Mid-September '69. All was ready but the weather. Cold and wet. Almost felt like winter settin' in. Sixty-three years of age and in a near panic over things I couldn't control. Each morning I'd rise, make coffee, grab some breakfast and head up to the lookout. There I'd sit for a few minutes in the steam of my cup watching the clouds course their way through the hills above Aspen Brook. The drizzle slithering its way down the panes in fits and starts told me to once again to don my rain gear before setting out on the morning's walk. Twenty pounds in the daypack to keep my shoulders in shape. Head up the McFarland Road 'til I sighted the bluffs then return home.
The big pack sat loaded by the side door waiting its turn. Bounced up and down, dropped slobber on my knees and ran in circles like a St. Bernard puppy. Almost broke my heart to leave it behind. Maybe tomorrow depending on the weather report. Like that mattered. Where I live the weather has a mind of its own. The tip of the Arrowhead is miles from anyone's predictions, or caring for that matter. A front comes rumblin' down out of the Yukon bent on mayhem, hangs a right at Hudson Bay, bangs into the mass of Superior and dumps whatever's been clutched in its paws since the good old days in Siberia. Wasn't but me, a handful of loggers and the rare fisherman who haunted these woods. Not enough bodies to warrant a college educated weather guesser. Gut feeling was as good as anything and my gut said no once again.
Did the stretch waterproofed from the waxed cotton fedora to heavily oiled shoe sole. And after a mile, mudded to the knee. My suit kept the rain out. That was good. Also kept the sweat in. That wasn't. By the time I stood watching rain dimples dance on McFarland my skivvies said I might as well have left the outer gear at home. Also told me, my hike to Ely'd make me feel and smell as natural as all outdoors. Maybe a wash cloth, small bar of soap and hand towel might come in handy. Oh well, another half pound to carry just to smell like a flower.
It's moments like that get me wondering things like, "What the hell am I doing?" And, "You'd think if I've been sweating this much I wouldn't have to pee so badly and could find my fly." Yeah, there wasn't a single reason in the world for me to hike to Ely and back except I'd gotten it in my head as something to do. Then built into something I had to do. But the closer the moment grew the less I wanted to go. At the same time I knew for a certainty the moment me and my pack turned our backs on the cabin it'd be two or more weeks 'til we returned. Up and down, back and forth I went. Constant debate with no compromise in sight. The German in me didn't care who won the battle. Just kept plugging ahead. A long day of driving got the two cooler stashes hung. Guess I was goin'.
And go I did. Woke up on Friday the 19th with no rain thumping on the roof. Wandered into the yard to find a crescent moon and Venus floating above the pines along the McFarland Road to the west. Everything was perfect. Except the warm little feeling in the pit of my stomach that reminded me how much I liked living in the cabin I'd built. The walls, shelves, tables, most of all the Lookout and the morning cup of coffee while surveying my domain. Ah well. Had to store that thought or it'd put me in the land of not doin'. Once the love of home notion arose the only way to put it down was to set out. Grabbed a quick breakfast, brushed my teeth, shouldered the pack, nearly fell over, bounced my way through the door and headed down the drive. Can't say the pack felt light as a feather but was tolerable. Air was cool, near chilly. Piercing blue-black sky dotted with the last fading stars. Good day for a hike. Checked my watch. Six-thirty. Thirty-five minutes should be two miles. And time to set 'er down and take a break. Or so I hoped.
Friday, December 18, 2015
Sunday, December 13, 2015
The Walk II - Stripping Down
Damnation. Too much weight no matter how I cut it. Started to think the solution was heading out the door in shoes, socks, smile and a bag of Snickers. Bare my soul and body to the world. Then I considered that picture from the world's point of view. Guess I needed clothes. Head to foot. Maybe even a mask. And a pack to carry them in. And coffee. Dear Lord I needed coffee. What point in doing anything without a cup of joe? So I 'spose I needed matches and if it rained, a stove. And fuel. And pots and pans. And toilet paper. Had to have butt wipe or my backside would chafe something awful. And a trowel to bury my leavings. Food, rain gear, book. And so on. What to leave and what to carry? Figured I didn't have to decide 'til I set off. Last minute is always best. No need to waste any hours frettin' over every little detail.
Figuring fall'd be the best time for the hike I circled September 21st on my mental calendar. 'Course that date could move one way or the other depending on weather and leaf color. Nothing wrong with passing through glory. Start beneath green and dashes of crimson and gold. Finish atop. Begin in one season, end in the next. Maybe grow a little on the way. Never to late to grow. Grow 'til I die then grow into something else. Maybe worms and dandelions.
More and more, as the days passed, I reconsidered and expanded my idea of a stash. Maybe two. No sense in carrying anymore than I'd need over three days. Use the coolers I already had instead of boxes. In each I put two clean shirts and pants along with extra socks and underwear. Also six days of food and a backup for most everything in my pack. Maybe a book or two. Half for the way out, the other for the return. By divvying up the gear I could cut my load to around forty pounds. Maybe less.
Didn't work out that way. Even using freeze dried food, the pack weighed out at close to thirty-six pounds on the butcher scale down in Grand Marais. Throw in a couple of canteens of water and I was lookin' at about forty-one. 'Course, that'd be at the get-go and reloads. As the miles passed so would the food and water I was carrying. Buried discretely in the woods, there to give nourishment a second time. Maybe turn into worms and dandelions or simply help the forest grow.
Eased my way into carrying a pack of size. Doubt my daypack ever topped eight pounds and figured twice that would be a good startin' point. Didn't feel too bad at all. The first five miler didn't do much more than cramp my neck a little and press my feet a tad wider. I did a day on and a day off under a load but never missed a walk. Slowly increased the miles before I started in on the weight. After a month I'd learned twenty-five pounds felt a lot better sliding off than it did hoisting on.
