Once again, yet another time, Jack turned his canoe into a waterway that interrupted the western shore. The water continued to be fairly deep as he paddled, and that seemed like a good sign. There was no beach ahead, and as he pushed forward he realized that the channel continued, windingly, so that only a short distance was visible before him. This looks hopeful, he thought. This is not a blind-alley bay.
Jack came upon an open area on the south shore of the channel that had obviously been used as a campsite by previous canoe campers. He got out onto rocks, keeping his boots dry, and pulled his canoe partway up onto the rocks that constituted the shore. In the clearing there was a fire circle, not unlike the one he had found on the island to which the storm had swept him. He looked around and found three places where previous campers had pitched tents. This is a good campsite, he said to himself. I will be comfortable here. And the fact that this campsite is here probably means that I am on the right route.
Once again, Jack unloaded his gear and pulled the canoe up onto shore. He turned the canoe over and tucked his paddle into one end of the canoe. After inspecting the three apparent tent sites, Jack chose one that seemed level and free of protruding rocks. He got down on this hands and knees and carefully cleaned the site of loose stones and sticks. Then he put down his ground cloth and set up his tent. He ditched it carefully. That should keep me dry if it decides to rain tonight, he thought. He brought his sleeping bag and personal pack into the tent, as he had done other nights. He stowed his gear and food Duluth packs on a large rock surface, covering them with his tarp.
Now I need firewood, he thought. There was no suitable wood in the campsite. Previous campers had obviously burned up what they had gathered. Jack walked back into the surrounding woods. He found birch bark on a rotting birch log and brought it back to the fire circle. Exploring further and deeper into the woods, he collected a few dead spruce and cedar branches. He broke them into manageable lengths and piled them near his fire circle. “I’d like to have some birch branches or logs,” he said to himself. However, he was unable to find suitable birch firewood. He thought about the problem for a few minutes and then put his canoe back into the water. He paddled across the channel and pulled up on the opposite shore. Without much effort, he found firewood. Returning with his fuel, once again he beached and overturned his canoe, having first added his newly-found sticks to his wood pile.
Satisfied that he had done all that he could do and all that he needed to do to make this campsite a suitable overnight stopping place, Jack sat on the rocks near the shore. He was ready to rest. The paddling had been easy along the sheltered shore, but he was tired. His arms and back ached, albeit not as much as at the end of the previous day with its arduous portage. Blueberries surrounded him. He went to the gear pack and retrieved a cup. In a few minutes he had filled it with the berries. Dessert, he thought. Once again. And good.
Looking west from his campsite, Jack could not see the horizon. There were trees along the continuing waterway. But a sunset was developing above the trees, one of the spectacular endings that he had witnessed as dusk approached at the end of every north woods afternoon. He went to his food pack and retrieved the remaining half of the spaghetti dinner he had opened the previous night. One additional dinner remained. Chicken and noodles. That would have to carry him through until he reached Grand Marais. One more night. Maybe. Or if divided, dinner for two nights.
Once again retrieving a match from those the outfitter had supplied in a waxy, water-resistant bundle, Jack started a fire and set water to boil. He stirred the spaghetti dinner into the hot water and retrieved a cup of water to drink. Moving down to the shore from the campsite, he found a seat on a rock and ate his dinner. The shore just beyond the campsite curved to meet a small waterfall spilling a tumbling creek into the channel. As he had earlier in the day, he observed a beaver building a lodge just across this small inlet from where he sat. Andy told me something about beavers and drinking water, he thought. Too bad. The beaver’s there and I’m here. And the lake is where my drinking water comes from. Maybe I should have boiled it or something, but I didn’t. A parasite of some sort, I guess. Too bad.
After cleaning his cookware from his meal, Jack returned to the rock near the water’s edge. He took out his Swiss Army knife, picked up a piece of driftwood, and began whittling, not making anything, simply keeping his hands busy. His mind was also busy. As they had the previous evening, thoughts of home, his family, his future, and Marilyn descended upon him. More and more, his mind was preoccupied with his life back in Northeast Ohio. Life at the winery. Life at school. These thoughts raced through his brain, jumbled, confused, needing to be sorted out. Sort them out he would. He was sure of that.
