We weren't alone on the lake, far from it. Emil said our neighbors were white pelicans. Huge birds that summered in the northland and wintered way down south. In the evenings they hung around together, all twelve of them. They'd line up like ships in the admiral's fleet on parade and paddle around the bays. When off in the distance their white turned to blue. Could be they reflected the color of the lake which was reflecting the color of the sky which was blue because of the way the air filtered sunlight. Yeah, it was sure an all-connected kind of day.
So that's what we were doing in the morning, watching three of them circle and rise on a column of warm air. Emil claimed he could make them rise even faster by spinning yarns.
While we stood crook-necked gazing, Uncle Emil ambushed me with a question, "Hard to believe you don't have any memory of your dad. Somewhere deep inside there must be something?"
Oof, that sure took me by surprise. Almost blurted out for Emil to cram it but said nothing. Would've been nice if he'd kept his question to himself. No such luck. What the heck, after some thought I figured he was a good guy doing what he was doing and sharing this wonderful lake with me. I mean, he didn't really need the burden of a kid while heading to a place he seemed to hold pretty special.
"There's not much to say about someone I never knew. Truth is, I don't even remember if I was at his funeral. Or saw him after he was dead. You'd think I'd remember if I had."
We eased our way out to the water's edge while being careful to not lose sight of the birds.
"I guess in an odd way he might have taught me something by not being around. That it's best to figure things out on my own even if it means screwing up a lot. And I sure do. Time after time. Seems I no more than clear off one mess when another pops up. I'd like to say I'm getting better but I have my doubts. Maybe I need to get a jump on the field. Solve the problem before it becomes one. Yeah, it'd be nice to get some advice from my old man now and then. But that's sure not going to happen, is it? Who knows? Could be the only advice that actually matters comes from inside me."
I paused. Thought for a minute and tried my best to not lose the pelicans.
"I suppose the person my old man's death affected most was my old man. He sure missed out on a lot. Doesn't seem fair. I suppose, had he a choice, he'd have held on a lot longer. Who wouldn't? I know for a fact I want my life to last longer than the fifty years he had. Makes me nervous that I won't."
"Seems he had really high blood pressure all his life. I was told he had rheumatic fever when he was young and it damaged his heart. But you never know. That might not have been it at all. My Mom says he woke up one night complaining of a headache and that was all she wrote. Massive stroke blew his head off. One minute sleeping, the next dead. And not enough money to pay for a funeral. So what exactly did he teach me? Guess it was a fear of dying young. I don't blame him for that. I guess my father was as much a victim as me. Huh, never thought of that before."
By now we were leveled out on the slab to take the strain off our necks, still watching the pelicans soaring higher and higher. Growing smaller and smaller. Without speaking a word we'd agreed to do the same thing. See how far up they'd go before those white dots disappeared. Wasn't an easy thing to do as the birds circled and climbed. Every so often I was forced to blink or squeeze my eyes shut to refocus. Then it was a search and a near panic to find the pelicans once more. Almost like it was the strength of our eyeballs keeping the birds aloft. Should we lose sight of them they'd no doubt plummet to their deaths. For sure they'd smack down right on top of us. Kill us both deader than door nails. What a way to go. I tell you it wasn't easy holding those buggers up there. Made me feel like Atlas toting the world around. Only he had his whole back to do the hoisting. We only had our eyeballs and willpower. And those ungrateful birds up above not caring one way or the other about us two fools down below on the gray rock. Little did they realize their precarious hold on life.
I won't belittle that moment by comparing the pelicans rising in the sky to souls or prayers rising to heaven. Yeah, the thought crossed my mind. Just finished eighth grade at St. Austin's. The nuns there drilled those kind of thoughts into our heads like they had nothing better to do. Catholic or Communist the idea was the same, get 'em while they're young and you've got 'em forever. As I saw it, the pelicans were rising because they were having fun and we were laying there talking about a man who wasn't around anymore except in our thoughts. The life that had once been my Dad had moved elsewhere or simply gone pfft. No clouds and harps. No paradise in the sky. Whatever happened after death was a mystery no matter how many books had been written otherwise. Simple as pie, when something's a mystery, people make stuff up to explain it. Tell you what, when I pass on I'll mail you a letter, let you know what's happening on the other side. I'm not being cynical, just admitting my ignorance.