Come August I'd done a few miles with forty-five figuring it'd make forty-two seem a breeze. What it did was make me work on excuses to get it off my back. First time out I trotted off on a six miler. Three out, take a break, three back. Didn't work out that way. Started out just fine but soon heard a pair of tiny voices. Struck me as odd bein' I was the only soul on the road. Looked around thinkin' it was Bigfoot's cousin Little. Couldn't've been, seeing as how there were two distinct voices. One with a Canadian accent, the other more like New York city seasoned with a dash of Italy. You may or may not've heard of Littlefoot seein' as how he's an elusive rapscallion. Not shy, just so small most'd never notice him under any circumstances. So minuscule he barely leaves tracks in fresh mud. Those who know say it's his constant flatulence that gives notice he's around. Smells like swamp mixed with cardamom and sugar. Kinda like a Swedish bakery after delivery of fresh lutefisk. So, hearin' the voices I raised my sniffer to the winds. Nothin' but sun on pines mixed with hot road dust. While I standing and sniffing, the voices went silent. Stayed that way through an entire downhill. Come the next up, there they were again. Only this time I could make out what they were sayin'. Went, "Sons-a-bitch, sons-a-bitch," over and over. Half a mile of that noise raised my annoyance hackles. And the voices were gettin' louder. Loud enough to hear they were rising from directly below. So I stopped to pay extra close attention. Once again not a peep. Started walking, there they were again. Had to be my shoes. Took one off, looked it up and down, turned it every which way, squeezed it, beat it. Not a sound. Then, from down below the duet piped up, "It's us, your feet, dumbass. You think you're gonna pound us from here to Ely and back you gotta 'nother think comin'." Guess I was in trouble.
Time to bargain. Negotiate. Compromise. We struck a deal. My feet'd take me to and from Ely if I'd promise to: 1) keep the weight down to the forty-two pounds I'd originally planned, 2) come winter take them on a trip to Hawaii for at least two weeks and, 3) never complain about their singing once we'd hit the trail. Took my other shoe off and the three of us shook on it. Feet? Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.
Odd thing was they did sing to me every step of the way. Crush of sand and gravel, splash of puddle, ooze of mud, crunch of dry leaf and the never ending soft thud of foot strike. Not a step along the way spoke of asphalt or concrete.
Figuring fall'd be the best time for the hike I circled September 21st on my mental calendar. 'Course that date could move one way or the other depending on weather and leaf color. Nothing wrong with passing through glory. Start beneath green and dashes of crimson and gold. Finish atop. Begin in one season, end in the next. Maybe grow a little on the way. Never to late to grow. Grow 'til I die then grow into something else. Maybe worms and dandelions.
More and more, as the days passed, I reconsidered and expanded my idea of a stash. Maybe two. No sense in carrying anymore than I'd need over three days. Use the coolers I already had instead of boxes. In each I put two clean shirts and pants along with extra socks and underwear. Also six days of food and a backup for most everything in my pack. Maybe a book or two. Half for the way out, the other for the return. By divvying up the gear I could cut my load to around forty pounds. Maybe less.
Didn't work out that way. Even using freeze dried food, the pack weighed out at close to thirty-six pounds on the butcher scale down in Grand Marais. Throw in a couple of canteens of water and I was lookin' at about forty-one. 'Course, that'd be at the get-go and reloads. As the miles passed so would the food and water I was carrying. Buried discretely in the woods, there to give nourishment a second time. Maybe turn into worms and dandelions or simply help the forest grow.
Eased my way into carrying a pack of size. Doubt my daypack ever topped eight pounds and figured twice that would be a good startin' point. Didn't feel too bad at all. The first five miler didn't do much more than cramp my neck a little and press my feet a tad wider. I did a day on and a day off under a load but never missed a walk. Slowly increased the miles before I started in on the weight. After a month I'd learned twenty-five pounds felt a lot better sliding off than it did hoisting on.
Come August I'd done a few miles with forty-five figuring it'd make forty-two seem a breeze. What it did was make me work on excuses to get it off my back. First time out I trotted off on a six miler. Three out, take a break, three back. Didn't work out that way. Started out just fine but soon heard a pair of tiny voices. Struck me as odd bein' I was the only soul on the road. Looked around thinkin' it was Bigfoot's cousin Little. Couldn't've been, seeing as how there were two distinct voices. One with a Canadian accent, the other more like New York city seasoned with a dash of Italy. You may or may not've heard of Littlefoot seein' as how he's an elusive rapscallion. Not shy, just so small most'd never notice him under any circumstances. So minuscule he barely leaves tracks in fresh mud. Those who know say it's his constant flatulence that gives notice he's around. Smells like swamp mixed with cardamom and sugar. Kinda like a Swedish bakery after delivery of fresh lutefisk. So, hearin' the voices I raised my sniffer to the winds. Nothin' but sun on pines mixed with hot road dust. While I standing and sniffing, the voices went silent. Stayed that way through an entire downhill. Come the next up, there they were again. Only this time I could make out what they were sayin'. Went, "Sons-a-bitch, sons-a-bitch," over and over. Half a mile of that noise raised my annoyance hackles. And the voices were gettin' louder. Loud enough to hear they were rising from directly below. So I stopped to pay extra close attention. Once again not a peep. Started walking, there they were again. Had to be my shoes. Took one off, looked it up and down, turned it every which way, squeezed it, beat it. Not a sound. Then, from down below the duet piped up, "It's us, your feet, dumbass. You think you're gonna pound us from here to Ely and back you gotta 'nother think comin'." Guess I was in trouble.
Time to bargain. Negotiate. Compromise. We struck a deal. My feet'd take me to and from Ely if I'd promise to: 1) keep the weight down to the forty-two pounds I'd originally planned, 2) come winter take them on a trip to Hawaii for at least two weeks and, 3) never complain about their singing once we'd hit the trail. Took my other shoe off and the three of us shook on it. Feet? Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.
