by Pat Mestern
Harry expressed himself through the written word. He wrote letters home, not to his mother who resented his leaving, but to Tomas and Frankie Carmello.
On a number of those cold winter nights with everyone back from the trapline, Ollie’s persuasive nature drew Harry into conversation as the two sat in front of the woodstove, their stocking feet up near the open oven door.
Nibi, who mended clothes or worked on a new pair of moccasins, said little but absorbed everything, including the catch in Harry’s voice during those infrequent times he mentioned Charlotte. She had developed great sympathy for the small, oddly featured man that shared the cabin, knowing from her own experience just how cruel some people could be with their prejudices, perceptions, and misinformation.
“You’ll know soon enough if you want to go home,” Ollie said as he whittled a spoon. “Wait ’til you experience cabin fever so strong that you’ll fine-tune a forty-foot stare in a twenty-foot room. The north isn’t for everyone. Take Tomas as a fine example. I’ve no doubt he leaves part of himself here but he’s just as comfortable down south if needs dictate.”
“You’ve no desire to live in Southern Ontario?”
“My parents came directly from Sweden to the Sault Ste Marie area where Dad found work, logging during the winter, working in a lumberyard during the summer. That’s what he did back home and that’s what he made a living from here. I got my schooling then roamed for a while, went to British Columbia before I came back, met Tomas in Blind River and partnered with him. We’ve prospected, worked a couple of traplines here and there …”
“You’d not consider living in North Bay, or Sudbury?”
“Nah, I’m an easy fellow to please. There’s lagom here. That’s a Swedish word meaning just enough of what one needs. I’ve no desire to be anywhere else or own anything more. There’s space. I can paddle from lake to lake for one hundred days and never cross the same one twice. There’s enough food can be gotten from the land and water. I’ve a good woman by my side and a roof over my head, wood for heat, skins for extra warmth and to bring in that bit of cash that’s necessary. Why would I want to leave?”
“What about you, Forest Man? Is our way of life for you?” Nibi asked.
“There’s no one to make fun of my looks. There’s lots of time to think things through,” Harry replied. “I like the silence of the forest. It soothes me. I’ve no idea if I’ll go home again. Your packsacker might become a permanent fixture.”
“Grief has a strange habit of turning the tables on one’s life,” Ollie said. “Everyone handles it differently.”
“Only Tomas, Frankie, and Mrs. Carmello understood what Charlotte meant to me,” Harry said. “She was always at my side, from the time we were seven years old. She completely ignored my physical appearance and seemed, as we grew up, to look directly into my heart. She inspired me to do the impossible, to write poetry, to understand it was more important to respect what one kept buried inside rather than what was physically apparent on the outside.”
“And you understood Charlotte,” Nibi said. “You recognized her love for you was more than skin deep.”
“She died at such a young age. You probably didn’t talk about loss, but do you think she’d now want you to go through life alone?” Ollie asked.
“Look at me, Ollie Olsen. Who’d have me for a husband?”
“That’s not what I asked,” Ollie said.
“Harry was silent for a few moments. Wolves howled from a point across the cove. Others answered from the forest, very close to the cabin. “My love for Charlotte will be with me forever. There won’t be another woman, ever. The ring on her finger sealed our love.”
“Strange, but I do understand,” Ollie said. “Just don’t let loneliness rule your life.”
“I’ve always been a loner,” Harry said. “I’ll fill the gaps with hard work and a dog for companionship.” He reached to pat Blackie’s massive head. “What is Tomas going to say about my stealing his dog’s allegiances?”
“To Tomas, a dog is a dog, nothing more. Blackie sees and knows a friend and sucker when he finds one. He’ll go south with you, packsacker.”
“You’re still sure that I will go south again.”
“Hedging my bets,” Ollie said.
“One thing you should know is that around here we judge a man on how he can read a trapline, the habits of the animals, the signs they leave.”
“That’s something you’re teaching me well,” Harry said.