"Yeah, even though I don't remember him, I miss him. He left a hole in my life that nothing or no one else can ever fill. Odd thing is, I have no idea what I should call him. Always have to pause to consider my choices, dad, daddy, father, none of 'em sound right. Suppose the way it should have worked out, I'd be on this trip with him. Or something like it."
"But I have to tell you Uncle Emil, seeing as how my old man couldn't make it, you'll do."
"Archie me lad, I'll take that as a compliment."
I lost them first. Probably because I wear glasses. And seemed the power of two eyes was concentrated in Emil's one. Claimed he could still see their feathers and the pelican on the left, the one he called Leroy, had a little speck of something on his beak. "Can't exactly see what it might be. But whatever it is, is mostly green with a few red flecks here and there. Kind of Christmasy you might say. What I'm getting around to is the gnat that's feasting away on the specks. Looks like he's missing his rear left leg. Poor little fella. Archie me lad, had I two good eyes I could probably see that bug's ancestors and descendants up to four generations both past and future."
Finally Emil gave up the ghost.
"Uncle Emil, how high do you think they'll go?"
"Who knows, maybe they'll just keep soaring all the way to yesterday, or tomorrow, or whatever's up there."
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Canada XXXIX - The Dreams and The Plan
Morning light was on the tent when we awoke. No surprise there since the sun rose around 5am. As usual Emil was up long before me. Truth was he had to wake me every morning. What can I say? A growing boy needs his sleep. In my case he also tends to be as lazy as the moment allows.
Uncle Emil had spent his quiet hour sipping coffee and churning over his dreams. Not always an easy thing to do.
"First I've to remember them. And that can take a bit of conjuring, rummaging around in the basement of memory. Open my brain up and see what pops out. Sometimes it's the smallest image that's the hook. Once I find the hook I can start reeling. Usually the dream fleshes out. Then I have to figure out what my dream is trying to say. It's like we live in two worlds. Each world speaks its own language. It's something like being awake in English and dreaming in Russian. When I'm awake I do things. My dreams give me hints why."
"When I was younger I figured dreams were just so much gobbledygook. Then I had one that caught my attention. Snapped me awake in a panic of fear. Bothered me so much I figured it must be trying to tell me something. That's when I started to learn the language of my dreams through trial and error. I've gotten better at it but am more like the three blind men trying to describe an elephant than I should be. One thing is for sure, my dreams only deal with my life and the images my dreams choose only mean something to me. All those dream books at the book stores are just so much crap. A man has to take his dreams seriously and figure them out himself."
"From what I recall of last night's dreams, both involved water. So that's good. In one I was doing my best to net some flying turtles. Like the little ones that sun themselves on logs back home. Nice to see but they sure ain't fish. I usually check them out, smile and paddle on. But flying turtles, that's something special. Rare even. Worth stopping to see something that unusual. The thing was, I didn't want to be netting them. Figured in my heart I should just let them fly but was scooping them up because other people wanted me to. Even though I felt it was wrong, I was still netting away."
"In the other part, one of us caught a huge lake trout. Probably thirty-six inches long. I measured it with a twenty-seven inch ruler. Who in the Sam Hill has a twenty-seven inch ruler? Well I had one and it wasn't long enough to measure the whole fish. I recall saying the ruler was nine inches short. Don't know if it was me or you who caught the trout. But it was sure one fine fish glinting away in the sunlight. So those are my dreams and they've told me what to do."
Best I could come up with was, "Huh? I don't get it."
Emil went on, "The way I see it the turtle dream is about me. And I'm not going to net any more. Once in a while a man has to take a stand. Do what he feels is right and not be bent by what he's expected to do. In my gut that means I'm done fishing on this lake. Doesn't matter all the work we've put into this trip. Most would say a man would be a fool to come this far and put down the rod. But that's okay. If I want to feel good about myself I can't throw another lure in this lake even if it's only me and you who know. But I will feel just fine if we spend a few more days here."
At the sound of those words my heart stopped and my jaw dropped. Done fishing? Say it ain't so Uncle Emil.
"On the other hand Archie me lad, you're not by any means done. There's lessons to be learned out on the water. Maybe big ones. Dream fish are all about seeing the truth and one of us has to catch that three footer. I feel it's my job to help you out. Put you in the right places and let you cast 'til your arm falls off. Deal?"