Odd thing was they did sing to me every step of the way. Crush of sand and gravel, splash of puddle, ooze of mud, crunch of dry leaf and the never ending soft thud of foot strike. Not a step along the way spoke of asphalt or concrete.
Friday, December 4, 2015
1969 - The Walk I - Dollars and Sense
Parameters. Believe that's the word. When to set off for Ely's more to the point? What to carry? Need maps and a pack. Rain gear. Clothes. Shoes. Butt wipe. Tent, sleeping bag, food, pots, pans, a book to read. A whole lot of stuff. So much I wonder if a sixty-three year old Dutchman like me can carry it all. Good thing it's spring and I've plenty of time to think about it and prepare 'til it's time to wise up and bag the whole thing. Like to say I'm no fool but if I'm anything, being a fool's usually at the top of my to-do list.
I make jokes about the problem of carry weight but realize what it means. Misery. Hard to have a good time and smell the roses when your shoulders are screaming bloody murder. Could have easily dropped the whole idea but once the seed was planted it grew quickly. Took root like a weed you might say. With no intention of being pulled. Done enough gardening to know weeds pull easily enough but also leave tiny little roots behind and are back and smiling in a day or so. Figured it'd be best to let my hiking weed grow 'til it found its way to Ely and back.
Hatched me a plan. First off would be a trip down to the cities to visit relatives, have a couple of free meals then hit a few outdoor stores. Thought about walking the aisles of the Army-Navy surplus in downtown Minneapolis but soon remembered the weight of that stuff. The Army's long into heavy duty. Thick, dense, enduring (like some of the cadre). Want the stuff to last through the mud and fire of a war. I'd survived my war. Done my share of misery and figured to learn from it. I wanted the pack as light as possible. Intended to visit Hoigaard's outdoor store and the brand new Burger Brother's I'd heard about. Between the pair I hoped they had what I was looking for.
Second was conditioning. Yeah, I was in pretty good shape for a sixty-three year old man. But in good enough shape to hike three hundred miles through the woods of the Arrowhead with forty-five pounds on my back? Once I had my gear and pack I'd break them in - and me down - by taking us out for an evening's stroll or two. Figured once a twelve miler with a full load didn't kill me I'd give Ely a try.
Then, out of nowhere came plan number three - a stash. The Border Trail changes into the Kekekabic Trail - those were the routes I intended to follow - where it crosses the Gunflint fifty or sixty miles from the cabin. Maybe a cache of supplies in a wood box suspended from a tree somewhere around there? Hmmm. That'd cut my weight down by close to ten pounds. Got so excited when the idea hit me I had to take a leak.
My trip to the cities was an adventure. Hit town during rush hour and got swamped in a river of traffic. By the time I broke free of the current I was half way to Wisconsin. Guess I'd spent too much time in the quiet of the Arrowhead where my nearest neighbor was better than a mile away. Heavy traffic to me was anything more than a truck an hour headin' up or down the McFarland Road. Finally, I pulled off the freeway, grabbed the map and headed back to my sister's house over city streets. Much better way to travel and a whole lot less hassle. Seems the world's got it's foot on the gas pedal and pushin' down harder all the time.
First stop in the morning was Hoigaard's. Would've gone to Burger Brothers first but it turned out they wouldn't be open for another year. Those kind of things happen to me all the time. Me and the natural order of things occasionally part ways. Both forward and backward, 'Sposed to meet a buddy over at Jack the Horse Lake to wet our lines at seven in the morning and I show up two months before he's even asked me.
They say some people never show up on time, would even be late for their own funeral. Me, I've already been to my funeral. Even had a good time. 'Course a few people soiled their drawers seein' me walking around and in the coffin at the same time. Odd thing was, I wasn't both places. Only looked like I was. Even checked that out with my buddy Mike the hairless werewolf. Had him put his hand on my shoulder - bein' what he was you didn't ever want to get too close to Mike - and take a look in the coffin. So long as he was holding on and looking inside, I wasn't in the box. Soon's he'd let go, poing!, there I was, the perfect door nail.
Mike did a double-double take and laughed, "Don't that beat all. And I thought going bald every time the moon rose full was weird."
Good thing for me Hoigarrd's was already there. Had everything I was looking for - and a few things I wasn't - even if it was bein' sold by a buckskin clad, long hair to beaded moccasins, clerk. Looked like his problem with time beat mine all to pieces. Me bouncin' around a month here, a year there and him in the store lookin' like he'd showed up for work two hundred years late.
In twenty-five words or less I explained my ambitions and what I was looking for in gear, "Should weigh next to nothing and cost about the same." His grin told me my hopes were unfounded, then rocketed off on a spiel about weight, space age metals, coefficients of something or other and lifetime durability. Never once mentioned cost. While he was rambling on I was turning tags. Also asking how much each thing weighed and mentally figuring out dollars per ounce. My truck's the standard. Comes in at around sixty cents a pound. A frame pack at a buck and a half an ounce. Top that off with the truck carrying me and me having to carry the pack. Seemed ass-backwards. Would be easier and cheaper to drive to Ely much less go through the misery of a three week hike.
It's tough on an old guy to admit a kid knows more than he does. Foolish pride. What he did do and it went dead against the grain of capitalism, was to tell me how to save five pounds of weight and forty bucks at the same time. Had me exchange the idea of a tent with a waterproof, nylon tarp, bug netting, some stakes and a hundred feet of parachute cord. Even drew up instructions how to rig it. Still, it didn't make it any easier when the cash register toted up the bill. But I walked out the door feelin' pretty good about what I'd bought. Funny how that goes when you buy quality. Grumbled my way in the door, smiled my way out.
