was going to happen. If you had to sit on damp ground, so be it. Once done, Emil hoisted his pack and paddles and set off along the bog. I followed with the stove and rod tubes.
Again gaining high ground, Emil had me move the compass mark a few more notches and once again we turned south. And on we slogged 'til reaching the lake of no name. A few minutes search turned up what Emil said would do for a camp site.
"Open to the breezes and a somewhat level spot for the tent. An hour's traipse to mark. Figure forty minutes back. The return we'll take in stages. Leapfrog across. Short bursts of carry mixed with walking breaks between. It'll be slow but we'll do what we have to do. And it'll take as long as it takes. Nothin' more I can say. At least it ain't rainin'."
Here's where I'm suppose to say it slowly but surely began to rain. Built to a regular deluge and was a pure misery with lightning bolts crashing down all around us. But it didn't. Thank God.
Truth was our return to the landing was an easy stroll. A little bump and stumble with a side of mucking but pathless, northwoods easy.
Then the return began. Outside of a few ugly spots it was just work as I've since come to know it in the years since. Pick it up. Carry it for a while. Set it down. Go back for more. Do that a whole bunch of times. My packs weren't but forty-five pounds each, Emil's much more.
Back then I figured he was being easy on me since our carries weren't more than ten minutes each. But looking back from my perch of wisdom, no doubt he was doing what he was able. No more, no less. He wasn't the man he used to be. I wasn't as yet the man I would become. A balance of sorts. As we trudged our burden from dry ground to dry ground how could I have guessed my future would be based on carrying things? Envelopes, boxes, combat gear, bodies, children? Nope, didn't see that coming at all.
We sweat a lot in our long sleeves, pants and hats. Sweat right through to the open air. But it beat baring any more skin than necessary to the swarms of mosquitoes. Oh baby, let me tell you they were in love with our faces. Repellant was only good 'til our sweat washed it off. Once across we returned for the canoe and last pack.
" Uf dah! It's skeeter heaven under the canoe. They knew they had me and had me good. Felt like I was sporting a full face beard. Firing up my pipe helped some. But now I'm suffering pangs of guilt for having addicted a flock of the pesky buggers to tobacco. And where are they gonna get any up in this neck of the woods? Hey, that's almost funny seeing as how we're up to our necks in the woods. Wished I'd've thought it before I said it."
All went well considering. Except for the time my foot tangled in a branch. Like an idiot I tried to dance my way out and only succeeded in stumbling knees first into muck.
And, oh yeah, almost forgot about stepping into a pile of wolf scat. Emil said I should call it scat as that sounded more like I was a true woodsman. Never stepped in a wolf's leavings before. Someday when my grandkids ask me what were the most important events of my long life, I think I'll start off with that step. Then say, "From there on it's been mostly downhill."
The scat wasn't fresh but still released a fragrance of what had gone into its formula. Mostly mice, I suppose, with a hint of caribou. Exotic.
Once we'd passed the swamp and returned to high ground we took a snack break. Uncle Emil produced a bag of mixed nuts with a fistful of raisins thrown in from his day pack. Washed that down with lemonade. Wasn't much as far as a meal goes but it remains in my top ten to this day. Splendid meal. Tasted so good we moaned. Then set to laughing about our moaning.
"Archie, this is a pleasure. As good as it gets. I'm sitting here with a slab of rock under my kiester and wouldn't trade this seat for a throne. We're as far away from the rest of the world as we can get. Look around. No one else has ever seen what we're seeing. It's a gift we've given ourselves because we were willing to put in the sweat to get here. Mark this moment. You will return to it again and again in your life."
Yeah, my mom was right. Uncle Emil was a crazy coot. But he was my kind of crazy. A man who knew when he had it good and was thankful for it.
Emil then broke the silence with the loudest hoot I'd ever heard. "That's to let the fish know we're coming and they'd better make themselves ready for the two fishingest sons a guns in these here woods. Seeing as how there's no one else in these here woods I figure that's a safe thing to say. Let's load up and finish this trek like the two good men we are."
All in all our carries took close to five hours, seven and a half miles. And one blister on the back of my left heal that Emil doctored. Seeing as how our trekking was over for a few days, a blister was no problem. Boots off, I put on fresh socks and my blue, bumper tennies.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Canada XXXIV - Cacophony of Loons
Our evening on the water was pleasant though the fishing was slow by Wedge standards. Northern here. Walleye there. Uncle Emil said it was a reprieve. A pardon from the burden of having never ending fish on the line. We worked our way up lake, not far from camp, me casting the shore, Emil my guide. Islands and reefs floated by and beneath my flashing spinner.
An hour's drifting from camp Emil turned us into a tranquil bay. A small half bowl with steep shoulders and night black water that may as well have descended forever. The water appeared dense enough to slice into cubes and bring home in my pocket.
Uncle Emil chuckled but felt the same, "The water of bays like this appears so black and oily at times I've used it to grease the gasket in the Coleman stove, kept my knife blade from rusting, combed it in as a hair tonic and even smoothed out my delivery when spinning yarns. Oh yeah, it's some slick stuff alright. Definitely not water as we've come to know it."
The cut we'd entered proved as fishless as it was beautiful. Instead, we caught a stringerful of gazing. A few listless casts was enough. My rod went down.
Quietly, as though talking to himself, Emil broke the silence, "Reminds me of lakes I've fished in my dreams. Dreamt of fishing out of the way waters much like this bay many a time. More often in the weeks after Lena passed. For years I shore-fished those lakes with friends when the sun was high. Waste of time. Always skunked. No hits, no bumps, not even a bullhead. Finally sucked it up one moonless night and paddled out alone on a little bowl of a lake surrounded by shadow trees. Two, maybe three in the morning. Stars above backed by a night that looked to stretch forever. Also black below with a dusting of stars sprinkled on the glass. Couldn't see the hand in front of my face. Yeah I was scared floatin' there in the middle of all that nothingness. Good sign though, at least I was sane enough to know I was crazy. Caught a few walleyes that night. All by feel. Threw my tipped jig out and then let instinct take over. Had to go as deep as the lake'd allow. Then slowly, slowly gave life to the lure. Yeah I caught a few. Once in my hand I could only feel them and see the glow of the stars in their eyes. Like they were there and not there at the same time. Didn't matter, some things are meant to remain mysteries. Guess I was lucky enough to see that. Released them all."
We'd drifted, paddles silent, for five minutes when Emil caught sight of a white rump. Caribou. Not thirty yards away. His paddle tapped me on the shoulder and gestured uphill. By now I'd learned enough to speak only when spoken to. If Emil wanted my attention yet made no sound, he meant for me to remain lip bound. Pay attention. And do nothing to draw notice our way.
Quietly, as though talking to himself, Emil broke the silence, "Reminds me of lakes I've fished in my dreams. Dreamt of fishing out of the way waters much like this bay many a time. More often in the weeks after Lena passed. For years I shore-fished those lakes with friends when the sun was high. Waste of time. Always skunked. No hits, no bumps, not even a bullhead. Finally sucked it up one moonless night and paddled out alone on a little bowl of a lake surrounded by shadow trees. Two, maybe three in the morning. Stars above backed by a night that looked to stretch forever. Also black below with a dusting of stars sprinkled on the glass. Couldn't see the hand in front of my face. Yeah I was scared floatin' there in the middle of all that nothingness. Good sign though, at least I was sane enough to know I was crazy. Caught a few walleyes that night. All by feel. Threw my tipped jig out and then let instinct take over. Had to go as deep as the lake'd allow. Then slowly, slowly gave life to the lure. Yeah I caught a few. Once in my hand I could only feel them and see the glow of the stars in their eyes. Like they were there and not there at the same time. Didn't matter, some things are meant to remain mysteries. Guess I was lucky enough to see that. Released them all."