Jack got up, walked around the campsite, and then returned to his seat by the shore. It’s up to me, he knew. Things aren’t really going to be a lot better when I get home. Mom will no longer be drunk every day. She will still have arthritis, I guess, and Dad will still be unable to cope with that. He will still try to squeeze every dime out of life that he can. If I’m going to break out of the prison of my home life, if I’m going to get to college, if I’m going to make something of myself, if whatever, it’s up to me. I can “swing on a star”—my mother used to sing a song about that as she worked around the house—and it will happen because of me. I can do it if I try. But I have to try. I have to do it.
Marilyn, his muttering mind continued. She is the bright star of my life. More than that, I can tie a future to her. A future with her, together. Jack returned to his whittling, pensive, thoughts of home continuing in his mind. Maybe he could find an arthritis specialist for his mother, and maybe he could get her there. That she was now up and apparently functioning was hopeful. Maybe he could get his father thinking about a brighter future. Maybe Jack could do something to help the winery prosper. He was too young to serve wine, but he could probably find ways to make the tasting room more attractive. Maybe he could get himself accepted at a good university. Princeton, or Yale, or Harvard. And with some sort of work-study job, maybe he could do it. Not just maybe. He could do it. He would do it.
Night was rising out of the west. Whoever said that night falls had never been out into a wilderness like that of the north woods. There, night rises. Soon, the Milky Way appeared overhead. Jack did not know many constellations, and the Milky Way, easily recognized here, was never seen in the light-filled skies of his Northeastern Ohio home. Then the Big Dipper. Ursa Major, Big Bear, he recalled. That one he knew. I don’t need to meet an actual big bear, he thought to himself. Soon it was dark, and once again northern lights appeared. Jack tossed his whittling into the lake, got up from his perch, and headed for his tent and sleeping bag.
— — — —
He did meet an actual big bear, however. Coming awake in the early morning, he heard a noise. Not far from his tent, he surmised. Cautiously opening his tent flap, he looked out to see a bear ripping apart his food pack. A large, black bear. “Oh, shit!” he mumbled. I was supposed to get my food up over a tree limb. He wondered whether he should make a noise. Could he startle the bear? Maybe scare it so it would move off? Or might that provoke the animal into attacking him? In the end, he did nothing. Nothing other than watch the marauder decimate his remaining food supply and destroy the pack that housed it.
Eventually, the bear lumbered off. Not sure of how far the animal had gone, Jack stayed in his tent. After perhaps a half hour—he had no way of knowing how long it was—he crawled out of his tent and put on his clothes. His food pack was torn and useless. Most of the contents had survived, including the freeze-dried dinner packet that he’d hoped would provide supper for this and one more night. Other items were gone, the remains of their wrappings scattered on the ground. The three remaining individually wrapped granola bars had not been disturbed. The GORP packet had been torn open, but its contents ignored. Nor had his coffee and oatmeal appealed to the bear. And with those items Jack made himself breakfast. Following breakfast, Jack washe
d his few dishes and repacked his gear, putting the remains of his food and of the tattered pack that once held it into the pack that held his cookware. Short rations from here on, he thought, but he hoped the “from here on” would not be long. Maybe only one more day. He rolled up his sleeping bag and once again carefully brushed out the interior floor of his tent with his hands. He also brushed off the exterior top of the tent. He collapsed the tent and rolled it and its supporting struts into a neat bundle. This tent had served him well, for which he was grateful indeed. He would keep it, if he could. Use it for a future trip with Marilyn, perhaps. It was supposed to be a two-person tent, after all. But it would be cozy for two. He could handle that—with Marilyn.
Jack looked around the campsite. A small remaining pile of firewood would be welcomed by a future camper. He rarely made much trash, but this night the bear had contributed a fair amount. A broom would be nice, he thought. Lacking that, he carefully picked up the bear-generated trash and stowed it as a bundle together with the remains of his food pack and what food he still possessed in his remaining pack.
