“Okay. So, who is or was St. Urban? Why name a winery for him?”
“Well, he was a monk back in the fourth century who did things with vineyard workers in France. How or why he got to be a saint, I don’t know. Anyhow, he makes the winery sound classy.
“And there’s more to my O’Neill story. My mother’s not a drug addict, but she is an alcoholic. Drunk all the time. Even before noon. Awful. What a waste. She used to be an attractive and smart woman. She was a bookkeeper and managed the accounts for both the family winery and Dad’s garage. Then she started drinking. She’s a drunk. Actually, I talked to my girlfriend before I took off in the canoe, and she said she thought my mother had stopped drinking. That would be great, if it’s true—and if it lasts, if it lasts.
“Anyway, I ran away. I took off to Canada, spent some time in St. Catharines near Niagara Falls. Then I headed west. I’m a small-town guy, and St. Catharines is a big city. Along the way I decided it was time for me to go home, which is what I’m trying to do now.”
“In a canoe!”
“Yeah. Well, that’s another part of the story. But yes, in a canoe. At least until I can find my way out to a road. I had a map, but I lost it along with most of my gear when I swamped and turned over in a storm. And a compass; that’s gone too.”
Lars had been listening. He said, “So I understand you plan to canoe out and take the road into town.”
“Yeah, hitchhike, I guess.”
“It’ll be easy to get a ride into town. But what happens to the canoe?”
“Well, I’ll leave it. I got it from an outfitter place in Thunder Bay, or near there. I rented it and put down a deposit of five hundred dollars. The guy said he’d sell it to me for that amount if I wanted, so I figure I haven’t cheated him if I don’t return it.”
“And at some point someone will notice that it has been abandoned and simply acquire it?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Okay. I see what you want to do. Might not be just the way I would have handled things, but it’s your life. So let’s assume you will spend the night here and head out in the morning. That’s what you want to do?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Lars said, “let’s look at a map.” It was getting darker. Ingrid pumped up a Coleman lantern, lit its mantles, and brought it to them. Lars spread out a canoe map of the area. “You’re here now, on this island, in Alpine Lake. The nearest take-out point—well, the best, anyway, and the only public one—is at the Forestry Service campground on Seagull Lake. An easy half day from here.”
“I see that,” Jack said.
“To get to Seagull Lake, you have to either portage or run some rapids. The rapids aren’t too much, just a drop of maybe four feet. But unless you’re an expert, running rapids without a bow paddler might be pretty risky. After coming this far, you really don’t want to wipe out this close to the end.”
“Yeah, yeah. I guess one last portage,” Jack responded. “They’re not my favorite sport.”
“Well, ya. But that’s what I guess you need to do to get to a take-out place and on the road to Grand Marais. Once at the take-out place, at the campground, just walk up from the take-out ramp to where the road from the campground joins the road in. You shouldn’t have much trouble getting a ride. Folks who camp around here are pretty friendly. The road in is Minnesota route 12. The Gunflint Trail, they call it. It must be about fifty or sixty miles to the town.
“Now, look here at the map. Seagull is full of islands. You want to keep straight on, down the middle, and then off to the northeast to the campground. But don’t go down the rapids back to Sag!”
“No, I sure don’t want to do that.”
“Here, wait a minute,” Ingrid interjected. She took a piece of brown wrapping paper from one of their supply packages. Deftly and swiftly, she copied the Seagull map. “Not perfect,” she said, “but good enough, I think.”
“Hey, it’s wonderful.”
“Okay,” Ingrid said. “It’s dark and soon bedtime. I’m about to make some chamomile tea. Non-caffeinated. Will you join us for a cup of tea before hitting the sack?”
“Great. Thanks.”
14. Seagull
“Okay, kids, out of the tent. It’s bath time,” Ingrid called to her two youngsters. “Take the soap and into the lake. Both of you.”
“Mom, do we have to? It’s cold. That water is like ice!”
“Sure it is. This is the north woods, and yes, you have to. You’re supposed to be Vikings. Right? Your dad and I have both been in already. So up and out of the tent, and into the lake.” The two youngsters emerged from their tent wearing bathing suits and headed for the shore.