We'd drifted, paddles silent, for five minutes when Emil caught sight of a white rump. Caribou. Not thirty yards away. His paddle tapped me on the shoulder and gestured uphill. By now I'd learned enough to speak only when spoken to. If Emil wanted my attention yet made no sound, he meant for me to remain lip bound. Pay attention. And do nothing to draw notice our way.
Our silence was profound. Back then I had an undamaged fourteen year old's ears. Hadn't yet been scarred by the explosions of war and the howl of rock music. Whatever the reason, the breathing of the caribou stood out from the soft background rustle of leaves far above. At the same time I could barely hear its breath over the thundering of my heart. The animal was keenly aware we were there and was checking us out as surely as we were it. What can I say? It was a shared moment in our lives. Maybe more than that. Maybe not. A seed of awareness was planted in me. A seed and nothing more. Sure took a long time for it to sprout. Decades.
A snort and the caribou was gone. Guess it'd had its fill of us.
A snort and the caribou was gone. Guess it'd had its fill of us.
"Wasn't that something? Like being in the zoo of real life. Archie me lad, there's a world of stuff happening around us all the time. Most of it too small to notice. But a caribou? That's worth the price of admission any day."
Leaving the bay we paddled to the shallow, swamp edged, end-of-lake bay. There we stirred up and lost a pair of heavy pike. Enough to get our blood flowing. I was coming to understand fishing's not so much about catching as it was about making contact with unseen life on the other side of the surface. Like grabbing onto a dream for a moment or two. She's a thrill alright and goes to the core.
"On the other side of the swamp we're passing, sits a small lake. No more than a few hundred yards of bog-slog away. It's a good backup plan should we chicken out tomorrow, though I doubt we will. Archie me lad, you're a tougher kid than you think you are. Just never had the need. Tomorrow will provide that need. And, hopefully, the reward."
We drifted. Shared the joy of evening before our return to camp.
I wasn't a kid who asked for a lot. Pretty much took it as it came. Didn't need a campfire at night. No s'mores. Didn't even know what they were. Besides, Uncle Emil said night was a gift. Something to be absorbed in and absorbed by as it gathered around us. Back at camp we slathered down with bug juice and waited for night to come.
I've never figured out exactly when evening becomes night. Maybe when the first star can be seen. Or the gibbous moon hanging over the treetops across the lake exposes its shadowed side. Or when the loons said day was over and commenced their celebration of song.
Don't know how many loons were on the water in the dark. Four for sure. Two strung out in the distance up lake. One nearby. And a single down lake. A conversation arose among them. One solo speaker at a time. Calls reverberated and echoed the length of the shore. Were they talking to each other? Maybe it was a singing contest? As voices go I'm sure no two loons sound alike. At least to the loons they don't. One calls, the next tries to top it.
Then I figured each was just getting off on the sound of its own voice as it caromed fom the islands and bays. Then would pause as if to say, "Is that me? Um-um, don't I sound fine. Give it a minute 'til my turn comes around again. Then I'll treat the world to my wonderfulness one more time."
Uncle Emil and I were enjoying the concert as much as the birds. Then we decided to join in the fun. Of course there was no way I could duplicate the melodious sound of the loon. Emil almost could but his call lacked volume. So we fell back on the age-old means of hoot and holler. At the top of our lungs. Waited for an opening in the arias around us, then bellowed out. Paused and counted our echoes. Three, sometimes four. Like skipping stones and counting the padiddles on a skim of lake water.
At first the loons seemed to be spooked and quieted down. But as the minutes passed they came to accept our off key intrusion and allowed us space in their rhythm. Four loons, a kid and a gray hair, all giving it a go and saluting the rising moon. If that wasn't fun I don't know what was.
Leaving the bay we paddled to the shallow, swamp edged, end-of-lake bay. There we stirred up and lost a pair of heavy pike. Enough to get our blood flowing. I was coming to understand fishing's not so much about catching as it was about making contact with unseen life on the other side of the surface. Like grabbing onto a dream for a moment or two. She's a thrill alright and goes to the core.
"On the other side of the swamp we're passing, sits a small lake. No more than a few hundred yards of bog-slog away. It's a good backup plan should we chicken out tomorrow, though I doubt we will. Archie me lad, you're a tougher kid than you think you are. Just never had the need. Tomorrow will provide that need. And, hopefully, the reward."
We drifted. Shared the joy of evening before our return to camp.
I wasn't a kid who asked for a lot. Pretty much took it as it came. Didn't need a campfire at night. No s'mores. Didn't even know what they were. Besides, Uncle Emil said night was a gift. Something to be absorbed in and absorbed by as it gathered around us. Back at camp we slathered down with bug juice and waited for night to come.
I've never figured out exactly when evening becomes night. Maybe when the first star can be seen. Or the gibbous moon hanging over the treetops across the lake exposes its shadowed side. Or when the loons said day was over and commenced their celebration of song.
Don't know how many loons were on the water in the dark. Four for sure. Two strung out in the distance up lake. One nearby. And a single down lake. A conversation arose among them. One solo speaker at a time. Calls reverberated and echoed the length of the shore. Were they talking to each other? Maybe it was a singing contest? As voices go I'm sure no two loons sound alike. At least to the loons they don't. One calls, the next tries to top it.
Then I figured each was just getting off on the sound of its own voice as it caromed fom the islands and bays. Then would pause as if to say, "Is that me? Um-um, don't I sound fine. Give it a minute 'til my turn comes around again. Then I'll treat the world to my wonderfulness one more time."
Uncle Emil and I were enjoying the concert as much as the birds. Then we decided to join in the fun. Of course there was no way I could duplicate the melodious sound of the loon. Emil almost could but his call lacked volume. So we fell back on the age-old means of hoot and holler. At the top of our lungs. Waited for an opening in the arias around us, then bellowed out. Paused and counted our echoes. Three, sometimes four. Like skipping stones and counting the padiddles on a skim of lake water.
At first the loons seemed to be spooked and quieted down. But as the minutes passed they came to accept our off key intrusion and allowed us space in their rhythm. Four loons, a kid and a gray hair, all giving it a go and saluting the rising moon. If that wasn't fun I don't know what was.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Canada XXXIII - Ease
Arose to brisk sunlight. We'd slept wet . Seems we'd spent the night in a small rapids. First order of business was to drape our bags and ground cloth on the bushes. Let the sun work its magic.
"Hadn't planned on doing laundry this early in the game. We'll sleep fresh air well tonight. 'Til then there's nowhere we need go but we'll sure go someplace. Maybe a movie? I'm leaning toward an outdoor adventure flick. I can almost smell the popcorn and butter. We'll mull over our options and do what we'll do. Give her some thought Archie me lad and tell me what you think."
'Course I was all hepped up to fish more. I'd have been crazy not to.
"Take my word for it you'd be disappointed compared with our luck last night. A downpour turns the fishing dial down for a few days. Cold water, cold fishing, believe that's in the Bible somewhere. Tonight we'll maybe paddle out, more to be on the water in the peace of the evening than for the fishing. For now we rest. Give our shoulders a break. Tomorrow you'll wish it was yesterday. The morning's agenda? Eat and clean. Let the tent dry some. Maybe wash out my dirty socks. Not exciting but necessary. After lunch we'll putz our way out to see what we'll see. Go ahead and bring your fishing pole should you feel the need."
So that's what we did. Eat, rearrange gear, dry out and read. I threw a few barren casts. Uncle Emil even pulled out the camp axe and a stone. Spit on and ground the blade to a fine edge. Yup, that's all we did as the shadows shortened. We puttered and then puttered some more. Seemed enough like a Sunday to be church-like in the embracing silence of the northwoods.
