Willard's Corner Revisited

Over the summer I received the news. I knew it was coming, all stories have an ending that creates a mystery for a future generation to ponder. It was nearly seventy years ago that Willard ordered timbers "dropped far enough from the shore to be discreet but close enough to be skidded in a hurry" and ordered the guides to remain in camp for the weekend. There was a lumber drop just up the falls at a scenic bend in the highway overlooking a craggy spill of Canadian shield into Sabaskong.

Early Saturday morning, the guides converged below, freshly stripped logs in tow. A crib quickly emerged, weighted with stones harvested from the site, leaving enough length to reach water deep enough to allow access for the Camp launch. Another team assembled a simple end-gable building and covered bench before they began working toward each other, building a winding staircase and hand rail.

By Monday, a coat of paint covered the building with "WILLARD'S" in red letters.

In time, a phone would be installed becoming the one end of the 'longest underwater telephone line ever laid for the convenience of fishermen'. That is how it would be touted on telephone books across the country when 6 miles of cable reached the Camp and Gohere Bay. The stairs would be straightened, restraightened until they became a straight run to the dock. A slide was added for luggage then was removed when wheeled luggage became the fashion after a rather expensive set went off into the water, never to be seen again.

The narrow overlook was enlarged, benches added, removed by errant snow plows and replaced again. It became an unofficial bus stop and lunch spot. The building was moved to water level, floated away, put on a truck and placed by the road, then moved a little further down the hill.

The little building was painted red, then brown, then white with red trim and always reminding passersby of the Camp that lay just out of sight in the maze of islands, just past Cyclone Pointe and beyond Wolf Island.

Over time, the sight came to be known as 'Willard's Corner' and that is how it is remembered on Ministry of Highway maps today.

I came across a letter from 2003 wherein the Township fire department offered to remove the building "at no cost". How thoughtful. I tucked it into the wooden box in my office next to the original letter acknowledging the land use permit for the site.

This summer, ten years after the generous offer of disposal, nearly seventy years after it 'appeared' one bright sunny weekend, the little roadside building ceased to be. No longer will it be a milestone for families or hunters headed to Sioux Narrows or Kenora. The dock, I assume, is gone as well, washed away with the changing moods of Sabaskong. The place probably looks much as it did in the early days of the highway. There are postcards listed on auction sites of this exact corner, the two islands are unmistakable, from the days when the road was dirt.

But if you search quick, you can still see the little brown building peering over the ledge, the answer to future generations who will ask "why is this place called Willard's Corner?"

80 Years Ago

It was 80 years ago today that Christina Peterson sat somewhere in the Great North Woods, presumably near a fire, sipping tea or coffee or whiskey and wrapped in a scratchy Hudson Bay blanket, and told the details of the previous night's sudden storm and how it had swamped the small boat travelling between the Camp and town.  She would tell of the bravery of her husband as he clung to one of their daughters or Chabot as he helped her to shore.  She shared the horror of watching her husband, Eyner, lose his grip on the capsized remnants of their boat and sink into the murky water and her two daughters disappear into the stormy night.  She spoke, no doubt, of her night alone, huddled on a small rocky island, seeking the shelter of bushy evergreens and how she breathed into the collar of her bulky fur coat, trying to keep warm.

Word spread throughout the North Woods, to Chicago where Chabot had a residence, through the fledgling Vaudeville family of entertainers and eventually to the offices of the Izaak Walton League, of which both men were early members.  Their deaths would be reported in the Winter issue in January 1933.

I was driving along, minding my own business...

It was late on a fall night as the family rolled along the undulating highways of northern Minnesota.  Headlights on the shiny new Hudson illuminated the road and a silvery moon hunglow over the treetops, casting shadows in the chilly air.  Random fog patches threw up walls of white under the headlights glow as we dipped and veered through the Laurentian Forest.  Mary and the children dozed, leaning on piles of pillows and luggage, coats thrown across as blankets to warm them.   Radio station out of Duluth faded in and out as the hills rolled by.

Willard fought to stay awake for just another hour or so would put them near a familiar hotel.  Random rains had slowed their trip but the clear night would allow him to make up time.  A long downhill stretch swept into a hard right and Willard eased off the throttle to keep the big car steady.  Rounding the curve, the lights shone on a triumvirate of deer.  A large buck accompanied by a pair of does stared into the timber from the center of the road.  Willard eased the Hudson to the side of the road.  It was new and expensive, considering what the lodge business brought in, but was large enough to haul guests, guides and the occasional sheep.  He recognized his good fortune that the deer were further up the road and not behind the blind curve and he sat back in his seat, breathing deeply, waiting for the deer to pass, enjoying watching their shapes in the darkness.  Slowly, the females wandered off into the forest on the left hand side of the road while the buck stood sentinel, head raised, taking in the surroundings, scents and sights.  With the ladies clear of harm's way, Willard figured the man of the family would follow close behind. 