I make jokes about the problem of carry weight but realize what it means. Misery. Hard to have a good time and smell the roses when your shoulders are screaming bloody murder. Could have easily dropped the whole idea but once the seed was planted it grew quickly. Took root like a weed you might say. With no intention of being pulled. Done enough gardening to know weeds pull easily enough but also leave tiny little roots behind and are back and smiling in a day or so. Figured it'd be best to let my hiking weed grow 'til it found its way to Ely and back.
Hatched me a plan. First off would be a trip down to the cities to visit relatives, have a couple of free meals then hit a few outdoor stores. Thought about walking the aisles of the Army-Navy surplus in downtown Minneapolis but soon remembered the weight of that stuff. The Army's long into heavy duty. Thick, dense, enduring (like some of the cadre). Want the stuff to last through the mud and fire of a war. I'd survived my war. Done my share of misery and figured to learn from it. I wanted the pack as light as possible. Intended to visit Hoigaard's outdoor store and the brand new Burger Brother's I'd heard about. Between the pair I hoped they had what I was looking for.
Second was conditioning. Yeah, I was in pretty good shape for a sixty-three year old man. But in good enough shape to hike three hundred miles through the woods of the Arrowhead with forty-five pounds on my back? Once I had my gear and pack I'd break them in - and me down - by taking us out for an evening's stroll or two. Figured once a twelve miler with a full load didn't kill me I'd give Ely a try.
Then, out of nowhere came plan number three - a stash. The Border Trail changes into the Kekekabic Trail - those were the routes I intended to follow - where it crosses the Gunflint fifty or sixty miles from the cabin. Maybe a cache of supplies in a wood box suspended from a tree somewhere around there? Hmmm. That'd cut my weight down by close to ten pounds. Got so excited when the idea hit me I had to take a leak.
My trip to the cities was an adventure. Hit town during rush hour and got swamped in a river of traffic. By the time I broke free of the current I was half way to Wisconsin. Guess I'd spent too much time in the quiet of the Arrowhead where my nearest neighbor was better than a mile away. Heavy traffic to me was anything more than a truck an hour headin' up or down the McFarland Road. Finally, I pulled off the freeway, grabbed the map and headed back to my sister's house over city streets. Much better way to travel and a whole lot less hassle. Seems the world's got it's foot on the gas pedal and pushin' down harder all the time.
First stop in the morning was Hoigaard's. Would've gone to Burger Brothers first but it turned out they wouldn't be open for another year. Those kind of things happen to me all the time. Me and the natural order of things occasionally part ways. Both forward and backward, 'Sposed to meet a buddy over at Jack the Horse Lake to wet our lines at seven in the morning and I show up two months before he's even asked me.
They say some people never show up on time, would even be late for their own funeral. Me, I've already been to my funeral. Even had a good time. 'Course a few people soiled their drawers seein' me walking around and in the coffin at the same time. Odd thing was, I wasn't both places. Only looked like I was. Even checked that out with my buddy Mike the hairless werewolf. Had him put his hand on my shoulder - bein' what he was you didn't ever want to get too close to Mike - and take a look in the coffin. So long as he was holding on and looking inside, I wasn't in the box. Soon's he'd let go, poing!, there I was, the perfect door nail.
Mike did a double-double take and laughed, "Don't that beat all. And I thought going bald every time the moon rose full was weird."
Good thing for me Hoigarrd's was already there. Had everything I was looking for - and a few things I wasn't - even if it was bein' sold by a buckskin clad, long hair to beaded moccasins, clerk. Looked like his problem with time beat mine all to pieces. Me bouncin' around a month here, a year there and him in the store lookin' like he'd showed up for work two hundred years late.
In twenty-five words or less I explained my ambitions and what I was looking for in gear, "Should weigh next to nothing and cost about the same." His grin told me my hopes were unfounded, then rocketed off on a spiel about weight, space age metals, coefficients of something or other and lifetime durability. Never once mentioned cost. While he was rambling on I was turning tags. Also asking how much each thing weighed and mentally figuring out dollars per ounce. My truck's the standard. Comes in at around sixty cents a pound. A frame pack at a buck and a half an ounce. Top that off with the truck carrying me and me having to carry the pack. Seemed ass-backwards. Would be easier and cheaper to drive to Ely much less go through the misery of a three week hike.
It's tough on an old guy to admit a kid knows more than he does. Foolish pride. What he did do and it went dead against the grain of capitalism, was to tell me how to save five pounds of weight and forty bucks at the same time. Had me exchange the idea of a tent with a waterproof, nylon tarp, bug netting, some stakes and a hundred feet of parachute cord. Even drew up instructions how to rig it. Still, it didn't make it any easier when the cash register toted up the bill. But I walked out the door feelin' pretty good about what I'd bought. Funny how that goes when you buy quality. Grumbled my way in the door, smiled my way out.
Thoughts on the The Walk
Don't know where this is going. And figure Emil's path may be dead ended. The idea came from his last post about maybe hiking round trip along the Border Trail to Ely, MN. Maybe two hundred fifty miles. Not exactly the Appalachian Trail in length but a tad heavier on the uncivilized side. Back in the late '60s few hikers traveled those Minnesota miles. Should something go wrong Emil'd be in what we called in Vietnam, a world of hurt. Don't know what they called it in WWII but I'm sure they had a phrase for being in a bind.
I've got a problem. Me and the Border Trail don't know each other well. Crossed it, canoe atop shoulders, a few times. Even walked a half mile of it with my son to see what the trail looked like. Turned out it was a well marked path in the woods. I've logged a few dozen miles on the North Country Trail, also in northern Minnesota and from what I've seen, they're similar. 'Course the size of the Border Trail's hills'd put more of a strain on the calves. Also, I have no idea what shape the trail was in back in 1970. Or even if it existed. Doesn't matter. Should I choose to write of it, it'll be just like I want it to be. Or maybe exactly how Emil tells me it is as he puffs along.