A swarm of dragonflies paid their respects while we ate. Uncle Emil said they were doing exactly what we were doing, eating breakfast.
"I've heard tell they can eat ten times their body weight each day, kind of like you. And they're doing us a favor at the same time. Dragonflies love skeeters. Wish we'd've had them in the Philippines. If skeeters have a heaven that's where it'd be. Don't know which drained the most blood out of me, the skeeters or the bullet." Emil paused, started to say something then went silent as the morning. He picked up a pot and went to gather water.
Breakfast was walleye filets, eggs and left over pan bread. Never had that combination before. Seemed the whiskey jacks hadn't either. Two of them gave us a head twisting stare while chowing down as though to ask, "What is this wonderful stuff?" Had to admit I agreed with them. It sure ate good.
With the sun still near its zenith we grabbed a handful of snacks and headed out on the lake. Painfully I listened to my uncle and left my pole leaning on the fire pit jack pine.
"We off to any place in particular?"
"Yes and no. The mood strikes me right and the stars line up, it could be an interesting moment. We're off to see a man who isn't there. Should we be in luck he'll not be around."
Didn't quite know what to say about that. Figured if I asked, any answer I got wouldn't be helpful and another roundabout of sidetrack comments. And none anywhere near as much fun as the reality Emil hinted at. At least that's what I hoped.
Brisk air, brilliant sunlight, chop on the water, deep blue from horizon to horizon, off we went toward mid-lake, me in the front as usual. I felt pretty good. Sleeping on an air mattress was an improvement. Beat sleeping on sticks and stones by a country mile.
Emil paddled in a mood of grace. Smile on his face, head pivoting around just like our camp whiskey jacks trying to get a fix on something straight ahead. He said our course was set a couple of degrees south of random.
"Too much to see. And we're in no hurry to gather in any more than we can get a handle on. This land and water gets hold of a man like a lover. Demanding and rewarding at the same time. Don't expect you to understand that yet. But someday, Lord willing, you will. God's pocket, that's exactly where we are."
We leisurely paddled our way along a few of the many mid-lake island shores. Wafts of sunlit pine and spruce filled my lungs. Left a memory there I'll not forget. Doesn't matter where I am, city or forest, when the sun warms those many-green needles it takes me back to that noon hour on Wedge.
Out in the open, between islands, we watched a flock of gulls swoop, skim the chop, then soar straight up only to dive again.
"I can't say for certain but I figure the lake's coming into mayfly season. The little wrigglers that are the mayflies to be, rise from the bottom ooze, float atop the surface skim to shed their skin and crawl out as full fledged mayflies. Kind of like butterflies. No sooner do they lift off, bam!, they turn into gull food. Short life. Hardly worth saving for retirement. Dragonflies dining on skeeters, gulls on mayflies. Always something eating something else. There's a lesson in there somewhere. Bugs of the lake or something like that. And a good one no doubt. Maybe: Blessed are the gulls for they shall suck up a million mayflies, turn them into fertilizer, drop the digested sludge into Wedge Lake so as to make a fertile bottom in which to spawn more mayflies. Amen. Anyhow, that's my sermon for today."
We tucked into a bay with a narrow sand beach backed by a meadow. In the meadow sat a cabin. Nice log cabin. Looked well kept. Blue shutters and trim. Caribou antlers above the door. Two windows faced the water. We crunched ashore on the sand accompanied by the harmony of bird twitter and insect buzz. No one around. Called out with no answer. The cabin door was unlocked but no one came when we knocked. Then Emil edged the door open. Whoever'd lived there had been gone a long time. Thick layer of dust over table and floor. What first caught Emil's eye was the book covered shelving encircling the building above the four windows. Hundreds and hundreds of volumes. It was all we could do to not enter and explore. But it would have felt a violation of privacy. Mice runs and droppings scattered about like they'd claimed ownership. A broken window pain on the west side. A close look at the closed shutters spoke of pealing paint and neglect.
Emil knelt and thumbed the floor, "Take a look Archie. This planking, the front door and shutters, all was made by hand. No doubt sawn and planed by the person who raised this building. Even the wood door hinges. Lord almighty, whoever lived here was an artist in wood from the log walls to the hand split roof shingles and stone fireplace. And all this built in a place where no one'd ever see it. Reminds me of a Mark Twain short story. Man goes to heaven and asks St. Peter who the two greatest writers were. St. Peter says Shakespeare and a man in Kentucky who never published a word. Kind of fits this cabin. Wonder what happened to the man - or maybe a woman?"
"Could've sworn there was someone here the last time. Sure felt like it. But I never went so far as to peek inside. Dust, dirt and peeling paint aside, this remains a fine building. Solid. And surely worth repairing. Lot of sweat and thought went into raising it from the ground. Seems a shame to let it rot to soil. Would've been a pleasure to meet the hands that'd swung the axe and drawn the saw. Yeah, a man could live well in a place like this. Something to consider."
We returned to the breezes and dragonflies of the beach. Sat on the grass edging the cobbles and snacked on sausage, cheese and chocolate.
It was there I first began to feel a part of the land and water we were traveling. Seemed so normal, so comfortable sitting on the ground in the sunlight. Not odd at all we were on an island in a lake five hundred miles north of the border with no one else for miles. Alone as I'd ever been even though I sat beside my uncle. Would have felt a little crowded had the owners shown up.
"Hadn't planned on doing laundry this early in the game. We'll sleep fresh air well tonight. 'Til then there's nowhere we need go but we'll sure go someplace. Maybe a movie? I'm leaning toward an outdoor adventure flick. I can almost smell the popcorn and butter. We'll mull over our options and do what we'll do. Give her some thought Archie me lad and tell me what you think."
'Course I was all hepped up to fish more. I'd have been crazy not to.
"Take my word for it you'd be disappointed compared with our luck last night. A downpour turns the fishing dial down for a few days. Cold water, cold fishing, believe that's in the Bible somewhere. Tonight we'll maybe paddle out, more to be on the water in the peace of the evening than for the fishing. For now we rest. Give our shoulders a break. Tomorrow you'll wish it was yesterday. The morning's agenda? Eat and clean. Let the tent dry some. Maybe wash out my dirty socks. Not exciting but necessary. After lunch we'll putz our way out to see what we'll see. Go ahead and bring your fishing pole should you feel the need."
So that's what we did. Eat, rearrange gear, dry out and read. I threw a few barren casts. Uncle Emil even pulled out the camp axe and a stone. Spit on and ground the blade to a fine edge. Yup, that's all we did as the shadows shortened. We puttered and then puttered some more. Seemed enough like a Sunday to be church-like in the embracing silence of the northwoods.
A swarm of dragonflies paid their respects while we ate. Uncle Emil said they were doing exactly what we were doing, eating breakfast.
"I've heard tell they can eat ten times their body weight each day, kind of like you. And they're doing us a favor at the same time. Dragonflies love skeeters. Wish we'd've had them in the Philippines. If skeeters have a heaven that's where it'd be. Don't know which drained the most blood out of me, the skeeters or the bullet." Emil paused, started to say something then went silent as the morning. He picked up a pot and went to gather water.
Breakfast was walleye filets, eggs and left over pan bread. Never had that combination before. Seemed the whiskey jacks hadn't either. Two of them gave us a head twisting stare while chowing down as though to ask, "What is this wonderful stuff?" Had to admit I agreed with them. It sure ate good.
With the sun still near its zenith we grabbed a handful of snacks and headed out on the lake. Painfully I listened to my uncle and left my pole leaning on the fire pit jack pine.
"We off to any place in particular?"
"Yes and no. The mood strikes me right and the stars line up, it could be an interesting moment. We're off to see a man who isn't there. Should we be in luck he'll not be around."