Jack, awake, pulled on clothes and crawled out of his tent. “Good morning,” he said to Ingrid. Buttoning his trousers he added, “I’ve been bathing in the lake every morning, but I don’t have a bathing suit. So I guess I’ll skip today. But I will go wash my face and brush my teeth,” he added while tying his boot laces. Maybe when I get back to civilization and can buy a razor, I’ll even shave.
“Your kids are good swimmers?”
“Ya. We live near Lake Harriet in Minneapolis. They swim at a beach there. Nearly every day in the summer.”
“We’re not so far from Lake Erie in Ohio,” Jack commented, “but we really don’t swim much there. Picnics and playing in the sand—when we were little, that is.”
“Bacon and scrambled eggs?” Ingrid asked.
“Hey, I’d love it. But you don’t need to feed me breakfast. I have quite a bit of oatmeal left. And coffee.”
“Ya, you betcha. I’m sure you do. But you’re having bacon and eggs with us this morning. We might have had fish, too, but we ate it all last night.”
“Thanks. And I’ll leave my leftover oatmeal with you. I’ve had enough oatmeal breakfasts.”
“Good, but the kids won’t thank you for that. They’re not fans of oatmeal.”
Lars walked back to the campsite. “Hey, Jack, come with me if you’re free. We need to collect firewood, and everything close to the campsite has been picked clean. But there should be plenty if we go back into the woods a ways. This is a fairly big island.”
Firewood gathered and breakfast dishes cleaned, Jack turned to his tent. This has been a great tent, taped-over cut included, he said to himself. I’ll use it again. Probably lots. It was dry, and he took down the frame to drop the tent to the ground, stakes still in place and holding it spread out. He brushed it off carefully, paying more attention to getting it free of dirt and forest debris than he had on most previous mornings. He rolled up the tent and tied it to the top of his personal pack along with his sleeping bag. He picked up his remaining gear pack. “I don’t need this, don’t want it,” he said to Lars. “Can you use it? If not, I’ll leave it with the canoe, but I think there’s still some stuff in it that might be useful. And the pack itself is in pretty good shape. Of course, there are also the torn-up remains of the other pack.”
“Ya,” Lars said. “We’ll find a use for it.”
“I think our local shoe-repair place could sew up the torn pack,” Ingrid added. “It’s really not too bad.”
Jack put his remaining possessions into the bow of his canoe. Then, he paused and looked at the bark. He took his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and sat down beside the canoe. Carefully, he scraped the Ontario registration stickers off the sides near the bow. Okay, he thought. That should make it untraceable and more easily scavenged by whoever might think of acquiring it.
Lars approached him. “Now, let’s look at your route again,” He spread out his canoe map. Jack opened up the map Ingrid had drawn. “Go down around the island we’re on,” he said pointing out the way on Ingrid’s map. Then head due east, straight across, to the portage.”
“Well, I won’t really know which way is ‘due east,’” Jack commented, “but I think I should manage all right.”
“Ya. You’ll have to pass between a couple of small islands, but you’ll find the
portage, I’m sure. It should be easy for you. It’s well marked. And, although it’s maybe a third of a mile or so across, it’s a good, mostly level path. An easy portage, actually.
“Once across the portage, just stay down the middle of the lake. You’ll pass a number of islands, some with campers on them, probably all occupied. And as you get along, you may encounter a few motorboats. Low horsepower, outboard motors. They’re allowed on Seagull. But they should stay clear of you. As you get across Seagull—it’s a couple of miles—you’ll want to go along the north shore. Obviously, you don’t want to go down these rapids into Sag, but you won’t. The Forestry Service campground pull-out ramp is well marked.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I should be able to make it, I think.”
“Ya, you will. No problem.”
“Hey, Jack,” Ingrid said. “It’s been fun having you here with us. We’ve enjoyed your company. Do you have email? Of course you do. Everyone your age does.”
“Sure. jstavitch at gmail dot com.”
“That’s easy. I want to know how things work out for you and where you wind up for college—which of the Ivy League ones.”
“If I do. Actually, when I do. I’m not going to let my miserly father keep me out.
“And your email?” Jack asked.
“liolsen123 at gmail dot com. Olsen spelled with an e. Norwegian. Not with an o, which would be Swedish. Let’s stay in touch. Wait a week until we get back to the city, then email us.”