“You learn fast.” Ollie rose to bank the fire. “It’s time to turn in folks. Five o’clock comes early. You pull your weight around here and you’re a partner. You slack off and I’ll personally pack you up and put you on a train heading south.”
Nibi laughed. “Tough words from a man who lets a big lummox of a sled dog stay inside because it’s decided to become a lap dog.”
April 1932
Hello Tomas and Frankie:
I arrived in Algoma Mills and through the kindness of Arnie had a place to stay and work until Nibi came out of the bush for supplies. After being kitted out I trekked to the cabin with her and, believe me, I did carry my weight, Tomas.
It was hard getting used to the tumpline but being so small it wasn’t a problem ’cept the pack is closer to the ground. But my neck and shoulders are strong. Ollie showed me how to use it to help carry a backpack or haul a toboggan. No one told me it was a thirty-mile hike by the winter trail to the cabin. It took some getting used to furniture made from birch and packing boxes but it’s fitting for the log home. Ollie says that the two of you built it, Tomas. It took a while longer to get used to working with the dogs but your mutt, Blackie, has taken to me and is my constant companion.
I am so dirty that I can hardly wait for a swim in the lake, but Ollie tells me that the ice doesn’t leave until mid-May and water temperatures never get above 45°F. I won’t impose on Nibi to do my laundry so nothing much gets done. My clothes and I stink.
I continue to learn all about trapping. Killing animals for their fur doesn’t bother me as much now as I thought it would. I was used to trapping and skinning rabbits for mom and me. I’ve been out on the line on my own, not to forget Blackie for company. I like the solitude. The forest doesn’t demand a person look a certain way or act in a particular fashion.
You know, somehow I find being cut off from the world comforting. When I’m alone I can hear the music of the bush, the sighing of a winter’s sun as it goes down. My thoughts are constantly on Charlotte. I did bring notepaper and pencils and have begun to write poetry but I’m no Archie MacLachlin or Robbie Burns.
No one mentioned snow blindness to me and the other day I was out on the line when it hit. I had to depend on Blackie to lead me home. I put a rope around his neck then kept one hand on the rope and the other on his back. He’s that tall and I’m that small … Being short does have its merits in certain situations. Ollie showed me how to make slits in a scarf and how to tie it around my face for the next time I’m on the trail and feel my eyes getting bad. He’s going to carve a slitted wooden mask for me, just like he and Nibi have. I’d never seen them before.
Ollie says to tell you that we caught less rabbit but more mink and fox in the traps. He says we need to catch more rabbit. He shot a moose in late February and we’re still eating the meat. Nibi says that she’ll dry it once it thaws.
Tomas, the next time we go to Arnie’s I’ll send your snowshoes like you requested. And Ollie made a pair for you, Frankie. He had some time on his hands because we were stuck in a blizzard in the camp for five days. Nibi finished a pair of moccasins for both of you. I’ll put them in the snowshoe package.
Frankie, I have enclosed the five dollars that you gave me for train fare home if things didn’t work out. I’ve decided to stay here for a while. Besides, with the Depression deepening, you need the money more than me. My mother, of course, won’t approve my staying in the bush. Please check on her for me.
That’s about all I have to write fo
r now. Take care.
Harry F.
August 1933
Greetings Tomas and Frankie:
Tomas, I can understand your decision to stay close to your mother, especially now that you have attracted the attentions of a young woman. From what I hear up this way, you’ve a reputation in these parts as quite the sharp blade. It’s good news that you found a job as they are scarce as hen’s teeth due to the ongoing depression.
Frankie. Thank you for your long letter. Your method of securing your job was unusual but worked. It’s typical of your unique style. That’s what Charlotte loved about you. She said that you thought in circles and that your creativity served you well in tight spots. Just remember that factory owner’s daughter is at some point going to want a commitment from you and I know that you have an eye for another young woman.