Didn't quite know what to say about that. Figured if I asked, any answer I got wouldn't be helpful and another roundabout of sidetrack comments. And none anywhere near as much fun as the reality Emil hinted at. At least that's what I hoped.
Brisk air, brilliant sunlight, chop on the water, deep blue from horizon to horizon, off we went toward mid-lake, me in the front as usual. I felt pretty good. Sleeping on an air mattress was an improvement. Beat sleeping on sticks and stones by a country mile.
Emil paddled in a mood of grace. Smile on his face, head pivoting around just like our camp whiskey jacks trying to get a fix on something straight ahead. He said our course was set a couple of degrees south of random.
"Too much to see. And we're in no hurry to gather in any more than we can get a handle on. This land and water gets hold of a man like a lover. Demanding and rewarding at the same time. Don't expect you to understand that yet. But someday, Lord willing, you will. God's pocket, that's exactly where we are."
We leisurely paddled our way along a few of the many mid-lake island shores. Wafts of sunlit pine and spruce filled my lungs. Left a memory there I'll not forget. Doesn't matter where I am, city or forest, when the sun warms those many-green needles it takes me back to that noon hour on Wedge.
Out in the open, between islands, we watched a flock of gulls swoop, skim the chop, then soar straight up only to dive again.
"I can't say for certain but I figure the lake's coming into mayfly season. The little wrigglers that are the mayflies to be, rise from the bottom ooze, float atop the surface skim to shed their skin and crawl out as full fledged mayflies. Kind of like butterflies. No sooner do they lift off, bam!, they turn into gull food. Short life. Hardly worth saving for retirement. Dragonflies dining on skeeters, gulls on mayflies. Always something eating something else. There's a lesson in there somewhere. Bugs of the lake or something like that. And a good one no doubt. Maybe: Blessed are the gulls for they shall suck up a million mayflies, turn them into fertilizer, drop the digested sludge into Wedge Lake so as to make a fertile bottom in which to spawn more mayflies. Amen. Anyhow, that's my sermon for today."
We tucked into a bay with a narrow sand beach backed by a meadow. In the meadow sat a cabin. Nice log cabin. Looked well kept. Blue shutters and trim. Caribou antlers above the door. Two windows faced the water. We crunched ashore on the sand accompanied by the harmony of bird twitter and insect buzz. No one around. Called out with no answer. The cabin door was unlocked but no one came when we knocked. Then Emil edged the door open. Whoever'd lived there had been gone a long time. Thick layer of dust over table and floor. What first caught Emil's eye was the book covered shelving encircling the building above the four windows. Hundreds and hundreds of volumes. It was all we could do to not enter and explore. But it would have felt a violation of privacy. Mice runs and droppings scattered about like they'd claimed ownership. A broken window pain on the west side. A close look at the closed shutters spoke of pealing paint and neglect.
Emil knelt and thumbed the floor, "Take a look Archie. This planking, the front door and shutters, all was made by hand. No doubt sawn and planed by the person who raised this building. Even the wood door hinges. Lord almighty, whoever lived here was an artist in wood from the log walls to the hand split roof shingles and stone fireplace. And all this built in a place where no one'd ever see it. Reminds me of a Mark Twain short story. Man goes to heaven and asks St. Peter who the two greatest writers were. St. Peter says Shakespeare and a man in Kentucky who never published a word. Kind of fits this cabin. Wonder what happened to the man - or maybe a woman?"
"Could've sworn there was someone here the last time. Sure felt like it. But I never went so far as to peek inside. Dust, dirt and peeling paint aside, this remains a fine building. Solid. And surely worth repairing. Lot of sweat and thought went into raising it from the ground. Seems a shame to let it rot to soil. Would've been a pleasure to meet the hands that'd swung the axe and drawn the saw. Yeah, a man could live well in a place like this. Something to consider."
We returned to the breezes and dragonflies of the beach. Sat on the grass edging the cobbles and snacked on sausage, cheese and chocolate.
It was there I first began to feel a part of the land and water we were traveling. Seemed so normal, so comfortable sitting on the ground in the sunlight. Not odd at all we were on an island in a lake five hundred miles north of the border with no one else for miles. Alone as I'd ever been even though I sat beside my uncle. Would have felt a little crowded had the owners shown up.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Canada XXXII - Stone Canoe
No doubt about it our campsite island was tiny, cozy, snug, boat-sized. But it was perfect. Slide-in landing onto a sofa sized patch of grass, open, rock slab tent and kitchen spot, little woods to do our business. And fishing. Oh yeah, fishing. I could have spent weeks there. Always something to do. While there broke out a well thumbed paperback to read aloud when the time came for me to cast my spinner toward the nearby mainland. Our leisure hours ashore were passed along the boundaries of our paradise, me with rod, Emil with Treasure Island.
"Archie me lad you've made a good choose. Doubt we'll finish it but she's a good read." Great way to pass the time whether in the daylight of camp or by flashlight in the tent. "Not often I get to read aloud. 'Specially a story as well told as this. Should you get tired of my voice, let me know."
Once ashore the packs were quickly hauled uphill, tent went up with poles Emil'd sawed on his last trip, tarp went down, air mattresses inflated and sleeping bags laid out. Homey. Cooking gear appeared, stove pumped and fired up, butter slabbed in the big pan, melted and foamed. You have to remember this was 1961. And keep in mind that Emil had been in the Army during the war. Spam it was, sliced thin and fried crisp on the outside, steamy within. The heart of the grilled cheese sandwiches he made. Slid down hot and easy followed by gulpings of lemonade to cool our blistered gums. Hungry? You bet.
Then we did what we did best. Nothing. Except for me, I was orbiting the island's shore like a satellite accompanied by the serenade of walleye and pike. Not on every cast but the numbers totaled in the dozens that afternoon under the slowly darkening sky. And not all the fish were small. My first ten pound pike put my wrists to the test and taught me to respect its brush-like teeth.
"You'll someday come to feel the same about jackfish as do the Canucks. A hundred pike equals bloody, raw fingertips. They're good to eat if you're up to the misery of slicing around all the bones but, oh my, those teeth."
Struck me as odd Emil didn't fish much while ashore. Mostly he seemed to enjoy my hoots and would wander over now and then to check out my latest big one. Then he'd fire up his pipe, pull out the dogeared paperback from a back pocket and read to me of Jake and the boys catching trout in Spain.
Biggest thing I caught was a jack pine. Happened in mid-cast and nearly pulled me off the ground. I was so intent on firing my lure all the way across the hundred foot channel I completely forgot what was right above my head. But my spinner sure didn't.
While I was staring to the blue sky and red of face, Emil strolled up. Crap. Here comes the riding. But no. My uncle simply gave the situation an up and down, then said, "Set the bail and let 'er hang. This is a moment to remember and savor for a few minutes. Archie me lad, I once did near the same thing, except I was in a canoe at the time, tucked to shore and working a channel much the same as this. And casting out for all I was worth. The jack pine wasn't big, doubt it topped forty feet. Probably the reason I was able to uproot it. This was back when I used to fish for muskies with a stout, four-sided, steel rod. Pretty much a six foot length of rebar with a reel holder and guides. Anyhow, the pine ripped loose and summersaulted into the bow of the canoe. Came down so hard it bent the boat and catapulted me near the top of a birch across the channel. Talk about embarrassing. Good thing there was nobody around to give me the grief I deserved. So I won't pass on any to you. Though I wish I'd brought a camera."
So it went. And so too was the sky invaded by an army of clouds. Finally the darkness above stopped dead as though resting up before the big show. Wedge glassed out, the water pitch black.
"She'll be a blow tonight. Maybe a good one."