At the shore, Jack picked up his paddle, pushed the canoe into the water, and climbed in. He waved, calling goodbye to the Olsens and their two youngsters. He paddled around the island. As he did so, he thought to himself, I’ve met some wonderful people on this trip. The Nicholsons in Niagara Falls. Mollie Sullivan in St. Catharine’s, and her husband, Sean. Mr. Singh at the convenience store. And now, the Olsens.
Jack found the portage to Seagull Lake without difficulty. As promised, it was a flat, well-traveled, easy trail, albeit a little longer than he might have liked. He carried his pack, paddle, sleeping bag, and tent across. Then the canoe. It took him two tries to get it onto his shoulders and balanced. Well, not three tries this time, he mused. I’m getting better!
Canoe once again in the water, he pushed off, first into a narrow channel, but soon into the larger waters of Seagull Lake. “The way should be straight ahead,” he said to himself, “but there’s nothing obvious that I should head for.” He started across the lake, keeping the canoe pointed at a distant tall pine tree. He stayed close to the left-hand, wind-sheltered shore. He passed campsites, one after another, all occupied. Families for the most part, eating breakfast and organizing themselves for another bright, sunny, north woods day.
After what he judged was about a mile and a half, he found himself in a dead-end bay. He paused and watched a loon. It called to his mate. Wonderful birds. He would miss them. He turned back to the main lake, then in the direction he thought would be the take-out ramp.
The waterway narrowed as he passed an island close to the shore. Coming upon a campground occupied by a family, he paddled up to the shore. A man—the father of a family not unlike the Olsens, he surmised—came to the shore. “I guess I’m sort of lost,” Jack called to him. “How do I get to the pull-out ramp at the Forestry Service campground?” Jack surprised himself by remembering that was what the Olsens had called his destination.
“Ya, this lake is very confusing. Lots of islands. Just go around the end of this island, heading over to the right a bit. Then in a couple hundred yards you’ll see the channel. You really can’t miss it. Just don’t go down the rapids to Sag.”
“Great. Thanks.”
In what he judged to be about twenty minutes, Jack found himself at the broad, paved, pull-out ramp. He stepped out of the canoe, getting his boots wet for what he expected to be the last time. He worked the canoe to one side of the ramp and then pulled it up all of the way out of the water. He dragged it about twenty feet from the water’s edge. Leaving the canoe upright and open, he tossed his paddle into it. He thought about turning it over. It would collect less rain water that way. But he wanted it to look abandoned, not simply parked temporarily. With that, he decided not to turn it over. Sleeping bag and tent lashed to the top of his pack, he shouldered his pack and walked up the incline to the road.
Just up a short rise, he encountered the road from the campground and a parking lot that was home to pickup trucks, cars, vans, campers—vehicles vacationing canoeists had parked while they ventured into the BWCA. As he stood, a pickup stopped, and the driver asked, “Need a ride? I’m heading into Grand Marais.”
“Hey, yes. I do. Thanks, thanks a lot.”
“I have to make a stop at the Gunflint Outfitters, but if you don’t mind that, I can take you in.”
“That would be great. Wonderful.”
15. Grand Marais
“My name is Russ Swenson,” said his chauffeur. “We’re camped here. Came in last evening without stopping for supplies. Only enough for breakfast and lunch today. So I’m off to town with a grocery list, while Lois—that’s my wife—stays with the kids.”
“I’m Jack Stavitch. From Ohio. I’ve been out canoeing and camping, and I’m headed home.”
Russ continued, “I want to stop at Gunflint and pick up some fishing lures. They’re the best outfitters in the area, and they have a good selection of lures. Better than in town. But it won’t take much time.”
Jack was silent as they drove on. There was not much traffic, and what there was featured mostly campers and canoe-carrying trucks. They passed a sign for the Chik-Wauk Museum. “Interesting place,” Russ commented, nodding his head at the access drive. “Lots of local history stuff. We take the kids there if we get a rainy afternoon.”