When it became apparent last winter that Ollie and Nibi needed privacy, I decided that I needed my own hut. I’m excited about learning how to build a log cabin. It won’t be fancy, just a place to lay my head. I’ve been sleeping in a tent, well, trying to camp out but mosquitoes and black flies make it impossible. Most nights I have to move into the fur shed.
Blackie never leaves my side. He has adopted me as his buddy. Perhaps he misses you. I worry about how he’ll act when you do come home again.
I don’t mean to get maudlin but I am becoming very attracted to your northern reaches.
Last winter, the smell of the pines and cold air was so intoxicating it took my breath away. I am comfortable with the silence of the forest, the cracking of ice on the lake, the comfort of my campfire, and even the howl of the wolves. This summer has brought the smells of forest growth and decay. I fall asleep to the lapping of water against shield rock. I love hearing water rushing over boulders, the smell of smoke from the cabin’s chimney, the call of the loons.
As you can read, I’m a poet and I don’t even know it as Charlotte was fond of saying.
I’m trekking out to Algoma Mills for supplies so will sign off this tome with best wishes to yourselves and Mrs. Carmello. Frankie, please put flowers on Charlotte’s grave for me.
Harry F.
August 1934
Dear Mrs. Carmello:
As Tomas is leaving for home tomorrow, I am writing this letter to thank you for the box of mementos of my Charlotte. Of course, she was your Charlotte too, so I am aware of how difficult it must have been for you to part with some of her personal possessions.
Tomas told me that because life in the bush can be lonely and difficult he felt I needed some precious reminders of the woman we both loved and admired. I am overwhelmed that you understood and chose items that were precious to her. It was kind of you to have Tomas bring them when he came for the summer so they would not possibly be lost if mailed.
Please rest assured that all are safe in my hands. I will never part with them. They will give me strength on my darkest days, especially the framed montage of the photographs of Charlotte that you made for me.
Tomas tells me that he is heading south as he’s planning to woo and marry his southern sweetheart. But, I am well aware of the fact he will miss the northern reaches of Ontario. For the duration of this visit he has taught me many things, how to stake then register a land claim regards prospecting rights, what to look for in rock samples and cliff faces. I thought I knew a lot about geology and mineral deposits until I was taken under Tomas’s tutoring this summer. We found garnets in a quartz vein which indicates the possibility of gold in the area. Needless to say, it was on land Tomas helped me stake and claim.
I will close now as the loons are calling from the lake and the sun is setting beyond the bay. Please know that the sun will never set on my love for Charlotte. Oh, the years pass by. Time travels on. But my adoration for Charlotte shall ne’er be gone.
Thank you once again for your generous heartfelt gift. In remembrance of Charlotte, I am yours truly,
Sincerely,
Harry Forest
July 1935
Nibi paddled the canoe to the landing, jumped out, pulled it up the loose pebble, then ran for the cabin.
“Ollie! Ollie! You must come now.”
Harry and Ollie were sharing the bench near the door. Ollie was carving a duck decoy, Harry was mending a sock. Both looked up, surprised to see her. She’d left earlier during the day, planning to spend a week or so with her family. From the tone of her voice, they knew she was upset.
“I was on the far side of Matinenda Lake, close to the cove where my ancestors are buried in the Christian ground,” Nibi said. “There are men digging in the burial ground, and others with those small machines that they look through.”
“Surveyors.”
“Yes. I didn’t talk to them because they’d just call me a dirty, stupid Indian. I paddled back to the carrying place, dragged the canoe across and came fast to get you. What they are doing is wrong. When my family became Christian they thought that their bones would rest in peace in that place.”
I’ll paddle over and ask a few questions. I think the Government still owns the land. Maybe they’re planning to build on it,” Ollie said.
“It was promised that my ancestors’ resting place would be respected.”
“How many people were buried there?” Harry asked.
“Not a lot, because although many went to church, few chose the new way. But my grandmother and grandfather, a baby, and seven more of my tribe are beneath the ground in the cove.”