We set to work tying down the tent from every angle to every conceivable nearby point. Rock, root, brush and tree. No tent pegs for the ground was nothing but slab rock. Dinner was chili and rice. Uncle Emil even baked up some pan bread out of bisquick, sugar, cinnamon and raisins afloat in butter. A feast in the wilderness.
"A full stomach is a warm and happy one. Tonight we fish 'til I say it's time to head in. When I say go, we go."
Under the heavy gray of the Canadian evening, reflected double on a sheet of glass, we fished. Endless streams of fish came to our canoe. All walleye and pike. No matter where our spinners landed in the bays they were greeted by 'v's of hungry pike slicing through fresh green reed tips. Or off the points in the rocks, the slam and chaotic run of walleyes.
Our spinners were hammered, tails shredded and shafts bent and restraightened 'til the wire flimsied or broke. My hands bled and fingers stunk of pike slime. The Grumman's gunwales were slowly painted by scale and speckled by blood. My spotted red blended with that of the fish, brothers in the hunt.
Most were small but every now and then it'd be time to hang on and go for a ride out of the bay toward the islands. Laugh? Lordy did we howl. Catching my share made me bold. I even began to deride the old man to my rear when he'd gone a few casts with nothing to show for his effort. And when it came to insult, Uncle Emil was no slouch.
"I'd call down on your manhood Archie me lad, if you weren't but a wee slip of a child only days apart from diapers. Throw another fishless cast and I'll be forced to call your mother to come get you. Tuck you in with your blankie to protect you from the big, bad walleyes of Wedge Lake."
And on it went. Fish on the line and weather settling down.
My last pike was a fitting end to our float. Seemed like it took me hours to reel her in. I'd get the fish to the canoe and she'd simply suspend there, finning, resting, eyeballing me with hate and fear. I'd make a move with my pliers to twist the spinner loose and off she'd go, motor boating and wiggling her tail at me in distain.
The treble wasn't sunk deep. Nothing but a single hook pierced the side of the pike's jaw. Didn't want to lose her but what the heck could I have done with something that size anyhow? Seemed a shame to kill a true beast of a fish simply because I could.
While I worked the pike, Emil worked the canoe. Kept the pressure on the fish but not too much. Emil used the canoe as my drag, fatiguing the pike at just the right rate. One last run and my line went limp. No pike, no spinner. What once was a snap swivel on the end of my leader was now a straightened length of wire. She was too much fish.
I sat there panting, exhilarated to the point of breathlessness.
"Now that's what I call fun Archie. And you might wanta to take a moment and look around, see where we are. Where your finny old lady dragged us over the last fifteen minutes."
What I took to be the bay's shore turned out to be an island. The hookup was a city block to our rear. Lost in concentration, for the duration of the fight all I'd seen was the pike, my line and the water.
"Where we are doesn't do justice to the route she hauled us. We zig-zagged half of this bay. Had some fish on in my life but nothing like that one. She was a wall-hanger and a half. Four foot or more."
"And that's all she wrote for tonight. Figure we've just enough time to brush our teeth, take a leak and batten down the hatches. She's nigh upon us."
So that's what we did. Before turning in, Emil stoked his pipe one last time. Above us passed a black roiling. Tobacco clouds swirled around and above Emil's Stetson. Once aloft they drifted slowly down lake, then paused. In the distance a soft, deep-throated roar arose. At the same time the stagnant pipe smoke reversed direction, drawn to the tumult.
Emil tapped his pipe dregs in the fire circle. "Here she comes. Don't know about you but I've no fondness for a soaking or to be turned into a kite. Let's skedaddle."
Started slow and cranked up to what Emil called a good old fashioned gully washer. It hammered down. Hard as steel. Hard enough to raise my hackles from fear. Don't know what I was afraid of outside of where we were, the black and deluge outside and the thin layer of cotton between us and the flood. Never'd heard a rain roar before but this downpour did. And not a wisp of wind to drive the storm on. I've yet to hear or smell a rain like that one on Wedge Lake.
"Shoulda brought us an ark. And would've had I known what a cubit was."
"Archie me lad you've made a good choose. Doubt we'll finish it but she's a good read." Great way to pass the time whether in the daylight of camp or by flashlight in the tent. "Not often I get to read aloud. 'Specially a story as well told as this. Should you get tired of my voice, let me know."
Once ashore the packs were quickly hauled uphill, tent went up with poles Emil'd sawed on his last trip, tarp went down, air mattresses inflated and sleeping bags laid out. Homey. Cooking gear appeared, stove pumped and fired up, butter slabbed in the big pan, melted and foamed. You have to remember this was 1961. And keep in mind that Emil had been in the Army during the war. Spam it was, sliced thin and fried crisp on the outside, steamy within. The heart of the grilled cheese sandwiches he made. Slid down hot and easy followed by gulpings of lemonade to cool our blistered gums. Hungry? You bet.
Then we did what we did best. Nothing. Except for me, I was orbiting the island's shore like a satellite accompanied by the serenade of walleye and pike. Not on every cast but the numbers totaled in the dozens that afternoon under the slowly darkening sky. And not all the fish were small. My first ten pound pike put my wrists to the test and taught me to respect its brush-like teeth.
"You'll someday come to feel the same about jackfish as do the Canucks. A hundred pike equals bloody, raw fingertips. They're good to eat if you're up to the misery of slicing around all the bones but, oh my, those teeth."
Struck me as odd Emil didn't fish much while ashore. Mostly he seemed to enjoy my hoots and would wander over now and then to check out my latest big one. Then he'd fire up his pipe, pull out the dogeared paperback from a back pocket and read to me of Jake and the boys catching trout in Spain.
Biggest thing I caught was a jack pine. Happened in mid-cast and nearly pulled me off the ground. I was so intent on firing my lure all the way across the hundred foot channel I completely forgot what was right above my head. But my spinner sure didn't.
While I was staring to the blue sky and red of face, Emil strolled up. Crap. Here comes the riding. But no. My uncle simply gave the situation an up and down, then said, "Set the bail and let 'er hang. This is a moment to remember and savor for a few minutes. Archie me lad, I once did near the same thing, except I was in a canoe at the time, tucked to shore and working a channel much the same as this. And casting out for all I was worth. The jack pine wasn't big, doubt it topped forty feet. Probably the reason I was able to uproot it. This was back when I used to fish for muskies with a stout, four-sided, steel rod. Pretty much a six foot length of rebar with a reel holder and guides. Anyhow, the pine ripped loose and summersaulted into the bow of the canoe. Came down so hard it bent the boat and catapulted me near the top of a birch across the channel. Talk about embarrassing. Good thing there was nobody around to give me the grief I deserved. So I won't pass on any to you. Though I wish I'd brought a camera."
So it went. And so too was the sky invaded by an army of clouds. Finally the darkness above stopped dead as though resting up before the big show. Wedge glassed out, the water pitch black.
"She'll be a blow tonight. Maybe a good one."
We set to work tying down the tent from every angle to every conceivable nearby point. Rock, root, brush and tree. No tent pegs for the ground was nothing but slab rock. Dinner was chili and rice. Uncle Emil even baked up some pan bread out of bisquick, sugar, cinnamon and raisins afloat in butter. A feast in the wilderness.
"A full stomach is a warm and happy one. Tonight we fish 'til I say it's time to head in. When I say go, we go."
Under the heavy gray of the Canadian evening, reflected double on a sheet of glass, we fished. Endless streams of fish came to our canoe. All walleye and pike. No matter where our spinners landed in the bays they were greeted by 'v's of hungry pike slicing through fresh green reed tips. Or off the points in the rocks, the slam and chaotic run of walleyes.
Our spinners were hammered, tails shredded and shafts bent and restraightened 'til the wire flimsied or broke. My hands bled and fingers stunk of pike slime. The Grumman's gunwales were slowly painted by scale and speckled by blood. My spotted red blended with that of the fish, brothers in the hunt.