Russ took it upon himself to narrate the trip along the Gunflint Trail. He commented on Larch Creek. “A good canoe route for a two-day trip to Gunflint Lake, if the water’s reasonably high. It’s no good in low water—if it’s been dry without much rain. Then you wind up dragging the canoe along a shallow channel. But early in the summer it’s a great trip. Tough portages up into Gunflint Lake, however.” Then, after stopping at Gunflint Outfitters for Russ to buy fishing lures and as they progressed toward Grand Marais, he commented on other points of interest. Loon Lake, the Height of the Land Portage, a moose viewing point. “I’ve seen moose along the road, and the kids always want to stop at the viewing place, but we’ve never seen a moose there.”
A good three-quarters of an hour had passed when the road started to descend steeply into Grand Marais. They passed a lumber mill on the left and a run-away-truck pull-out on the right. Ahead, spread out before them, was Lake Superior. That’s impressive, Jack thought. Much more so than Lake Erie, at least as we see it in Ohio. Grand Marais was visible at the shore.
“Where can I drop you?” Russ asked.
“I guess I need to find a motel or someplace to spend the night before heading to Duluth tomorrow.”
“Okay. I’ll drop you at the Mangy Moose Motel. Nice place, and not too much of a tourist rip-off.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
A friendly young man greeted Jack at the motel.
“A single room. Do you have one?”
“Ya, you betcha. King bed okay?”
“Perfect.” Jack passed his credit card across the counter.
“You’re from Canada?”
“Well, no. Actually from Ohio. But I’ve been living in Canada. St. Catharines, in Ontario. I’m heading back to Ohio now.”
“After some time out in the BWCA, I guess.”
“Yeah, and I need a shave. You know, I got dumped and lost most of my gear and supplies. Including my razor.” Jack stroked his stubbly chin. “Where can I buy stuff?”
“Well, the Holiday gas station just up the road has a good-sized convenience store. Or, if you want, Johnsons is a pretty complete grocery store a little further along on this side of the highway. They have toiletries and stuff.”<
br />
“What about clothes? And a haircut?”
“The Ben Franklin store in town has pretty much everything in the clothing department. Chuck’s is the only barbershop in town.”
“Thanks. I guess I’ll be able to get civilized again. And I want to get on to Duluth, so I can catch a plane back to Ohio. Is there a bus?”
“Well, sort of. But only on Tuesdays, however, so you’d have to wait until next week. Or you can hitch, I guess. I’m driving to Duluth tomorrow afternoon. My day off. Fifty bucks, and I’ll take you to the airport. That’s where you want to go, I assume.”
“Yes. Great. What time?”
“Let’s say one-thirty. Meet me here. You’ll be at the airport in about four hours, maybe even three. Depends on traffic. Probably no flights out by that time of day, but there are motels near the airport, where you can spend the night before a morning flight. They have shuttle buses, and will pick you up at the terminal if you can’t get out tonight. And even if you catch a flight to Minneapolis tonight, you’d probably have to wait until tomorrow to go back to Ohio.”
“Yeah, thanks. Good. I’ll ride with you. Now I need to make some phone calls. My cell phone is at the bottom of Sag. Can I call long distance from my room?”
“Ya, sure. It says how on the stand by the phone in your room. Or you can buy a card at the Holiday and use the public phone there. Less than we charge, but a noisy place.”
“I’ll call from the room. Any suggestions about dinner places?”
“The Angry Trout. Get the Lake Superior whitefish. You won’t find that back in Ohio.”
“I’ll do that.” Jack picked up the key and made his way to the motel room. Nicely appointed, with an inviting bed. I’ll enjoy that bed tonight he said to himself. He emptied his pack and surveyed his surviving possessions. I need to do some shopping.
Before venturing into town, he reviewed his finances, emptying his wallet and the inner pockets of his pants onto the bed. The $1,800 American dollars he had sequestered in a safe box at Mollie’s bank in St. Catharines were intact. They had survived being drowned in Northern Lights Lake and dried out. He had $213.62 in Canadian money; that would probably change into about $175 American. Beyond that, he owed money. The canoe and supplies from the outfitter would probably amount to about $700, and he thought the outfitter would have wasted no time in charging that to his credit card when he failed to return on schedule. In all and allowing for dinner and his motel room, he guessed that he had about $1,200 to get home on. What would an airline ticket cost? he wondered. I’ll have to pay the walk-up price. Maybe seven or eight hundred.
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