Wish I could go along with Emil on the hike. Maybe I will. The thought struck me as I wrote the above words that I could. Why not? No doubt Archie is gonna come home from Vietnam a little bit screwed up and a week or two up in the Arrowhead country with his uncle might be a fine thing to do.
Gotta think about that.
The Walk
Yeah, it's true. I wrote the words but Emil told me what to write. What he wanted was a journal much like Learning Curve. Only he wanted it to sound more like a real journal. Broken sentences. Images. Passing thoughts. And written a whole lot better. I didn't know that when he started dictating but soon figured it out. Maybe even got better at it. This is no long, convoluted tale. Then, Emil's walk wasn't a cross country trek. Just an exaggerated ramble. Like the two long Emil tales that preceded this, "Canada" and "Emil's Cabin", "The Walk" is written for my Grandchildren. Hopefully they can figure out who Emil and Archie are meant to be. And, truth be known, it's also written for me. There's a joy in being presented an idea and fleshing it out. Don't know how well I do it but somehow, that doesn't matter a whole lot. Like Emil and his hike I get a little advise, shoulder the pack then see where the path leads me.
I've got a problem. Me and the Border Trail don't know each other well. Crossed it, canoe atop shoulders, a few times. Even walked a half mile of it with my son to see what the trail looked like. Turned out it was a well marked path in the woods. I've logged a few dozen miles on the North Country Trail, also in northern Minnesota and from what I've seen, they're similar. 'Course the size of the Border Trail's hills'd put more of a strain on the calves. Also, I have no idea what shape the trail was in back in 1970. Or even if it existed. Doesn't matter. Should I choose to write of it, it'll be just like I want it to be. Or maybe exactly how Emil tells me it is as he puffs along.
Wish I could go along with Emil on the hike. Maybe I will. The thought struck me as I wrote the above words that I could. Why not? No doubt Archie is gonna come home from Vietnam a little bit screwed up and a week or two up in the Arrowhead country with his uncle might be a fine thing to do.
Gotta think about that.
The Walk
Yeah, it's true. I wrote the words but Emil told me what to write. What he wanted was a journal much like Learning Curve. Only he wanted it to sound more like a real journal. Broken sentences. Images. Passing thoughts. And written a whole lot better. I didn't know that when he started dictating but soon figured it out. Maybe even got better at it. This is no long, convoluted tale. Then, Emil's walk wasn't a cross country trek. Just an exaggerated ramble. Like the two long Emil tales that preceded this, "Canada" and "Emil's Cabin", "The Walk" is written for my Grandchildren. Hopefully they can figure out who Emil and Archie are meant to be. And, truth be known, it's also written for me. There's a joy in being presented an idea and fleshing it out. Don't know how well I do it but somehow, that doesn't matter a whole lot. Like Emil and his hike I get a little advise, shoulder the pack then see where the path leads me.
Monday, November 30, 2015
The Man in Black
First time I met him was in a Sears parking lot down in the cities. Was there to buy a saw but didn't know which one'd solve all my life's problems. At least as far as wood goes. The lot was nearly empty. Bein' a sunday morning most right thinking folks were still in church trying to get their foot in Heaven's door. As you can see I wasn't among the chosen. Had my reasons, the foremost of which was the six hour drive back up to my piece of paradise. Always figured the roof of a church got in the way of a fine view of Heaven. And seein' as how God's infinite you don't have to go far to find the Old Guy.
Nearly soiled my britches when I turned from the truck door and was forehead to nose with the man. All in black from sole to fedora. No jacket but he did sport a tie. Black on black one with a wood grain pattern. Nice tie. Was gonna ask the man where he got it but before I could open my mouth he clipped off in a voice that commanded respect, "I figure you'll get the most use out of a radial arm saw. Does pretty much everything except curves. For me that's been okay. I like most everything straight on anyhow. Even use it to trim my nails to a crisp point. By the by, best you get yourself a pair of quality blades to go with the saw. Cross cut and rip. That's what I'd do if I were you."
Tipped his hat and walked off like hadn't a care in this or any other world. Don't know where he came from. Don't know where he went. Don't much care as the saw turned out to be a fine piece of machinery.
'Course I gave the moment a turn or two on my way home. First I figured him to be the devil seein' as how it was a sunday and him bein' on the outside of all those holy walls. But a moment's thought and I remembered. Met him before and would no doubt meet him again. Each time his words carried a lot of weight with me even though he always appeared as a stranger. Almost a brother but a whole lot wiser and smarter. Never steered me wrong. Also wasn't bossy. Just suggestive in the sense of, 'this's what I'd do if I were you but I'm not, so do as you please'.
Yeah, I ran into him a half dozen or more times over the years. Couple of times in the war. Once when I was a kid runnin' hooch over the border to make a buck. Always looked liked he'd just walked out of the shower, donned freshly pressed clothes and dropped by for a minute to shoot the breeze. Then just as quick, was gone. Could be he doesn't like to dress up. Kind of like me in that way. Always takes a few hours before clean clothes fit like they should.
Don't know exactly who he is. One of these days I'll have to ask. Got my notions but that's about it. All I know for sure is to pay him heed. Never seems to guide me wrong. Guardian angel? Death? The man from down below? Or maybe just me on my good days? Probably doesn't matter.
Nearly soiled my britches when I turned from the truck door and was forehead to nose with the man. All in black from sole to fedora. No jacket but he did sport a tie. Black on black one with a wood grain pattern. Nice tie. Was gonna ask the man where he got it but before I could open my mouth he clipped off in a voice that commanded respect, "I figure you'll get the most use out of a radial arm saw. Does pretty much everything except curves. For me that's been okay. I like most everything straight on anyhow. Even use it to trim my nails to a crisp point. By the by, best you get yourself a pair of quality blades to go with the saw. Cross cut and rip. That's what I'd do if I were you."