Most were small but every now and then it'd be time to hang on and go for a ride out of the bay toward the islands. Laugh? Lordy did we howl. Catching my share made me bold. I even began to deride the old man to my rear when he'd gone a few casts with nothing to show for his effort. And when it came to insult, Uncle Emil was no slouch.
"I'd call down on your manhood Archie me lad, if you weren't but a wee slip of a child only days apart from diapers. Throw another fishless cast and I'll be forced to call your mother to come get you. Tuck you in with your blankie to protect you from the big, bad walleyes of Wedge Lake."
And on it went. Fish on the line and weather settling down.
My last pike was a fitting end to our float. Seemed like it took me hours to reel her in. I'd get the fish to the canoe and she'd simply suspend there, finning, resting, eyeballing me with hate and fear. I'd make a move with my pliers to twist the spinner loose and off she'd go, motor boating and wiggling her tail at me in distain.
The treble wasn't sunk deep. Nothing but a single hook pierced the side of the pike's jaw. Didn't want to lose her but what the heck could I have done with something that size anyhow? Seemed a shame to kill a true beast of a fish simply because I could.
While I worked the pike, Emil worked the canoe. Kept the pressure on the fish but not too much. Emil used the canoe as my drag, fatiguing the pike at just the right rate. One last run and my line went limp. No pike, no spinner. What once was a snap swivel on the end of my leader was now a straightened length of wire. She was too much fish.
I sat there panting, exhilarated to the point of breathlessness.
"Now that's what I call fun Archie. And you might wanta to take a moment and look around, see where we are. Where your finny old lady dragged us over the last fifteen minutes."
What I took to be the bay's shore turned out to be an island. The hookup was a city block to our rear. Lost in concentration, for the duration of the fight all I'd seen was the pike, my line and the water.
"Where we are doesn't do justice to the route she hauled us. We zig-zagged half of this bay. Had some fish on in my life but nothing like that one. She was a wall-hanger and a half. Four foot or more."
"And that's all she wrote for tonight. Figure we've just enough time to brush our teeth, take a leak and batten down the hatches. She's nigh upon us."
So that's what we did. Before turning in, Emil stoked his pipe one last time. Above us passed a black roiling. Tobacco clouds swirled around and above Emil's Stetson. Once aloft they drifted slowly down lake, then paused. In the distance a soft, deep-throated roar arose. At the same time the stagnant pipe smoke reversed direction, drawn to the tumult.
Emil tapped his pipe dregs in the fire circle. "Here she comes. Don't know about you but I've no fondness for a soaking or to be turned into a kite. Let's skedaddle."
Started slow and cranked up to what Emil called a good old fashioned gully washer. It hammered down. Hard as steel. Hard enough to raise my hackles from fear. Don't know what I was afraid of outside of where we were, the black and deluge outside and the thin layer of cotton between us and the flood. Never'd heard a rain roar before but this downpour did. And not a wisp of wind to drive the storm on. I've yet to hear or smell a rain like that one on Wedge Lake.
"Shoulda brought us an ark. And would've had I known what a cubit was."
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Canada XXXI - Land O' Pike
We shared the trail the second time over. Emil grabbed the food pack and cooler, I toted the much smaller gear pack and stove. Might have been smaller but hurt even more than the first, 'specially the stove. Its eleven pounds started out light and gathered weight quickly. But like a lot of things I learned later in life, it was tolerable pain under which I could shut my mind off and gut out. Like getting used to not getting used to something.
"You know Archie me lad, this isn't a real portage, though in a convoluted way, I suppose it is. But there's no history to it. Way back when, the Voyageurs used the Grass River as one of their side routes to and from Hudson Bay. Probably didn't even know Wedge Lake was here. No doubt didn't care either. They were moving fur and in no mood to take a wasted side trip. The trail we're on was cut for the sports at the lodge and the locals who hike into Wedge to catch pike. Big, big pike!"
We set our packs next to the rest of our gear. Time for a break.
" Guess it's time I let the cat out of the bag. The plan for today and tomorrow is to set up camp and fish. Maybe talk about life or whatever comes to mind. After we're rested, we're off to fish and camp on a nameless lake lying to the south of Wedge. As lakes go up here she's nowhere near a big one but big enough to hold some good sized fish. Mile long and half a mile wide, handful of islands. I doubt anyone has ever wet a line in those waters. Except for me."
"Two years ago I bushwhacked in with a rod and some lunch. I'd have been a fool to sweat my way though a mile and a half of thicket and swamp without taking a cast or two. So that's what I did. Didn't catch squat but a small pickerel. But that was enough to tell me there's fish in those waters. Took the better part of three hours to bushwhack to and from. Dead-ended and backtracked a few times because of swamp and slough. But this time I'm ready. Or should I say, we're ready? Where we're heading is not for the weak of heart. And will be the toughest thing you've ever done. Maybe ever will do. But if you're up for it, I can absolutely guarantee it's something you'll never forget. Call it Emil's gift."
What could I say? There was only one answer and the lake did sound exciting as all get out. Had I known what we were in for I might have said, "No sir, Uncle Emil sir, I'm a citified weenie and would rather go home and watch 'Leave it to Beaver.'" Nah, there was no way I could have said that. And didn't actually want to anyhow.
"Sounds like fun to me."
"Let's you and me shake on it Archie me lad, man to man." I was committed and happy about it. "Now, let's load the canoe and go find us a home for a couple of nights."
Wedge felt different than the other lakes we'd paddled through. Trees were the same, water choppy, clouds floating above and islands. Lots of islands. Looked like the islands even had islands. And the lake was smaller than the Cranberries. That could have been it. Nah, had to be more than that. Maybe it was the quiet? Or the mile we'd hiked off the main lakes. Or maybe the sweat we'd payed out to be where we were. Could have been the thinner veil between us and Mother Nature. That was more like it. Nothing man-made about where we were once we paddled onto Wedge and left the lodge boats behind.
While Uncle Emil paddled he kept up his palaver, "Archie, this be the second step on the way to what's waiting for us. Back on the main lakes we could hear the sound of motors off in the distance. Now they're in our past. The water we're gliding is ours and ours alone (Emil deftly flicked a paddle splash to the back of my head). I very much doubt anyone will come use the lodge boats this week. The pickerel are on the bite back on the Cranberries and no self respecting Canuck is gonna leave that sweet, white meat for the teeth of pike. Yup, we're finally on the doorstep and ringing the bell of God's country."
Then nothing but the fresh of breeze, dig of paddle and slap of waves on aluminum remained. My head continually pivoted, taking in every foot of shore and water. Now and then the white of a gull flashed by. A pair of loons, yeah there's always loons, with little concern for us slid beneath the small rollers for minutes at a time. We moved on.
A channel opened to our left. Beckoned us to enter. One moment it wasn't there and then it was. Almost like Emil pulled it out of his fedora.
"Wedge is like two lakes in one. We're leaving the small side and opening onto the main body. That'll be our home for a couple of days."
The Grumman hugged the left shore of the channel. It was there I first came to see the shoreline as a thing with no end. Almost infinite. No matter how small, each bay had little bays within. Eventually shrinking to pebble size. So tiny a person could get lost thinking about it.
When I brought it up, Uncle Emil agreed, "Had the same thought myself. Don't know when the first time was. Maybe back when I was your age."
"Sailing the ocean has the same effect on a body. No matter the color of the water you can look down into it 'til you get lost in thought. Sometimes I'd think if I could see down far enough I'd be looking at the back of my own head."