My sigh of relief put a smile on Emil's face.
"By the by, not that I put much stock in numbers, but twenty-seven is three times three times three. Three to the third power. The fish was three times three times four which figures to thirty six inches. The ruler was three times three inches short. That's a lot of threes. And one four. And it's the four, the lake trout, that maybe gives completion to all the threes. Sometimes dreams are too weird for me. And something to chew on while we're out on the water. Like I said, I still have a lot to learn when it comes to dreams."
Uncle Emil had spent his quiet hour sipping coffee and churning over his dreams. Not always an easy thing to do.
"First I've to remember them. And that can take a bit of conjuring, rummaging around in the basement of memory. Open my brain up and see what pops out. Sometimes it's the smallest image that's the hook. Once I find the hook I can start reeling. Usually the dream fleshes out. Then I have to figure out what my dream is trying to say. It's like we live in two worlds. Each world speaks its own language. It's something like being awake in English and dreaming in Russian. When I'm awake I do things. My dreams give me hints why."
"When I was younger I figured dreams were just so much gobbledygook. Then I had one that caught my attention. Snapped me awake in a panic of fear. Bothered me so much I figured it must be trying to tell me something. That's when I started to learn the language of my dreams through trial and error. I've gotten better at it but am more like the three blind men trying to describe an elephant than I should be. One thing is for sure, my dreams only deal with my life and the images my dreams choose only mean something to me. All those dream books at the book stores are just so much crap. A man has to take his dreams seriously and figure them out himself."
"From what I recall of last night's dreams, both involved water. So that's good. In one I was doing my best to net some flying turtles. Like the little ones that sun themselves on logs back home. Nice to see but they sure ain't fish. I usually check them out, smile and paddle on. But flying turtles, that's something special. Rare even. Worth stopping to see something that unusual. The thing was, I didn't want to be netting them. Figured in my heart I should just let them fly but was scooping them up because other people wanted me to. Even though I felt it was wrong, I was still netting away."
"In the other part, one of us caught a huge lake trout. Probably thirty-six inches long. I measured it with a twenty-seven inch ruler. Who in the Sam Hill has a twenty-seven inch ruler? Well I had one and it wasn't long enough to measure the whole fish. I recall saying the ruler was nine inches short. Don't know if it was me or you who caught the trout. But it was sure one fine fish glinting away in the sunlight. So those are my dreams and they've told me what to do."
Best I could come up with was, "Huh? I don't get it."
Emil went on, "The way I see it the turtle dream is about me. And I'm not going to net any more. Once in a while a man has to take a stand. Do what he feels is right and not be bent by what he's expected to do. In my gut that means I'm done fishing on this lake. Doesn't matter all the work we've put into this trip. Most would say a man would be a fool to come this far and put down the rod. But that's okay. If I want to feel good about myself I can't throw another lure in this lake even if it's only me and you who know. But I will feel just fine if we spend a few more days here."
At the sound of those words my heart stopped and my jaw dropped. Done fishing? Say it ain't so Uncle Emil.
"On the other hand Archie me lad, you're not by any means done. There's lessons to be learned out on the water. Maybe big ones. Dream fish are all about seeing the truth and one of us has to catch that three footer. I feel it's my job to help you out. Put you in the right places and let you cast 'til your arm falls off. Deal?"
My sigh of relief put a smile on Emil's face.
"By the by, not that I put much stock in numbers, but twenty-seven is three times three times three. Three to the third power. The fish was three times three times four which figures to thirty six inches. The ruler was three times three inches short. That's a lot of threes. And one four. And it's the four, the lake trout, that maybe gives completion to all the threes. Sometimes dreams are too weird for me. And something to chew on while we're out on the water. Like I said, I still have a lot to learn when it comes to dreams."
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Canada XXXVIII - Aside
Looks like Emil backed me into a corner. A real dilemma. Sure didn't see that coming. Guess that's what happens when I let the characters talk for themselves. When I sit down to write I know where the boys are and what happened the day before. Then I point them in what seems the logical direction to move for the day. Then things happen. Sometimes it's about what I figured would happen. Sometimes it's a complete surprise. Like yesterday.
Obviously both Emil and Archie are me at different stages of my life. That Archie is fourteen, about the same age as my son Allan was when we first went to the Boundary Waters is no coincidence. That my dad died when I was three is also true. Emil is a composite of the adult men who passed through on the edge of my life. I chose what I liked from them and hope that I ended up in the ballpark.