Tipped his hat and walked off like hadn't a care in this or any other world. Don't know where he came from. Don't know where he went. Don't much care as the saw turned out to be a fine piece of machinery.
'Course I gave the moment a turn or two on my way home. First I figured him to be the devil seein' as how it was a sunday and him bein' on the outside of all those holy walls. But a moment's thought and I remembered. Met him before and would no doubt meet him again. Each time his words carried a lot of weight with me even though he always appeared as a stranger. Almost a brother but a whole lot wiser and smarter. Never steered me wrong. Also wasn't bossy. Just suggestive in the sense of, 'this's what I'd do if I were you but I'm not, so do as you please'.
Yeah, I ran into him a half dozen or more times over the years. Couple of times in the war. Once when I was a kid runnin' hooch over the border to make a buck. Always looked liked he'd just walked out of the shower, donned freshly pressed clothes and dropped by for a minute to shoot the breeze. Then just as quick, was gone. Could be he doesn't like to dress up. Kind of like me in that way. Always takes a few hours before clean clothes fit like they should.
Don't know exactly who he is. One of these days I'll have to ask. Got my notions but that's about it. All I know for sure is to pay him heed. Never seems to guide me wrong. Guardian angel? Death? The man from down below? Or maybe just me on my good days? Probably doesn't matter.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Cold Snap in the Arrowhead
A couple of years ago I noticed my pants were gettin' a little snug. Struck me as odd that the cotton in my Wranglers had shrunk that much. Needless to say I sat down right away and penned a letter. Wasn't to the Wrangler people. Wrote it to myself. Mailed it on the weekend when I was down in Grand Marais and picked it up in my box the following week. Went something like this:
Dear Wideload,
Time to get up and move it. You're more than a few degrees south of chubby. Keep it up and you'll be dead in a couple of years and they'll need a fork lift to carry the casket.
One who cares (and doesn't like what he sees in the mirror)
The idea bein' I'd accept criticism from an outsider. 'Specially someone I respect as much as I do myself. Also nice to get mail once in a while. Easy for me to write off my puffing when I hiked down to the stream as nothing more than old age creeping up on me. In fact a lively brain like mine could explain most everything and make reality exactly like I wanted it even if it wasn't. All was fine 'til I was struck out of the blue with a bolt of personal honesty. Hate that when it happens. No way to sneak around the truth so I decided it wasn't too late to get myself into shape before the undertaker carved and pumped me into a fine looking cadaver.
So, I took up walking (way more appealing than cutting down on my eating). Hiking when I want to feel more manly. Not sure what the difference is but I've been told there is one. Might have to do with packing a lunch. Yeah, some of my excursions call for a break or two. Walk an hour, sit for five minutes and move on. Maybe carry a book and binoculars. Bought me a small daypack and a couple of pairs of fancy white tennis shoes with blue stripes made by a company in Germany. Don't walk every day but some hikes push twenty miles.
Usually I stick to the roads. Here to McFarland and back's an up and downhill ten miler. One day when my oats were up I continued on down the Border Trail to East Pike. There I stood mid-shore on my favorite lake, no rod, no canoe. All dressed up for the picnic but forgot the basket. Just stood there a minute staring across a half mile of glassed out water, thought, "there it is," turned around and pounded back uphill towards home. Ate my lunch a mile back alongside John Lake. Never walked rod-less again. Bought a four piece spinning rod to stow in the daypack. Also packed a few spinners and snap swivels. Some lures small enough for trout, a couple for bass. Should I pass along a stream or lakeshore I'd be ready. Felt a whole lot better with an option. It's good to be able to say no once in a while when yes is just as likely.
Don't have many creative thoughts when I'm heading down the road. Seems like I need other people around me before the idiocy floats to the surface. Tried writing but nothing comes out worth reading. Even bores me. Could be that humor, which is the way I'd go if I could write, goes hand in hand with pain, misery and stupidity. Like the other day when I broke a personal record. In a quiet life like mine, personal bests are a big deal. Keeps me motivated. Gettin' better all the time (at least till I don't). Happened on the rise coming out of the valley just past my driveway. Farted on thirteen straight right foot strikes. Near as many as the sixteen left footers I did last fall. Like a one cylinder engine as I chugged my way up the rise. A good writer could make something of that. Maybe even the theme of an entire novel. A saga. But not me. But I did make note of it in my journal. Right after a comment about noticing a wind knot in my fly line leader and maybe should put on a new one when I'm feelin' up to it.
Reflecting water. Those words kept coming back to me on my return from East Pike. Outside of an occasional tiny zephyr the water was truly glassed out. Near upside-down, right side-up confusion of the far shore. Seen it before and never gave it much thought beyond, "That's pretty neat. Maybe I should try a handstand to see if it looks the same?" Never before caught the connection between the reflection of the water and the reflection I get lost in while out on a walk. Also, the dreams I used to have when I was younger. Don't have them as much anymore. Spent most of my dream time from my years in the war 'til I retired either back in the war or out on the water. The water dreams ran the gamut from being iced out to catching large fish. Yeah, I sure liked to catch those dream fish but it seemed I didn't have much control over what was on the end of my line. 'Til I gave it some thought. Reflected on it. Seems those dreams were trying to tell me something. And it wasn't the figuring it out that mattered near as much as changing what needed changing in my life. Reflection's fine but a man's gotta go deeper than the surface. Put those thoughts into action. Did some things right. Some I screwed up big time. Long story short, guess I'm a little slow on the uptake in more ways than you can shake a stick at.