Then, the deer turned to face the car, seemingly inquisitive, before lowering his head and charging full-on, crashing into the left front fender, smashing the headlight and bowing the massive hood.  The family awoke with the force of the impact and the sound of bending metal and breaking glass.  Mary scowled at Willard, the children blinked, bleary-eyed.  Willard sat frozen, hands gripping the wheel as the animal strode into the woods, following the does.

Willard pulled at the latch on the door but it wouldn't budge.  The family piled out to examine the damage.  The front of the car was a mangle of chrome and crumpled steel.  Willard tried to open the hood but it was so badly damaged it would not open. The family stood looking at the wreck in the moonlight as Willard shook his head.  Eventually they piled in and drove slowly to the next town, a single headlight guiding their way.

Sheep at the Camp

Last week a guest minister visited and spoke on the metaphor of christians as sheep and Jesus as our shepherd.  He addressed the traditional image with a very different cant, that of the sheep as a rather stupid animal, not smart enough to move on to fresh grass or avoid its own excrement.  There was an uneasiness in the church to be sure.  I flashed back to the story of Willard and the Summer of Sheep on Gohere Bay.

In the Great North Woods, challenges abound in the most mundane of tasks.  Maintaining a tidy lawn is near the top of the list.  An inconsistency exists in growth patterns day to day and spot to spot.  The rolling hills and random granite outcrops make for tedious and challenging work, not to mention the danger of flying rock chips and tragically mangled blades. 

It was during the winter months that Willard was struck with the idea of sheep to keep the grass under control.  A few telephone calls and he located a local shepherd who would be glad to spare a few sheep for the summer.  There would be no charge, Willard would keep the sheep fed and the wool would grow on its own.  This was symbiosis at its economic finest.  No more paying guide's wages to have the lawn mowed.

In April, once the Camp was open, boats in, docks repaired and such, Willard and Mary drove toward Rainy River to collect their sheep.  The new Hudson rode smoothly on a bright, if chilly, day.  The heater kept the pair toasty warm as they listened to radio news on the rolling hills of nortwestern Ontario.  They eased onto the dirt road of the sheep farm and rolled up alongside a barn.  Ed, the sheep farmer, stuck out a grimy calloused hand in greeting then walked with Mary and Willard to a pen with about ten sheep. 

"Take yer pick," he offered in a stiff accent.  Mary tried to find a 'cute' one while the asked Willard when the truck was coming by. 
"Truck?" asked Willard.  "No truck, I only taking two or three." 
"Have it yer way," replied the farmer and pulled a couple gunny sacks from a pile on the ground.  He opened the gate and made his way into the pen then stopped and stared at the couple.  "Ain't ya gonna help?"

Willard and Mary looked at each other, Willard in a sport coat and Mary in a dress, then slogged into the pen.  For the next hour, they chased the rain-slicked animals around the pen.  The task seemed simple enough, grab a sheep, throw the burlap sack over the back legs and tie the drawstring around its middle.  This turned out to be a bit more challenging with legs and hooves flying, teeth gnashing an a muddy pen filled with piles of sheep dip. 

Finally, they stood alongside the pen, tired and covered in muddy sweat, the April air beginning to chill around them as the sun faded.  In the back seat of the new Hudson were three sheep, bound at the mid-section, bleeting and thrashing, hooves tearing at the upholstery, teeth tearing at the seatbacks.  Willard and Mary climbed in the front seat, avoiding heads peering over the seats.  The bleeting and baah-ing overpowered the radio.  They discovered stress also has an odd effect on sheep.  The drive seemed much longer with open windows as the heater struggled to keep up with the spring chill. 

Back at camp, the sheep were barely more useful than in the car.  Sheep prefer tender grass, like that which grows near the edge of the path, worn by shoes of guests and staff.  They practically lived in the path and, in doing so, felt no need to wander far to deposit their life-promoting fertilizer to be spread on the shoes of guests and staff.  All around the island, the grass grew faster than ever, thanks to the excess fertilizer being spread by the unwilling staff and guests, while along the path, the grass was kept short and tidy.

Sheep, it turns out, do not like to move a whole lot.  They tend to believe they are entitled to their position and other critters, and people, should just go around them.  And they are not friendly if one disagrees with their perspective.  In short, sheep are not as cute as folk would believe if they had never experienced them first-hand.