The lakes traveled by Emil and Archie do exist. Me and Allan paddled them all. As does the unnamed one I'd like to get to someday. Pull up google earth and you can follow our route right down to the barely visible campsite on which I left the boys last night.
When I said Emil would sleep on it, I meant it. Dreams talk to him as they do me and everyone else. So I slept on it last night. And did have an appropriate dream.
Consider all these entries as part of a story that will be eventually interspersed with earlier Uncle Emil tales. Figure those tales could be told to Archie to fill in the gaps of an otherwise mundane happening. Above all this ain't no adventure story in the usual sense. My hope is that it'll be more like something that could actually happen to anyone in an everyday life.
Obviously both Emil and Archie are me at different stages of my life. That Archie is fourteen, about the same age as my son Allan was when we first went to the Boundary Waters is no coincidence. That my dad died when I was three is also true. Emil is a composite of the adult men who passed through on the edge of my life. I chose what I liked from them and hope that I ended up in the ballpark.
The lakes traveled by Emil and Archie do exist. Me and Allan paddled them all. As does the unnamed one I'd like to get to someday. Pull up google earth and you can follow our route right down to the barely visible campsite on which I left the boys last night.
When I said Emil would sleep on it, I meant it. Dreams talk to him as they do me and everyone else. So I slept on it last night. And did have an appropriate dream.
Consider all these entries as part of a story that will be eventually interspersed with earlier Uncle Emil tales. Figure those tales could be told to Archie to fill in the gaps of an otherwise mundane happening. Above all this ain't no adventure story in the usual sense. My hope is that it'll be more like something that could actually happen to anyone in an everyday life.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Canada XXXVII - Descent of Night
Dinner was leftovers. Mattered not. All was good. At age fourteen food passed through me, was absorbed quickly or was burned up in minutes. Most said I was bottomless. So long as Emil kept stoking my fire I was ready for nearly anything. Maybe even fishing. On a lake five hundred miles north of the border? So off the map it had no name? Yeah, I was ready.
We strung the backup rods with care. Even tied my own knots. Chose my weapon for the evening. Red and white spinner tipped with squirrel hair all the way from France by way of Parkers Prairie, Minnesota.
Uncle Emil's hand gripped my shoulder, "This is our evening. Let's make the most of it."
We pushed off at six-thirty with intentions of seeing as much shoreline as the fish would allow. Good fishing slows the pace to a crawl. I figured out later this dilemma was the uncertainty of fishing principle. An angler in the midst of great fishing faces a choice, move on to see if better lies ahead and not know what's been left behind or stay put and let the future remain a mystery. One or the other, can't have both.
Emil's solution was simple, "So long as the fishing holds, we'll stay put. Tomorrow we'll do whatever we feel like doing."
He said the lake we were on had no inlet or outlet that he knew of. Wasn't but an oval bowl with ten or so islands. From camp our view said there was nothing but endless, smooth shoreline, treed and swamped. But the reality was nothing of the sort. Never ending small bays and points. All holding fish. We found walleye, sauger and perch. Now and then a small, terrified pike. So many fish we made little progress on our circumnavigation. And, outside of the surprise of jumbo perch, not a fish was of size. Pound and a half, two pound pickerel by the bucketful. That was the extent of our luck that first evening.
Emil mused, "I hope beyond hope this lake still has some of its glacial meltwater mixed in. There's nowhere the melt could have gone save skyward or into the ground. I have no exact idea how fish ended up in these lakes. Could be they migrated north in the trail of the melting glaciers. Maybe at one time this area was all one big body of water. Wedge, the Cranberries and this lake were all joined. Then as the land drained off, the remaining water divided up into the lakes we see now. What we're catching are the ancestors of the unfortunates that got trapped in here when their way out was cut off by descending lake level. Just maybe they've grown to be somewhat different than their brothers and sisters over on the main run. Who knows what we'll find? Maybe even sturgeon or lakers. Probably not, but I'm hoping."
We fished the first few bays that evening. Hard to leave a spot when the fishing's hot even if none were wall hangers. Those innocent fish were suckers for anything that moved or flashed. Not a one had ever seen a spinner before. Or a boat, or people for that matter. Virgin water. Almost seemed a shame to be despoiling it with our civilized gear.