Had thoughts lately of headin' up McFarland way, catch the Border Trail and wander on over to Ely. Can't be more than a hundred-forty miles or thereabouts. A week with close to fifty pounds on my back. What's that to a sixty-three year old man besides maybe death and being eaten by feral hamsters? Once there I'd take a short shopping, eating and sleeping break then head back. See the other side of the trees I'd passed. Or maybe catch a bus back to Hovland.
Anyhow, what I'm getting around to is a walk I took after shoveling out the driveway the other day. Should've known better. Worked up a sweat in the hour and a quarter it took me to clear the snow but felt pretty good. Stuffed my shovel in a snow bank and set off south down the McFarland Road. Probably was above zero but not by much. Half hour out. A little more on the return. A smart man would've started out north. Wasn't much of a wind in the beginning but slowly built on the outbound. When it was at my back I payed the breeze no mind. Sure did on the way back. Near to froze my nose but more important, my privates. My pecker pain got my attention when it started to thaw. Guess that's one of those good-bad things. Bad that it hurt like the devil. Good that the pain said it was still attached. Might not do that again.
Dear Wideload,
Time to get up and move it. You're more than a few degrees south of chubby. Keep it up and you'll be dead in a couple of years and they'll need a fork lift to carry the casket.
One who cares (and doesn't like what he sees in the mirror)
The idea bein' I'd accept criticism from an outsider. 'Specially someone I respect as much as I do myself. Also nice to get mail once in a while. Easy for me to write off my puffing when I hiked down to the stream as nothing more than old age creeping up on me. In fact a lively brain like mine could explain most everything and make reality exactly like I wanted it even if it wasn't. All was fine 'til I was struck out of the blue with a bolt of personal honesty. Hate that when it happens. No way to sneak around the truth so I decided it wasn't too late to get myself into shape before the undertaker carved and pumped me into a fine looking cadaver.
So, I took up walking (way more appealing than cutting down on my eating). Hiking when I want to feel more manly. Not sure what the difference is but I've been told there is one. Might have to do with packing a lunch. Yeah, some of my excursions call for a break or two. Walk an hour, sit for five minutes and move on. Maybe carry a book and binoculars. Bought me a small daypack and a couple of pairs of fancy white tennis shoes with blue stripes made by a company in Germany. Don't walk every day but some hikes push twenty miles.
Usually I stick to the roads. Here to McFarland and back's an up and downhill ten miler. One day when my oats were up I continued on down the Border Trail to East Pike. There I stood mid-shore on my favorite lake, no rod, no canoe. All dressed up for the picnic but forgot the basket. Just stood there a minute staring across a half mile of glassed out water, thought, "there it is," turned around and pounded back uphill towards home. Ate my lunch a mile back alongside John Lake. Never walked rod-less again. Bought a four piece spinning rod to stow in the daypack. Also packed a few spinners and snap swivels. Some lures small enough for trout, a couple for bass. Should I pass along a stream or lakeshore I'd be ready. Felt a whole lot better with an option. It's good to be able to say no once in a while when yes is just as likely.
Don't have many creative thoughts when I'm heading down the road. Seems like I need other people around me before the idiocy floats to the surface. Tried writing but nothing comes out worth reading. Even bores me. Could be that humor, which is the way I'd go if I could write, goes hand in hand with pain, misery and stupidity. Like the other day when I broke a personal record. In a quiet life like mine, personal bests are a big deal. Keeps me motivated. Gettin' better all the time (at least till I don't). Happened on the rise coming out of the valley just past my driveway. Farted on thirteen straight right foot strikes. Near as many as the sixteen left footers I did last fall. Like a one cylinder engine as I chugged my way up the rise. A good writer could make something of that. Maybe even the theme of an entire novel. A saga. But not me. But I did make note of it in my journal. Right after a comment about noticing a wind knot in my fly line leader and maybe should put on a new one when I'm feelin' up to it.
Reflecting water. Those words kept coming back to me on my return from East Pike. Outside of an occasional tiny zephyr the water was truly glassed out. Near upside-down, right side-up confusion of the far shore. Seen it before and never gave it much thought beyond, "That's pretty neat. Maybe I should try a handstand to see if it looks the same?" Never before caught the connection between the reflection of the water and the reflection I get lost in while out on a walk. Also, the dreams I used to have when I was younger. Don't have them as much anymore. Spent most of my dream time from my years in the war 'til I retired either back in the war or out on the water. The water dreams ran the gamut from being iced out to catching large fish. Yeah, I sure liked to catch those dream fish but it seemed I didn't have much control over what was on the end of my line. 'Til I gave it some thought. Reflected on it. Seems those dreams were trying to tell me something. And it wasn't the figuring it out that mattered near as much as changing what needed changing in my life. Reflection's fine but a man's gotta go deeper than the surface. Put those thoughts into action. Did some things right. Some I screwed up big time. Long story short, guess I'm a little slow on the uptake in more ways than you can shake a stick at.
Had thoughts lately of headin' up McFarland way, catch the Border Trail and wander on over to Ely. Can't be more than a hundred-forty miles or thereabouts. A week with close to fifty pounds on my back. What's that to a sixty-three year old man besides maybe death and being eaten by feral hamsters? Once there I'd take a short shopping, eating and sleeping break then head back. See the other side of the trees I'd passed. Or maybe catch a bus back to Hovland.