"As far as the shore of Wedge is concerned and the pike we'll be searching out, those little pockets we're passing with the overhanging brush are about as far down in size as we'll go in our search. Any smaller and we'd be in another realm. There's a time to dream and a time to fish. And a time to dream of fish. Maybe we'll catch some dream fish. Probably not here though. That'll come in two days."
"You know Archie me lad, this isn't a real portage, though in a convoluted way, I suppose it is. But there's no history to it. Way back when, the Voyageurs used the Grass River as one of their side routes to and from Hudson Bay. Probably didn't even know Wedge Lake was here. No doubt didn't care either. They were moving fur and in no mood to take a wasted side trip. The trail we're on was cut for the sports at the lodge and the locals who hike into Wedge to catch pike. Big, big pike!"
We set our packs next to the rest of our gear. Time for a break.
" Guess it's time I let the cat out of the bag. The plan for today and tomorrow is to set up camp and fish. Maybe talk about life or whatever comes to mind. After we're rested, we're off to fish and camp on a nameless lake lying to the south of Wedge. As lakes go up here she's nowhere near a big one but big enough to hold some good sized fish. Mile long and half a mile wide, handful of islands. I doubt anyone has ever wet a line in those waters. Except for me."
"Two years ago I bushwhacked in with a rod and some lunch. I'd have been a fool to sweat my way though a mile and a half of thicket and swamp without taking a cast or two. So that's what I did. Didn't catch squat but a small pickerel. But that was enough to tell me there's fish in those waters. Took the better part of three hours to bushwhack to and from. Dead-ended and backtracked a few times because of swamp and slough. But this time I'm ready. Or should I say, we're ready? Where we're heading is not for the weak of heart. And will be the toughest thing you've ever done. Maybe ever will do. But if you're up for it, I can absolutely guarantee it's something you'll never forget. Call it Emil's gift."
What could I say? There was only one answer and the lake did sound exciting as all get out. Had I known what we were in for I might have said, "No sir, Uncle Emil sir, I'm a citified weenie and would rather go home and watch 'Leave it to Beaver.'" Nah, there was no way I could have said that. And didn't actually want to anyhow.
"Sounds like fun to me."
"Let's you and me shake on it Archie me lad, man to man." I was committed and happy about it. "Now, let's load the canoe and go find us a home for a couple of nights."
Wedge felt different than the other lakes we'd paddled through. Trees were the same, water choppy, clouds floating above and islands. Lots of islands. Looked like the islands even had islands. And the lake was smaller than the Cranberries. That could have been it. Nah, had to be more than that. Maybe it was the quiet? Or the mile we'd hiked off the main lakes. Or maybe the sweat we'd payed out to be where we were. Could have been the thinner veil between us and Mother Nature. That was more like it. Nothing man-made about where we were once we paddled onto Wedge and left the lodge boats behind.
While Uncle Emil paddled he kept up his palaver, "Archie, this be the second step on the way to what's waiting for us. Back on the main lakes we could hear the sound of motors off in the distance. Now they're in our past. The water we're gliding is ours and ours alone (Emil deftly flicked a paddle splash to the back of my head). I very much doubt anyone will come use the lodge boats this week. The pickerel are on the bite back on the Cranberries and no self respecting Canuck is gonna leave that sweet, white meat for the teeth of pike. Yup, we're finally on the doorstep and ringing the bell of God's country."
Then nothing but the fresh of breeze, dig of paddle and slap of waves on aluminum remained. My head continually pivoted, taking in every foot of shore and water. Now and then the white of a gull flashed by. A pair of loons, yeah there's always loons, with little concern for us slid beneath the small rollers for minutes at a time. We moved on.
A channel opened to our left. Beckoned us to enter. One moment it wasn't there and then it was. Almost like Emil pulled it out of his fedora.
"Wedge is like two lakes in one. We're leaving the small side and opening onto the main body. That'll be our home for a couple of days."
The Grumman hugged the left shore of the channel. It was there I first came to see the shoreline as a thing with no end. Almost infinite. No matter how small, each bay had little bays within. Eventually shrinking to pebble size. So tiny a person could get lost thinking about it.
When I brought it up, Uncle Emil agreed, "Had the same thought myself. Don't know when the first time was. Maybe back when I was your age."
"Sailing the ocean has the same effect on a body. No matter the color of the water you can look down into it 'til you get lost in thought. Sometimes I'd think if I could see down far enough I'd be looking at the back of my own head."
"As far as the shore of Wedge is concerned and the pike we'll be searching out, those little pockets we're passing with the overhanging brush are about as far down in size as we'll go in our search. Any smaller and we'd be in another realm. There's a time to dream and a time to fish. And a time to dream of fish. Maybe we'll catch some dream fish. Probably not here though. That'll come in two days."
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Canada XXX - Saddle Up
"Archie me lad, the fun's over. Or just beginning depending on your point of view or the state of your back. I'll give you a hand with your pack."
Emil hoisted one of the smaller packs and I squirmed my way into the straps. Didn't actually feel too heavy 'til he let go. Then I sunk at least two inches into the rocky soil. Maybe split the continental shield.
"Grab a pair of paddles and you're off. Stay on the path. When you come to a fork, go right. Eventually you might come to a big puddle. By big I mean bigger than a house big. Wait for me there. If the puddle's not there or you can find a way around and still keep your feet dry, head on 'til you run into the lake. Any doubts anywhere, give out a yell. I won't be but a half minute behind. See you when I see you."
I was off. Stumblingly off. Into the woods. No one anywhere but me and Emil. Holy smokes Rocky. Lions and tigers and bears. But the path was wide. Easy to follow. Five minutes along and sure enough, there was the fork.
All was fine and dandy. Except for the pack. That bugger was mean heavy. Made my legs feel like rubber. By the time I hit the fork the straps were beginning to separate my shoulders from my neck. Oh me, oh my. When I felt the first trickle of sweat I feared it was blood from my torn flesh.
Traipsing through the forest the only sounds I heard were the hollow thumps of my footfalls, my wheezing and the creaking of the leather straps. Under foot passed dirt, rock and root for as far as I cared to look, which was about a stumble's distance. Little puddles now and then. 'Cause I had the duck boots I saw no sense in going around any stinking puddles. Trudged through. Uncle Emil said most of the portages had started out as animal trails. Seemed right to me since the portage we were on didn't shoot a straight line but wound around like a squirrel looking for acorns in a woods without an oak tree. No sir, this was nothing like a highway or sidewalk built by anything with a lick of sense.
Since I had time to think and thinking took my mind off the pack, I came to the conclusion nothing in the world before the arrival of pen and pencil, followed the straight lines we draw on maps. Mostly nature's trails take the easy way. Goes around the lake, avoids the hill, has no need of swamp, doesn't run into the tree. It seemed the paths were made by people and animals smart enough to know the right way to travel. Could be what seemed roundabout to me was actually the quickest way to get where we were going.
Above, thin patches of blue sky peeked through the bower of needle and leaf. So much green above, around and below even the air was tinted jade. In a way it felt like being in church, a big one like a cathedral with ornate pillars and all.
Now and then I had to work my way over or around a deadfall. Simple, hard work. When necessary, I broke my way through the side brush. My slow and surely inevitable death from terminal strap pain was interrupted by a loud, hollow bang to my rear. And a mumbled cursing that sounded like it was coming from inside a barrel. Turned out Uncle Emil had thumped square into one of the spruces angling over the path. Made me feel good I wasn't alone. But at the moment I wasn't sure Emil felt the same way.
Around the next bend waited the puddle, just like Emil said. Turned out to be more of a pond than a puddle. Time to pause for the thumper to show up. Paddles went down on a tussock, followed immediately by the thump of my pack. In a few seconds my body began to rise to its full length. Felt like I could float and rise to the treetops. Weird indeed.