“Shallow graves, I suspect.”
“The bodies were wrapped in blankets with offerings placed beside them then put in the ground. Harry, they are the bones of my bones …”
Ollie turned to Harry. “This isn’t your fight. I realize that you probably don’t want to get involved but I could use another man as backup.”
“I’ll come,” Harry said. “I might be able to help in some way.”
While the men headed for the canoe, Nibi disappeared into the cabin, got Ollie’s rifle and some ammunition then began to follow the men.
“I wasn’t planning on shooting anyone,” Ollie said when he saw the rifle. “Put the gun back in the cabin. Nibi, you know what the presence of a gun will suggest in a volatile situation. Please, put it away or you can’t come with us.”
“I’ll defend my ancestors’ graves unto my own death,” Nibi said.
“I won’t go if you take the rifle,” Harry said. “There are ways to negotiate. A gun is the least of them as far as I’m concerned.”
Reluctantly, Nibi returned the gun to the cabin.
“She has a hair-trigger when it comes to defending her heritage,” Ollie said. “Best that there’s not a weapon in the canoe.
As the canoe approached the cove, Harry recognized one of the men as someone whose hair he’d cut while staying at the store. The fellow was a surveyor who bought supplies at Arnie’s. “Nat Henderson is here,” he said. “He does work for the government.”
“He’s the tall one with blond hair, isn’t he? I’ve seen him around Blind River,” Ollie said.
When the canoe ground pebble Ollie stepped out, followed closely behind by Nibi. Harry hung back to pull the canoe higher up the pebble beach.
As Ollie strode purposefully toward Nat, who appeared to be in charge, the crew stopped digging.
“What’s going on here, Sir? Are you hanging around with a gang of thieves robbing graves these days?”
“Where’d you come from? There’s no sign of habitation in this area on any map I have,” Nat said. Recognizing Harry, he called “Hey Leprechaun Man. Are you and your scissors making camp calls now? Or are you just passing through with some friends?”
Harry didn’t answer. He glanced briefly at Nat and the men then scanned the work area, paying close attention to the ground where the gang had been digging.
“I asked first,” Ollie said. “You do know that you’re disturbing a Christian burial ground.”
“Indian graves. It says so on my map.”
“No difference,
” Ollie said. “A grave is a grave regardless who’s buried in it, Christian or otherwise.”
“I’m ultimately working for the government—here at Matinenda Lake then west at Wakomata Lake. What are you doing on Matinenda?”
“Harry, Nibi, and I are working a trapline. Our cabin is on the other side of the lake.”
“You live with your squaw and the Leprechaun? Interesting combination, I’d say, especially when the short one doesn’t talk too much.”
“Can’t say I noticed,” Ollie said. “You ever heard of Tomas Carmello?”
“Yeah, tough nut! Everyone knows and respects Tomas around these parts.”
“Well, he’s my partner so watch what you say,” Ollie said. “And don’t call my wife a squaw again. Now, are you going to stop digging up the graves?”
Nibi stepped up to stand beside Ollie. “The child’s bones cannot be disturbed. Christians were promised that their bodies would rest in peace in this churchyard.”
“What church or government do you know that ever keeps a promise? We’re building a dock here. It’s on the plan and it’s going to happen—graveyard or not.”
No one paid particular attention to Harry who had retrieved a canvas pack from the canoe and now was walking slowly through the dug area, his eyes to the ground. He frequently stooped, picked up an object, examined it, then placed it in the pack.
One of the workers, realizing what Harry was up to, handed him a couple of empty flour sacks. “I wouldn’t want my granny dug up,” the fellow said before he returned to the gang who were deriving great pleasure from the argument developing between their boss and the tall, rangy trapper.
“Why clear land and put a dock here?”
“Government plan has one going in here,” Nat said. “I’m paid to follow orders. If you don’t like it, take the situation up with some blithering idiot in Toronto or Ottawa. Good luck.”