Anyhow, what I'm getting around to is a walk I took after shoveling out the driveway the other day. Should've known better. Worked up a sweat in the hour and a quarter it took me to clear the snow but felt pretty good. Stuffed my shovel in a snow bank and set off south down the McFarland Road. Probably was above zero but not by much. Half hour out. A little more on the return. A smart man would've started out north. Wasn't much of a wind in the beginning but slowly built on the outbound. When it was at my back I payed the breeze no mind. Sure did on the way back. Near to froze my nose but more important, my privates. My pecker pain got my attention when it started to thaw. Guess that's one of those good-bad things. Bad that it hurt like the devil. Good that the pain said it was still attached. Might not do that again.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Emil To Archie
Dear Archie,
Been splitting wood lately. Nothing says life in the northwoods like getting ready for winter in late April. Don't know what it is about splitting wood but I sure enjoy it. Birch is the best. Burns pretty good and has a light berry smell when the maul pops it open. Don't go at it with a vengeance like a young man would. There's enough hours in a the day and days in the week to cull all I need without breaking my hump. Somedays I split the lengths next to the stump they came from. Others I simply throw in the wheelbarrow and pile alongside the cabin. Whichever strikes my fancy. Need to buck up and split around four cords. Should I spend the winter ten'd be more like it. Seeing as how I enjoy the work so much I might just keep splitting till I think of something better to do.
Finally bought a stereo system and a length of antenna wire. Strung the wire between a couple of uprights I'd screwed onto the lookout roof. Now I not only have music but also the news. Can't say the news is an improvement in my life.
She's looking like it'll be a late spring up here on Aspen Brook. The water's flowing up and over the bank in places, there's still two foot drifts here and there in the woods and all the lakes remain frozen tight. When the flow goes down and the water clears I just might try to see if the trout are still there. Bought a used split bamboo spinning rod down in Duluth. It'll be fun to see how it works.
Must have been some kind of winter up here. Almost sad I missed most of it. Makes me feel like a coward to pass the frozen months worrying the bass down in Florida. Also spent the holidays down in the cities. Almost didn't make it out of here in December. The driveway looked like a tunnel when I finally headed south. To this point I've been hand shoveling the entire sixty rods of driveway. I keep plenty of food in the cabin so there's usually no hurry finish the job. Even with the shoveling it doesn't hurt that I store a load of firewood in the truck's box. Four wheel drive is good but the extra weight helps a lot. By mid-December last winter my back told me in no uncertain terms to bite the bullet and put a blade on the front of the truck. Don't like to do that but probably will.
So, did I ever think of death when I was in training or combat? Yes and no. When it'd come to mind I'd stuff it down. And when we were in contact, there was no need to think of it. Death was there with us every inch of the way, not some idea in our heads. Mostly I'd think of staying alive and how best to do that. Even when I had to stick my neck out I was careful. Not slow, careful. My job was to keep the wounded alive and I couldn't do that if I was dead. Hell, I wanted everyone of us to pull through, especially me. Sounds selfish and maybe it is. But that's just the way it was and still is. I went to war with the idea of not dying. So Archie, that's my advice to you. Do your job to the best of your ability but most of all keep your mind on staying alive and come home in one piece. Then, over the years that follow, learn to deal with the ghosts who come back with you. You may not yet know about them but you will.
Should you have a few free moments now and then, give some thought to the canoe trips we did. Got a feeling the woods we passed through were a hell of a lot more peaceful than the ones you must be in by now. Also, consider another trip when you get home. A day, a week, I'll take whatever you can spare.
As always,
Emil
Been splitting wood lately. Nothing says life in the northwoods like getting ready for winter in late April. Don't know what it is about splitting wood but I sure enjoy it. Birch is the best. Burns pretty good and has a light berry smell when the maul pops it open. Don't go at it with a vengeance like a young man would. There's enough hours in a the day and days in the week to cull all I need without breaking my hump. Somedays I split the lengths next to the stump they came from. Others I simply throw in the wheelbarrow and pile alongside the cabin. Whichever strikes my fancy. Need to buck up and split around four cords. Should I spend the winter ten'd be more like it. Seeing as how I enjoy the work so much I might just keep splitting till I think of something better to do.
Finally bought a stereo system and a length of antenna wire. Strung the wire between a couple of uprights I'd screwed onto the lookout roof. Now I not only have music but also the news. Can't say the news is an improvement in my life.
She's looking like it'll be a late spring up here on Aspen Brook. The water's flowing up and over the bank in places, there's still two foot drifts here and there in the woods and all the lakes remain frozen tight. When the flow goes down and the water clears I just might try to see if the trout are still there. Bought a used split bamboo spinning rod down in Duluth. It'll be fun to see how it works.
Must have been some kind of winter up here. Almost sad I missed most of it. Makes me feel like a coward to pass the frozen months worrying the bass down in Florida. Also spent the holidays down in the cities. Almost didn't make it out of here in December. The driveway looked like a tunnel when I finally headed south. To this point I've been hand shoveling the entire sixty rods of driveway. I keep plenty of food in the cabin so there's usually no hurry finish the job. Even with the shoveling it doesn't hurt that I store a load of firewood in the truck's box. Four wheel drive is good but the extra weight helps a lot. By mid-December last winter my back told me in no uncertain terms to bite the bullet and put a blade on the front of the truck. Don't like to do that but probably will.
So, did I ever think of death when I was in training or combat? Yes and no. When it'd come to mind I'd stuff it down. And when we were in contact, there was no need to think of it. Death was there with us every inch of the way, not some idea in our heads. Mostly I'd think of staying alive and how best to do that. Even when I had to stick my neck out I was careful. Not slow, careful. My job was to keep the wounded alive and I couldn't do that if I was dead. Hell, I wanted everyone of us to pull through, especially me. Sounds selfish and maybe it is. But that's just the way it was and still is. I went to war with the idea of not dying. So Archie, that's my advice to you. Do your job to the best of your ability but most of all keep your mind on staying alive and come home in one piece. Then, over the years that follow, learn to deal with the ghosts who come back with you. You may not yet know about them but you will.
Should you have a few free moments now and then, give some thought to the canoe trips we did. Got a feeling the woods we passed through were a hell of a lot more peaceful than the ones you must be in by now. Also, consider another trip when you get home. A day, a week, I'll take whatever you can spare.
As always,
Emil
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