Finally, around July, just as the smell of damp wool permeated the camp, the farmer came to check on his sheep.  Willard happily loaded them into a boat and sent them away, happy to pay guide's wages to have the lawn mowed and the sheep gone.

Greeting the Ghosts of Gohere Bay

As I visit Gohere Bay once again, the place is filled with faces and voices echoing through pine and maple trees, bouncing off polished rocks and across green waters, filling clearings and rolling from empty cabins.  Willard's booming laugh and Joe's broken, halting stories, Skaar's rolling gait and Chuck's long stride resonate. Pines are taller and aspen quake rhythmically as always.  The water shimmers, glasslike or tosses in random waves as the mood and wind dictate through summer days.

Touring the camp is like visiting an old friend after years; a little aged, a bit more worn, yet familiar underneath.  The moosehead is as large and imposing as I recall, the polished rafters of the lodge building are much closer to my head.  New mounts mix with old, which makes the old appear faded and unreal or the new appear too shiny and not quite believable.  The dock is familiar in length and function but gone are the hastily cut mooring holes, cleared by overly aggressive chainsaws, replaced by smooth boards with tidy cleats or rings.

Recent coats of paint appear at once fresh and weathered, such is the inconsistency of such things.  A place for recreation and leisure in the midst of a land that demands constant attention and unyielding effort.  Walking the hills, navigating slick granite, spongy moss, prickly juniper and chunky earth awaken new muscles and challenge joints and balance. 

For an evening adventure, we headed to visit Skaar's cabin, situated at the very end, or beginning, of Gohere Bay.  The cabin perches on a hill overlooking a small pool, fed by a tiny stream and picturesque waterfall.  Well, that was many years ago when I last ventured all the way to the branch known as Skaar's Bay.  Though I have taken may trips part way down the bay, I have been to the end only a handful of times, the most recent being a trip with Brad the last year I worked at the camp.  As we eased down the shallow bay, weeds tugging constantly at the outboard motor, I recalled paddling out of the bay on my last trip with Brad.  We had experienced some trouble near the waterfall and contemplated breaking into the cabin looking for tools.  I should learn to keep such stories to myself.

As we trolled along, motor properly trimmed, the depth guage never showed more than about four feet clearance.  I wondered about the stories of Skaar maneuvering a large cabin cruiser through this path and thought perhaps if he did this daily, the weeds might be less dense, though with only minimal clearance.  We finally reached the pool and the depth guage showed eight feet of water and lots of underwater movement. 

Nature is quick to change in these parts and quick to reclaim its own.  The waterfall is nearly overgrown, though fallen trees, remnants of the heavy spring rains, lay across the falls and down the bare rock.  I nudged the boat up to the rock enough to hold steady, climbed over the bow and began up to the old cabin.  It was essentially the same, yet different somehow.  The grass is taller, windows dirtier, shrubs grown larger and closer.  Wandering back to the boat, the family was tossing lines into the water, a beaver splashed his tail emphatically, reminding us we were trespassing on his pool. 

I pushed the boat off the rock and we drifted in the stillness of the pool, the setting sun casting shadows on the still water, dotted with green water-plants.  The beaver swam back and forth, taking time to glare, sternly, at the intruders to his peace before slapping his tail against the water, setting off a percussive splash and then diving to traverse the pool again. 

Finally, with mosquitoes biting and fish not, we fired up the outboard and nudged the boat toward home.  Serenely, we eased through the dimming stillness until the point at the mouth of the bay was in sight when the motor began to sputter and the boat surge and stall.  Out of gas. 

I did mention something about paddling out of Skaar's Bay, correct.  Thought so.  It was time for Andrew to learn to paddle and Anne to refresh her skills.  We made it out of the bay, into the more open waters of Gohere when a head wind kicked up.  I grabbed the fuel tank and gave it a tentative shake, maybe....  I placed a paddle under one end of the tank, tilting it so the remaining fuel gathered near the feed line and bumped the starter.

The motor caught and roared to life as the last rays of sunlight drifted away over the trees.  Barreling full-tilt up Gohere Bay, between the sentinel islands, guided by the yellow lights of the Camp.

Lowball

I've previously discussed most of the house rules for card games on Gohere Bay.  Guides were sometimes invited to play and, from time to time, would join in the games as their tolerance for the guests allowed.  One of their favourite additions to the "once around" rule, whereby each player would set the rules and game for a round, was the addition of the locally favoured game - Lowball.  The premise of lowball poker is oddly simple, yet so counter-intuitive as to befuddle the most seasoned card players.  Simply put, in five cards, try to collect the lowest hand.  This meant avoiding two of a kind, three of a kind, full house, straight, flush and aces.  While simple in theory, the habit of collecting and holding paired cards and pulling and wishing for straights can be difficult to break. 