Jack righted his canoe and dragged it to the water’s edge. He stowed his tent, sleeping bag, and remaining supplies in the front of the canoe. They took up not much space, Jack noted ruefully. Swamping in the storm had sent much of his gear to the lake bottom. The bear had destroyed a part of the limited gear and food that remained. But Jack was alive, healthy, and on his way home. Stepping agilely into the stern, he pushed off and picked up his paddle.
12. Moose
It would soon be over, his north woods saga. He would gladly leave bears and wind and rain behind. He was confident that he was now traveling up a waterway that would take him to Saganaga Lake and from there onward to Minnesota.
The channel in which he was paddling continued winding westward, sometimes deep, often shallow, sometimes sporting reeds, often garlanded with water lilies. As he rounded a gentle curve, he noted a collection of brush high in a towering dead tree on the north bank. An eagle’s nest, he thought. And then he spotted a bald eagle roosting on a branch close to the nest. Wow! he thought. We don’t have many eagles in Ohio. Our national bird, but here I am in Canada seeing one. He pulled his paddle into the canoe and sat quietly watching the large bird. Suddenly the eagle spread its wings, left its perch, and swooped down not more than thirty yards ahead of him. As Jack watched, the raptor tore into the nest of a loon at the edge of the water. Calling out loudly, the harassed loon raced across the surface of the water to escape the attacker. Clutching a loon chick in its talons, the eagle returned to its tree-top eyrie. Nature’s pretty rough, sometimes, Jack thought, at least for those who are not at the top of the food chain.
Jack paddled on, his mind digesting the raptor-and-prey scenario he had watched. Rounding a curve he found himself surrounded by reeds in shallow water. He paddled slowly, reeds pushed aside by the canoe. Then, ahead of him in the reeds stood a moose with a full rack. Another awe-inspiring encounter. Jeez, he said to himself, he’s big. What huge antlers—rack, I think they’re called. I guess I just wait here until he decides to move on. The moose looked at the canoeist, obviously not frightened, probably curious. It did not move. Jack sat motionless, paddle in the canoe.
Minutes passed. Five, ten, maybe more. Eventually the moose began to move toward him. Not knowing what to do, he retrieved his paddle and tried to paddle backwards, but canoes are not built for backward travel, and the reeds impaired him. He pulled his paddle back into the canoe and sat motionless. The moose paused, took a few further steps, and then stopped. Then it turned, put its head down and browsed on the reeds. How can it get so large just eating reeds and stuff like that? Jack asked himself. It must eat all the time. He continued to sit, motionless. Finally, the moose waded through the reeds and climbed up the bank of the south shore to disappear into the woods. Jack put his paddle back into the water and moved on, slowly, cautiously. I’ll remember that animal, he thought. The lion may be king of the African jungle, but I guess the moose is king around here. Certainly, by size.
He had put his paddle back in the water for but a few minutes when more moose appeared. An equally large animal but without antlers entered the water from the north shore. It was followed by a smaller moose. A cow moose with a young one—a cub, maybe it’s called, he thought. No, not a cub, a calf. The animals crossed the waterway and followed the large male into the woods. Wow! he thought. Don’t see that every day.”
Continuing through the reed-filled channel, Jack found his way blocked by a crude dam of sticks and logs. A beaver dam, he surmised. Water flowed through the loosely constructed dam, which looked old, not maintained, no longer important to its beaver proprietor, Jack supposed. Or maybe a hunter had trapped or shot the beaver. Is there still a market for beaver pelts? he wondered. Looking about he did not see another beaver lodge, although some brush along the north shore might once have been a beaver’s home.
Turning his canoe so that his seat in the stern abutted an apparently stable part of the dam, Jack got out and stood on the dam. It held him, and his boots remained dry. Grabbing its gunwales, he dragged the canoe over the dam and launched it back into the water. Back in the canoe he paused, looking at the spruce-lined banks. This is amazing, beautiful country, he said to himself.