"Archie me lad, there's near a sadness to what we're doing. Like we're messing with a good thing that was never meant to see animals like us. In a way it's an Eden. Set aside by forces beyond our ken for reasons we'll never know. Or just a fluke of location. Doesn't matter. Best we show this lake the respect it deserves."
We fished in silence for a few minutes before Emil spoke up again,
"I've almost a mind to pack it up and head out tomorrow. Feels to me like we're trespassing in a holy place. At least that's what I was thinking a minute ago. On the other hand, it seems a shame to waste an opportunity such as lies before us so long as we proceed in a respectful manner. It's something that requires sleeping on. Perhaps the lake will tell us what to do."
We reeled in our lines to watch as the lowering sun shot pastels on the tier of clouds rising above us. We didn't know it but some thousand miles away a tremendous forest fire was laying waste to part of the Canadian Rockies. To this day it doesn't seem possible to me that smoke could drift a thousand miles to paint sunset colors from horizon to zenith. Too much to see. Too much to grasp. There, on the waters of a nameless lake, we sat bobbing in Emil's aluminum canoe, gape-jawed, speechless.
Regardless of Emil's musings on the reality of man and his effect on wilderness, I hoped he wasn't one to withhold the fishing of a lifetime from a fourteen year old. Emil suggested I troll while he paddled our way diagonally toward camp in the descending darkness.
Though Emil had me sinker my spinner down, it was running no more than a dozen feet below. But I'd long-lined it so as not to spook any curious monsters. My line trailed behind in the cloud reflecting slick, splitting the Grumman's wake. I sat slump-shouldered, lost in thought, nodding to the sound of the paddle to my rear. And Uncle Emil's occasional muttered monolog as he commented on his zig-zagging course. Guess he was as lost in the moment as I. Looking everywhere but where we were going.
Rod snap against my right wrist pulled me back to the surface. Would have lost the whole rig had not my hand snarled between the line and rod. My first thought was I'd snagged a log or maybe Emil was fooling with me. A glance to the rear said no. And Emil's, "set the hook boy," was the clincher. So that's what I did. A moment's electric quiver of life at the end of my line, another hammer of a tug as I slammed home another set. Five seconds of line stripping was immediately followed by a turn and a limp line. Thought I'd lost it but Uncle Emil started yelling for me to crank as fast as I could. Seems she was now coming straight at the Grumman. By the time I'd regained control, the fish had already passed beneath us. The canoe's keel quickly finished the battle. Whatever I'd tied into swam off with my leader and spinner.
"Uf da, that was a hog Archie. Sure would like to know what it was. Sometimes the stars line up right and what seems the catch of a lifetime is nothing more than a frisky fish and a strong hook set. Have to say no to that. And am not sure why it ran straight at the boat. Couldn't be street smarts. Not a street in thirty miles. Heck, whatever it was, it'd never felt a hook. Same could be said for all its ancestors. But she was some fish, alright."
That single moment had our blood aboil as we paced the camp while brushing our teeth before turning in.
"Like I said earlier, I'll see what my dreams tell me as to our future on this water. Maybe that last hit was reward enough for any trip in the bush. Maybe not. We'll see."
We strung the backup rods with care. Even tied my own knots. Chose my weapon for the evening. Red and white spinner tipped with squirrel hair all the way from France by way of Parkers Prairie, Minnesota.
Uncle Emil's hand gripped my shoulder, "This is our evening. Let's make the most of it."
We pushed off at six-thirty with intentions of seeing as much shoreline as the fish would allow. Good fishing slows the pace to a crawl. I figured out later this dilemma was the uncertainty of fishing principle. An angler in the midst of great fishing faces a choice, move on to see if better lies ahead and not know what's been left behind or stay put and let the future remain a mystery. One or the other, can't have both.
Emil's solution was simple, "So long as the fishing holds, we'll stay put. Tomorrow we'll do whatever we feel like doing."
He said the lake we were on had no inlet or outlet that he knew of. Wasn't but an oval bowl with ten or so islands. From camp our view said there was nothing but endless, smooth shoreline, treed and swamped. But the reality was nothing of the sort. Never ending small bays and points. All holding fish. We found walleye, sauger and perch. Now and then a small, terrified pike. So many fish we made little progress on our circumnavigation. And, outside of the surprise of jumbo perch, not a fish was of size. Pound and a half, two pound pickerel by the bucketful. That was the extent of our luck that first evening.