The perfect lowball hand would be a 2,3,4,5,7 of a variety of suits.  I can't begin to count the number of times I dealt or played or watched a hand of lowball where a slightly tipsy 'tourist' would nearly vibrate with nervous energy, trying to contain his excitement, raising and pushing, needling and teasing before slapping down a straight or flush, only to watch the pot slide across the table to a smirking guide with a 'handful of nothing'.

Love and Fishing

It was the kind of June morning when everything is covered with a thick dewy residue that feels like fresh rain.  A thin veil of fog clung to the trees and glass-like waters of Gohere Bay.  The stillness of the air, the cool weight of it, reverberated with far-off echoes.  Words and sounds hung in the stillness, wending around ancient rocks, through the aging log cabins of the camp.  This was the morning Jerry Wills would take his young, adventurous wife, Amy, for her first day of real fishing. 

Jerry had been a guest at camp since before he could remember.  Every year he followed along as his father and uncles made the trek to Gohere Bay, at first he was carried, later he would carry light bundles and packages, then heavier suitcases and eventually be trusted with the grey and gold tubes that carried the family heirlooms, the fishing poles.  Every year he carried the tubes carefully, gently he would unscrew the caps and remove the shining rods of cane and bamboo and, later, fiberglas and graphite, taking in the bright logos; Zebco, Johnson, Garcia, Pfluger.  The previous year he had been given a Plano tackle box, not the two tier model, he had one of those at age seven, but the double hinged, multi-tray model with side-access drawers.  Jerry was well versed in the traditions of the camp and the men who made the annual pilgrimage in search of walleye for lunch and musky for mounting.

Jerry married Amy, the previous fall and couldn't wait to share all he had learned in his years on Gohere Bay.  And so they made the drive north, stopping at wayside outlooks and eating at small local diners Jerry remembered from his youth, sharing stories from past trips with his dad and uncles.  Amy took it all in, sporting her new backwoods look of ponytail and flannel.  She only wobbled slightly entering the tiny fishing boat and traipsing about the rocky and muddy island, was happy with her shiny new hiking boots.

And so Jerry and Amy headed out in the silence of the misty morning to a tiny reef-island only a few hundred yards from camp.  Jerry had raised a musky here the previous year and was hoping for another shot.

Through the misty fog, the two could be seen from the main dock at camp as grey silhouettes as he tied the steel leader to his line.  Amy leaned forward in her seat, admiring the skill in Jerry's hands as he worked.  She sipped coffee from a thermos and adjusted her ponytail, taking in the early morning quiet.  She struck up a light conversation as he worked and snippets of conversation could be heard across the stillness on the docks at camp.

As the camp came to life, guests and guides watched the pair, sitting like an abstract painting on the lake.  As they worked, loading boats, taking the casual cast off the dock, waiting for breakfast and making shorelunch plans, they could hear pieces of conversation, sounds, laughs, words, the clinking of metal hooks on the splash rail of the boat, scraping of boots in the fiberglass hull.  There were nods and comments and ribbing with smells of breakfast hanging over the dock and lodge building.

All at once, the peace was shattered and the air filled with the thrill of fight.  There was the heavy clunk of rapid movement in a small fishing boat, thrashing of water as a large fish struggled against a set hook, the grinding and squealing of gears as the drag set on the reel gave way.  The boat rocked with Jerry's movements as he sought to lead the fish to the boat, a crowd gathered on the dock to see the magnificence of a mature musky breaking water, scales shining against the grey morning water.  Jerry cranked on the handle of the old Garcia, a gift of years ago, holding the tip of the rod high, maintaining tension on the line, his voice strong and clear, "Grab the net" was answered by a voice, much smaller, but every bit as clear, clear enough and strong enough for all the collected camp on the dock to hear, "That is NOT coming in THIS boat".

A sudden stillness, more painfully still than any forest or mirror-like lake, reverberated across Gohere Bay.  Though the guides and guests and cooks and cabin girls collected on the shoreline and up the dock could not see the faces with their eyes, in their collective minds Jerry and Amy were as close as the fog that drifted aimlessly across the Lake of the Woods that June morning.

By the time Jerry had landed the boat and secured it to his spot at the dock and Amy had stylishly tied the tails of her flannel shirt and cuffed her sleeves below the bend of her elbow and the two of them walked side by side to the main door of the lodge building, the crowd had dissipated.  There were no words when the pair entered the dining room and sat at a table near the windows.  There was no razzing, no taunting, no congratulatory back-pats.  There was only the silence and stillness of a June morning on Gohere Bay where the dewy mist of fog hung like a veil to the trees and glass-like waters of Lake of the Woods.