Not more than thirty minutes further on his route, Jack found himself at a portage. He remembered, although vaguely, that he would have to make this portage before reaching Saganaga Lake. He stepped out of the canoe onto the shore and pulled his bark up onto flat rocks, well out of the water. Walking the portage, he found it flat and no more than about one hundred yards in length. Perhaps not even that, he judged. An easy walk. Or so it would be if he didn’t have to carry the canoe. Parallel to the portage path were the remains of a rail system. A rusty, obviously no longer used winch at the center of the portage, the highest point of the trail, was connected by a cable to a car designed to carry a canoe. The track ran down into the water at each end of the portage. Or rather, it once did so. It was now twisted and no longer usable. Winter ice damage, Jack surmised.
He carried the remains of his supplies across the portage. Feeling proud of his rapidly developing north woods skills, he put his personal pack on his back and what the bear had left him of his gear/food pack on his front. Paddle in hand he carried them across the portage. He returned to the canoe. “I did this before; I can do it again,” he said aloud. As he had at the earlier portage, he turned the canoe over. Struggling, he lifted the bow of the canoe. He turned to position himself under it, but lost control of the canoe. It fell to the ground. I think the outfitter gave me the sturdier model, he thought, and that’s good. A wrecked canoe at this point would be a disaster. He tried again, and once again failed to get the canoe onto his shoulders. On the third try, he succeeded and worked his way back until the pads on the thwart in the middle of the canoe rested on his shoulders. He steadied himself, making sure the canoe was reasonably balanced. Then he slowly carried the canoe across the portage. At the other side he dropped the back end of the canoe to the ground. Clumsily, but without injuring either himself or the canoe, he managed to put the bark down. He turned it upright and dragged it to the water’s edge, where he loaded his two remaining packs into the bow.
Jack was ready to move on, but he was hungry. And, he assumed, it must be near noon, maybe later. He launched the canoe into the water, thinking he could move on a bit further before finding a place to stop. Presently he came upon a grassy knoll on the north shore where a creek gurgled down to the main channel. He pulled the canoe to the shore, stepped out, and secured the canoe by its bowline to a tree. Lunch time. But short rations. He ate a granola bar and a handful of GORP. One more lunch, he supposed, somewhere on Saganaga Lake or in Minnesota tomorrow.
He had finished his lunch when an aluminum boat with an outboard motor coming from Saganaga Lake pulled up to the shore near where he was sitting. A uniformed man stepped out and approached him.
“Afternoon. Having a good trip?�
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“Yes. Yes, I am. Why? Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no. I’m a ranger from the Quetico Park, which you will come to if you go that far. Actually, we patrol all of Saganaga Lake and its waterways. Just stopped by to be sure you’re okay.”
“Yeah. Sure. I’m from St. Catharines, and I’m enjoying my three-week vacation from my job there. I’ve never been this far west before.”
“You’ve come quite a way.”
“I guess. I’ll have to head back before long. This certainly is beautiful country. I was thinking along the drive west that maybe I’d try to find a place to settle out here. But not Thunder Bay. It’s as large as St. Catharines.”
“Ya, you betcha. It’s a big city.”
“I liked Wawa as I drove through. A big, big goose there. Do you know it? Does it have a university? I need to get back on the education track and go to a university.”
“Ya. I know Wawa. It is a nice place, a friendly place. Actually, I think I might retire there—but that’s a few years off. No university, I think. No. Wawa’s not so far from Thunder Bay, and I guess that students commute to the university there from Wawa. But if you’re looking for a friendly small town, you can’t do better than Wawa.
And I have to ask you,” the ranger continued. “Can I see your fishing license?”
“Nope. I don’t have one. I’m not fishing. No fishing gear, as you can see. Just enjoying the country, and wishing I didn’t have to head back in another couple of days.”
“Okay. But you really ought to try fishing next time you’re out here. Lots of good-size walleyes. And another thing. When you get into Sag, stay along the north shore. There’ll be a lot of wind—always is at this time of year, any time of year, actually—and it’ll kill you if you get out into the open water.”
Lost in a Far Country Page 14