Emil arrived a minute later. Wasn't huffing as much as puffing. A cloud billowed its way out from beneath the overturned Grumman. "I tell you Archie and it's the gospel truth, don't ever fire up a pipe and throw a canoe over your head. It was like a gas chamber in there."
While gasping that out he rolled the canoe off his shoulders and wormed out of the day pack. Quite a load for an old man.
He checked the pond in both directions. "Let's you and me have us a look-see before committing ourselves to what might turn out to be sheer stupidity." Off to the right we went, spreading our way through the brush and stomping over jackstrawed deadfall. Emil stopped midway around and scoped the remainder. "This'll do."
"I'll lead the way. Best you follow a ways behind so I don't whack you with seventeen feet of aluminum. And pay no heed to what I might say should I again ram one of these spruces. And no doubt I will."
This time I shouldered my own pack. Emil loaded, snapped the canoe to his thighs, then his shoulders with two quick moves. Tough old buzzard. Once again we were off, Emil thumping trunks and grinding his way through the thicket. For me it was an up and over slog with a touch of branch in the butt as I straddled over the barky deadfalls. Finally we were back on the blessed portage trail. What ten minutes earlier had seemed a misery was now a walk in the park.
Slowly the air brightened. A glimpse above told me there was a break in the tree cover not far ahead. The lake. Wedge Lake as it turned out. Along the shore slept three aluminum fishing boats waiting patiently to be overturned and hit the water.
"Lodge boats," said Emil to the question I hadn't asked. "They're for the sports who rent the cabins but want a few hours in the bush. Makes their whiskey and soda go down more manly about the time they belly up to the dinner table. Did it a few times myself 'til I realized where I truly wanted to be, out here under the stars and canvas with the loons to sing me to sleep."
When Uncle Emil wanted to make a point, when he wanted me to listen up, he'd slow down his cadence of words. Pause now and then to search for the right one so I'd get his drift. But he never nailed the lesson down. Kinda worked his way around it. Left a hole in the middle I was supposed to fill in myself. Sometimes it'd take me a while to get the meat. Minutes, weeks, years, decades even. Most of all he wanted me to mull things over. Dig a little deeper. Never accept any thing or idea as the complete truth. Keep searching 'til the day I sprouted lilies. And maybe catch a few pickerel on the way.
"There's a couple of packs wanting our company at the other end of the portage. Figure they might come in handy so let's you and me head back that way." Turned out our unfettered return for a reload was enough break to refresh us.
Emil hoisted one of the smaller packs and I squirmed my way into the straps. Didn't actually feel too heavy 'til he let go. Then I sunk at least two inches into the rocky soil. Maybe split the continental shield.
"Grab a pair of paddles and you're off. Stay on the path. When you come to a fork, go right. Eventually you might come to a big puddle. By big I mean bigger than a house big. Wait for me there. If the puddle's not there or you can find a way around and still keep your feet dry, head on 'til you run into the lake. Any doubts anywhere, give out a yell. I won't be but a half minute behind. See you when I see you."
I was off. Stumblingly off. Into the woods. No one anywhere but me and Emil. Holy smokes Rocky. Lions and tigers and bears. But the path was wide. Easy to follow. Five minutes along and sure enough, there was the fork.
All was fine and dandy. Except for the pack. That bugger was mean heavy. Made my legs feel like rubber. By the time I hit the fork the straps were beginning to separate my shoulders from my neck. Oh me, oh my. When I felt the first trickle of sweat I feared it was blood from my torn flesh.
Traipsing through the forest the only sounds I heard were the hollow thumps of my footfalls, my wheezing and the creaking of the leather straps. Under foot passed dirt, rock and root for as far as I cared to look, which was about a stumble's distance. Little puddles now and then. 'Cause I had the duck boots I saw no sense in going around any stinking puddles. Trudged through. Uncle Emil said most of the portages had started out as animal trails. Seemed right to me since the portage we were on didn't shoot a straight line but wound around like a squirrel looking for acorns in a woods without an oak tree. No sir, this was nothing like a highway or sidewalk built by anything with a lick of sense.
Since I had time to think and thinking took my mind off the pack, I came to the conclusion nothing in the world before the arrival of pen and pencil, followed the straight lines we draw on maps. Mostly nature's trails take the easy way. Goes around the lake, avoids the hill, has no need of swamp, doesn't run into the tree. It seemed the paths were made by people and animals smart enough to know the right way to travel. Could be what seemed roundabout to me was actually the quickest way to get where we were going.
Above, thin patches of blue sky peeked through the bower of needle and leaf. So much green above, around and below even the air was tinted jade. In a way it felt like being in church, a big one like a cathedral with ornate pillars and all.
Now and then I had to work my way over or around a deadfall. Simple, hard work. When necessary, I broke my way through the side brush. My slow and surely inevitable death from terminal strap pain was interrupted by a loud, hollow bang to my rear. And a mumbled cursing that sounded like it was coming from inside a barrel. Turned out Uncle Emil had thumped square into one of the spruces angling over the path. Made me feel good I wasn't alone. But at the moment I wasn't sure Emil felt the same way.
Around the next bend waited the puddle, just like Emil said. Turned out to be more of a pond than a puddle. Time to pause for the thumper to show up. Paddles went down on a tussock, followed immediately by the thump of my pack. In a few seconds my body began to rise to its full length. Felt like I could float and rise to the treetops. Weird indeed.
Emil arrived a minute later. Wasn't huffing as much as puffing. A cloud billowed its way out from beneath the overturned Grumman. "I tell you Archie and it's the gospel truth, don't ever fire up a pipe and throw a canoe over your head. It was like a gas chamber in there."
While gasping that out he rolled the canoe off his shoulders and wormed out of the day pack. Quite a load for an old man.
He checked the pond in both directions. "Let's you and me have us a look-see before committing ourselves to what might turn out to be sheer stupidity." Off to the right we went, spreading our way through the brush and stomping over jackstrawed deadfall. Emil stopped midway around and scoped the remainder. "This'll do."
"I'll lead the way. Best you follow a ways behind so I don't whack you with seventeen feet of aluminum. And pay no heed to what I might say should I again ram one of these spruces. And no doubt I will."
This time I shouldered my own pack. Emil loaded, snapped the canoe to his thighs, then his shoulders with two quick moves. Tough old buzzard. Once again we were off, Emil thumping trunks and grinding his way through the thicket. For me it was an up and over slog with a touch of branch in the butt as I straddled over the barky deadfalls. Finally we were back on the blessed portage trail. What ten minutes earlier had seemed a misery was now a walk in the park.
Slowly the air brightened. A glimpse above told me there was a break in the tree cover not far ahead. The lake. Wedge Lake as it turned out. Along the shore slept three aluminum fishing boats waiting patiently to be overturned and hit the water.
"Lodge boats," said Emil to the question I hadn't asked. "They're for the sports who rent the cabins but want a few hours in the bush. Makes their whiskey and soda go down more manly about the time they belly up to the dinner table. Did it a few times myself 'til I realized where I truly wanted to be, out here under the stars and canvas with the loons to sing me to sleep."
When Uncle Emil wanted to make a point, when he wanted me to listen up, he'd slow down his cadence of words. Pause now and then to search for the right one so I'd get his drift. But he never nailed the lesson down. Kinda worked his way around it. Left a hole in the middle I was supposed to fill in myself. Sometimes it'd take me a while to get the meat. Minutes, weeks, years, decades even. Most of all he wanted me to mull things over. Dig a little deeper. Never accept any thing or idea as the complete truth. Keep searching 'til the day I sprouted lilies. And maybe catch a few pickerel on the way.
"There's a couple of packs wanting our company at the other end of the portage. Figure they might come in handy so let's you and me head back that way." Turned out our unfettered return for a reload was enough break to refresh us.
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