Arrival

It could be simply the effects of eleven straight hours of driving. It could be the mervous anticipation of the ear-splitting silence at night and the lack of urgency to act. Yet it feels like something more. The feeling begins somewhere in northern Minnesota, deep in Superior National Forest, along the Laurentian Divide, on that height of land on the rocky ground that splits the watershed between the Mississippi River Basin and the Arctic Watershed. It is a nervous tingle deep in my stomach mixed with an excited rush and is not to be confused with the feelings inspired by the stop at Perkin's in Duluth.

The feeling builds as my foot becomes heavier on the gas, winding beside railroad tracks, remnants of old stations, roadside stands and abandoned cottages dot the scenery. Rolling into Koochaching County, where the land flattens and the road straightens, the anticipation grows and familiar sights and smells abound; the onset of the taigal forest, the deep smell of pine and, eventually, the lingering mustiness of International Falls Paper Mill. Standing in line at the Delta-Sonic, as I have for as long as I can remember, the pungent smell of the pulp mill mixes with the cool brace of northern air and fresh evergreens. Even the smell of diesel and gasoline are welcome.

Under the canopy, men in shorts or fishing gear arrange luggage inside boats and pickups, women shepherd kids through the store for a round of road snacks and a general air of hurried friendliness reigns with calls of, "Heading up or back?" of "Where ya coming from, get anything?"

The tightness increases as we roll up the maze of streets to the border crossing. Signs for Duty-Free stores seem to get bigger and more garish every year. There's the excitement of driving on the train bridge, the ritual of the toll booth and the exchange with the border guards.

Border guards are a typically friendly sort, usually with a decent, if dry, sense of humor. Each border guard seems to have a different trick. For instance, there was a notorious guard who would reach in and dip his finger in the ash tray. While conducting his interview, he would roll the ashes in his fingers before bringing the mixture to his nose. He would then determine whether a further inspection was required.

Border guards are also aware of the innocence of children, often asking them whether dad brought along some fireworks to celebrate. Many a dad has been busted by their own kids at the border.

Driving carefully through the streets of Fort Frances before heading out toward Emo and points beyond, routine sets in. Waiting for the milestones, La Vallee, Finland, the 11 mile straight, Caliper Lake, Mather's innumerable Creeks and, finally, Nestor Falls.

Standing at the hub of Nestor Falls, the Government Dock, the tightness reaches a zenith. Legs become rubbery as the dust of the gravel lot mixes with the dampness of the lake. The rigid docks, the concrete boat ramp that is never quite steep enough for a good launch, the delibrate randomness of McCleod's cottages all increase the feeling. The oily odor of two-stroke exhaust cuts through the lake breezes with the sputtering of outboard motors.

All of this builds to a crescendo of nervous energy while unloading the car, piling belongings on the dock, then in the boat before casting off, the burbling of the outboard behind us, the rocking of the boat beneath us. Sea-legs that have lain dormant for months or years are re-awakened. A soft whoosh of water grows beneath the hull as we gather speed, the nose of the boat inching skyward before settling as we hydroplane through the glass-like calm of the sheltered bay. Suddenly,everything relaxes. As we round the red buoy and point the bow across the waters of Sabaskong toward Gohere Bay.