Woke up with the war in Vietnam on my mind. Wasn't uplifting but was glad it wasn't me in the jungles. Felt more or less impotent. Didn't like the war from the get-go but felt no need to protest. Wrote a couple of letters to Vice President Hubert Humphrey and Senator Eugene McCarthy. Both Minnesota men. Thought maybe reading a few thoughtful words from a WWII combat vet might have some impact. Could be it did but from their responses it was hard to tell. Mostly their letters sounded like they were trying to explain the inner workings of the atom to a monkey. Had a tone of talking down from on high, not like two adults having a conversation.
The cabin rose from those letters and my thoughts on war. 'Specially this one where we seemed the aggressor. Had I remained in Parkers Prairie there's no way I could've stayed out of the 'America, love it or leave it' discussions. Protesters protesting down in the cities and most of us up here in the hinterlands protesting the protesters. Round and round she goes. Would've ended up banging my head against the wall - or having volunteers lending me a hand - and getting nowhere for my effort. Two sides. Both saying the other's wrong, immoral, evil. Could be there's a third side somewhere. Maybe a fourth or fifth. Time to step back and find the truth.
When I drove north to my future one side of me felt like I was running away. The other said there's more to life, go out and find it. Can't have it both ways. Bought the land in an area I loved, did the thought and prep work, called in my nephew Archie and his young back then set to work. No regrets? Only a liar or a fool'd say that. No matter the course chosen, a man always second guesses. Wisdom? Nope, just experience. Get used to those conflicted feelings? Nope. Best I could hope for was gettin' used to not gettin' used to them. People die, attitudes die, new life is born. Heard about a movement called born again Christians. Good idea but bein' born again only one time doesn't cut it. Not sure how many times a man has to change his ways. Half dozen at least.
Speaking of bein' reborn, I even considered not having oatmeal for breakfast. Figured to have it for lunch. Have to tell you I'm not having that thought again. When a man changes his way, is reborn to a new life, the idea is to hold onto the good parts, the holy, the necessary. Yup, I was back to oatmeal before I even left it. Kicked my traces for almost five seconds. Then kicked 'em right back. What was I thinking? No way was I foregoing one of life's true pleasures. Even the thought of eating something else to start the day gave me the shakes. Retrieved the water pot and headed to the lake. Rinsed, then swirled the pot counterclockwise, once, twice, three times and gathered a bit of Gabimichigami. Carefully returned to the grate, placed my grail on the one burner stove, snapped the rim with my middle finger to start a brief dance of water rings. At sixty-three a man finds his foundations where he will. Then hustled about breaking camp safe in the knowledge I'd dodged the bullet of foolishness and all was right with the world.
Been a while since I jumped into a morning's action before my feet hit the floor. Usually takes a bit of doing before the clouds break and the sun lights the way. Today would be another good day. Yup, no doubt about it. I'd hit the trail and walk 'til I didn't feel like it any more. Once again see what I'd see.
What I saw through the treetop breaks was gathering clouds. Not the kind you see in Maxwell Parish illustrations asparkle with pastel rainbow colors. These hung treetop low and pregnant with water. Me and the first raindrop met at my first beak of the morning. 'Bout the time I drew on my jacket the rain stopped. Had the thought it was over but gave a second thought to the ironic nature of rain. Should I not put on rain pants it'd be a gulley-washer for sure. For a moment or two me and the clouds exchanged glances. Checked each other out. Slowly nodded and exchanged knowing smiles. Tugged on my pants knowing there was no immediate end to the rain. Hate to be right when it comes to all-dayers. But I was. Upside was its sluggish nature. The clouds seemed bent on dropping an inch of water and in no hurry to do so. Spread it out. Nature punches no clock. Has no schedule. Felt the same way myself. Can't say I was thrilled but was accepting.
The rain eyed me once more, kenned my thoughts, scratched its head and figured, "What the hell, can't make the old fart completely miserable. Might as well give him a break."
Doubt the air warmed a single degree from sunrise to set. Might even have fallen. Though clad in impermeable, rubberized cloth I barely sweat a drop that day. 'Bout the only parts of me that got wet were my sneakers, socks and feet. Feet were puckered and drained of color by day's end. Bone white. Could barely slide them in my bag at night. Seems wet feet like to grip nylon. No drain of color on my white sneakers. As I walked they were staining into shades of red and gold. Can't say I was all that fond of the vibrant mess peeking out beneath my rain pants. The constant rain was sucking color as it bled through the aspen and mountain maple leaves. Smeared the path a bright pallet of vibrant color. Something like one of those nineteenth French garden paintings. Monet? Renoir? Kind of liked the look of the trail but not my shoes. Would have been happy had not my splattering stride streaked them like a Pollock canvas. Century of art history there at and on my feet. Never could see the sense or skill of Pollock's random dripping. Would have saved him time and money had he simply walked these wet fall woods and hung his shoes to dry in an art gallery.
As to the day, it was a thing of beauty. Treetop clouds spawned wisps of children below. Passed through them as I rose and fell with the landscape. Jaw-dropping beauty. Would've compared it to a Japanese print but was done with art for the day. Also time for a foot dunking or two. Not sure if I was crossing a network of streams or re-crossing a winding track. Either way, each passage was on beaver dams. Dams were fine, shoes were not. Wet, muddy and color smeared begs a side slide. Or, at the least, a little jitterbugging. All in all, I was no wetter after each crossing than before.
Lost in thought I overshot my first break to find myself at Agamok Falls on the grayed board and l-bar metal footbridge spanning the gorge. Gorge is a grander word than necessary for the eroded bed below but's the best I can do. And the falls was no Niagara. The bridge proved a fine, unmudded place to rest, legs a-dangle. Challenge was keeping the pack contents dry when I pulled a snack. Can't say I was perfect. More accurately, somewhere between fair and okay. The campsite closest to the falls would've proved the best of my hike. Made a mental note for the return trip. Somehow I managed to lose the note. Or maybe the rain streaked my mental letters into brooks of illegibility. Wrote a second note on the same bridge a few days later.
Today was one of closeness. The air heavy and my attention drawn inward. Hood and bill cap hunkered around my face trying to keep it dry. A man gets tunnel vision on such a day. Even more so when he's one-eyed like yours truly. Been that way for so many years the world looks normal to me though my normal may not be yours. One foot ahead of the other. Alternate and repeat. Slowly I began to rise. Back on the high ground. Miles of deep green accented by clots of warm colors paved the forest below the heights. Made me feel like king of the valley of the blind. Good thing for the low overcast. Softened the vistas and my ego to a human level.
Acceptance paved my way. Before setting out from the cabin I'd hoped for endless, perfect weather. Also knew this was autumn in the northland and rain was to be expected. Not that I was thrilled about it. Just that I'd come to know - again - it wasn't the end of the world. And makes me look forward to a hot meal under the tarp. Surround myself in a warm bag come dark. Yeah, something to look forward to at the end of the day. Miles to make 'til then. Makes a man feel he's accomplishing something even though it's nothing of consequence to anyone but him.
Never did take a full lunch that day. Snacked my way through a half dozen breaks. The log bridge over the Thomas River gave me pause. It'd been axed somewhat level for balanced footing. But my wet, mudded shoes went a long ways toward evening the score. Would have been a good spot to light a smoke and think it over had I a cigarette or desire. Instead, I simply flat-foot, scampered across. Seemed much easier once across.
A rusted saw band, relic from the logging days, marked the trail to Drumstick Lake. Figured to camp there for two days. My re-supply hung no more than seven miles away. Tomorrow I'd leave camp intact and head off with a light load. Be back by nightfall. Anyway, that was the plan.
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