Emil mused, "I hope beyond hope this lake still has some of its glacial meltwater mixed in. There's nowhere the melt could have gone save skyward or into the ground. I have no exact idea how fish ended up in these lakes. Could be they migrated north in the trail of the melting glaciers. Maybe at one time this area was all one big body of water. Wedge, the Cranberries and this lake were all joined. Then as the land drained off, the remaining water divided up into the lakes we see now. What we're catching are the ancestors of the unfortunates that got trapped in here when their way out was cut off by descending lake level. Just maybe they've grown to be somewhat different than their brothers and sisters over on the main run. Who knows what we'll find? Maybe even sturgeon or lakers. Probably not, but I'm hoping."
We fished the first few bays that evening. Hard to leave a spot when the fishing's hot even if none were wall hangers. Those innocent fish were suckers for anything that moved or flashed. Not a one had ever seen a spinner before. Or a boat, or people for that matter. Virgin water. Almost seemed a shame to be despoiling it with our civilized gear.
"Archie me lad, there's near a sadness to what we're doing. Like we're messing with a good thing that was never meant to see animals like us. In a way it's an Eden. Set aside by forces beyond our ken for reasons we'll never know. Or just a fluke of location. Doesn't matter. Best we show this lake the respect it deserves."
We fished in silence for a few minutes before Emil spoke up again,
"I've almost a mind to pack it up and head out tomorrow. Feels to me like we're trespassing in a holy place. At least that's what I was thinking a minute ago. On the other hand, it seems a shame to waste an opportunity such as lies before us so long as we proceed in a respectful manner. It's something that requires sleeping on. Perhaps the lake will tell us what to do."
We reeled in our lines to watch as the lowering sun shot pastels on the tier of clouds rising above us. We didn't know it but some thousand miles away a tremendous forest fire was laying waste to part of the Canadian Rockies. To this day it doesn't seem possible to me that smoke could drift a thousand miles to paint sunset colors from horizon to zenith. Too much to see. Too much to grasp. There, on the waters of a nameless lake, we sat bobbing in Emil's aluminum canoe, gape-jawed, speechless.
Regardless of Emil's musings on the reality of man and his effect on wilderness, I hoped he wasn't one to withhold the fishing of a lifetime from a fourteen year old. Emil suggested I troll while he paddled our way diagonally toward camp in the descending darkness.
Though Emil had me sinker my spinner down, it was running no more than a dozen feet below. But I'd long-lined it so as not to spook any curious monsters. My line trailed behind in the cloud reflecting slick, splitting the Grumman's wake. I sat slump-shouldered, lost in thought, nodding to the sound of the paddle to my rear. And Uncle Emil's occasional muttered monolog as he commented on his zig-zagging course. Guess he was as lost in the moment as I. Looking everywhere but where we were going.
Rod snap against my right wrist pulled me back to the surface. Would have lost the whole rig had not my hand snarled between the line and rod. My first thought was I'd snagged a log or maybe Emil was fooling with me. A glance to the rear said no. And Emil's, "set the hook boy," was the clincher. So that's what I did. A moment's electric quiver of life at the end of my line, another hammer of a tug as I slammed home another set. Five seconds of line stripping was immediately followed by a turn and a limp line. Thought I'd lost it but Uncle Emil started yelling for me to crank as fast as I could. Seems she was now coming straight at the Grumman. By the time I'd regained control, the fish had already passed beneath us. The canoe's keel quickly finished the battle. Whatever I'd tied into swam off with my leader and spinner.
"Uf da, that was a hog Archie. Sure would like to know what it was. Sometimes the stars line up right and what seems the catch of a lifetime is nothing more than a frisky fish and a strong hook set. Have to say no to that. And am not sure why it ran straight at the boat. Couldn't be street smarts. Not a street in thirty miles. Heck, whatever it was, it'd never felt a hook. Same could be said for all its ancestors. But she was some fish, alright."
That single moment had our blood aboil as we paced the camp while brushing our teeth before turning in.
"Like I said earlier, I'll see what my dreams tell me as to our future on this water. Maybe that last hit was reward enough for any trip in the bush. Maybe not. We'll see."
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Canada XXXVI - The Heart
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.
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.
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.
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