A driving rain slapped the old Swede’s faded oilcoat as the boat rounded the point. The putting and gurgling of the tiny outboard faded as the west wind roared. He hadn’t counted on rain. Truthfully he hadn’t counted on making this trip so late in the year. But since the boss was fronting him money for the trap line, he felt obligated. Directly in front of him, Mrs. Chabot, the bosses wife, swayed in the darkness as the wooden boat undulated with the roil of the waves. He only hoped the wind wouldn’t shift as they hit open water. Cyclone Pointe would be make or break.
Long ago he had learned the unpredictable nature of Lake of the Woods, an endless maze of islands and bays, blind inlets and creek beds. Jagged boulders, remnants of glaciers barely receded, lay just beneath the water’s surface. Winds changed direction at each bend, at your back one minute, in your face the next. Peaceful calm often changed to gale winds in the blink of an eye. Many were the times he spent an entire day in a peaceful cove, only to learn that others had lost their boats to the pounding waters.
Cyclone Pointe was the most unforgiving place in all of Sabaskong Bay. The channel widened for a three mile run to Wolf Island. A change in the wind could flip the tiny boat like a dried log. Last spring, the pounding waves had nearly swamped a steamboat. If they were lucky, the winds would be blowing down, allowing him to skirt the shoreline at the east edge of the bay. Considering the load of supplies, as well as the Chabot party, avoiding rough water was imperative.
He had tried to avoid the trip, but Mr. Chabot and his guests had stayed too long at the poker tables at Green’s Saloon. He tried to explain how he knew this time of year as the dead season on the lake. Nobody out there but bootleggers and Indians. Both drunk and senseless, may as well be dead anyway. But Chabot had a business. His guests, writer from Chicago and his wife, were looking to write the great adventure novel and figured the best way to do it was to live it. They would winter in Gohere Bay and emerge with their story of a harrowing winter in the great north woods. And Chabot would profit from the free publicity. For now, they shared the tiny boat. Mrs. Chabot in the seat facing the Swede, the two men in front of her and the writer’s wife in the bow seat.
The wind blew from the north as they passed Paradise Island, putting the wind at their backs. This provided some relief from the biting November cold. Running a hand over his face to wipe away the freezing rain, he opened his eyes in time to make out the silhouette of towering pine trees at the end of Jensen’s Island. He cut the tiller hard to the right and watched the boulders float slowly by. That was close. Too close.
He hated running the lake at night. The trees and rocks turned to subtle shades of grey, the water to a grainy black. On rainy nights, you were lucky to see a paddle in front of your face. The only way to navigate was from memory and the passage of time, a feeling.
The Swede patted his chest pocket looking for a cigarette but felt only cold November rain. As he watched Chabot and the writer passing a bottle of whiskey and animated conversation, he unconsciously rubbed his foot on the wooden ribbing of the boat's skeleton.
Like most of his ilk, Chabot fancied himself quite the sportsman. He was actually a mildly successful Vaudeville performer whose claim to fame was that he could play piano while standing on his head. He had fallen in love with the island camp on a fishing trip and bought it on a whim. The two men seemed oblivious to the rain. The Swede’s frozen fingers searched the remaining pockets of his raincoat but turned up only a handful of mushy tobacco and some soggy matches.
As the waves picked up a bit and began washing over the low transom, he tried to gauge how far they had traveled. He figured they should be about to Cyclone. They would be alright if the wind stayed at their backs, even with the water rolling in over the stern, he figured the boat could last until they passed Wolf Island. There he could hug the shoreline out of the wind. That would put him at the back of the camp, which sat on the tail of a large island at the mouth of Gohere Bay. The point doubled back to create a tiny but useless cove on the northern edge; useless because of the steep rise cut by advancing glaciers, giving a foreboding appearance from the cove. The camp was on the south side where the land melted into the smooth green water.
He couldn’t help but think the water wouldn’t be rolling in except for the newfangled outboard motor. All that extra weight hanging off the back of the boat was impractical. He thought of turning back, but figured they were about halfway to camp by now. The motor had a limited range due to the small fuel supply, about eight miles on a good day. From town to camp was just under six. Running against high winds and carrying extra baggage would shorten that.
The calculations were interrupted as the bow of the boat dipped and spun sideways, sending him sprawling against the gunwale. Scrambling for the tiller, he fell into the collar of Mrs. Chabot’s fur coat. Their eyes met briefly and even in the darkness he could see her fear. His stiff fingers fumbled for the length of rope that held his coat closed and doubled as the starter rope for the outboard motor. Freezing rain had iced the knot. Without the cord, he could not start the motor.
“Get the oars! The motor’s dead!” barked the old Swede. Chabot and the writer flipped duffel bags and crates to reach the oars, which were buried under supplies. The woodsman crawled to the middle of the boat, gauging the wind as he went. It was bad, blowing straight up Cyclone. Freezing rain gave way to a mix of snow and sleet as he leaned hard on the right oar, fighting to point the boat in the right direction. Wooden ribs groaned in protest as the hull flexed with each sideways roll. The waves came straight at the left side of the boat, rolling and breaking in foamy caps. He felt the boat skip sideways at each crest, while in the troughs the lake spilt over the gunwales, dragging them deeper into its icy grip.
Numb from the cold, he no longer felt the sting of wind or sleet in his face. He rowed hard against the gale. All they needed was little land to act as a break. Again he leaned hard on the right oar, arms aching, chest pounding, his hands no longer belonged to him. Ice caked his beard. A rush of wind drowned out the crack of hardwood as the bow spun into a rolling wave. Only when the lake swallowed him and stole his breath did he realize the boat was gone.
At the surface, he heard shouts above the wind and paddled toward them as best he could. A crack of lightning turned the sky to daytime brightness. To his left he saw Mrs. Chabot bobbing like driftwood on the waves, held afloat by the fur coat. Beyond her were shadows of towering pine trees. Holding the collar of her coat, he dragged her to shore and led her to a stand of evergreens where she settled against a rock, sheltered from the winds. Another flash of lightning revealed the rest of the party, clinging to duffel bags or pieces of the splintered hull. He waded back into the lake where the wind and the water carried the old Swede and the rest of the party away.
This is the story as I heard it growing up. About five years ago, I was able to track down newspaper articles and other information to clarify what really happened that November night in 1932. The final, and most intriguing discovery has been a connection to a descendant of the incident's only survivor, not Mrs. Chabot, but a Mrs. Peterson of the Chicago-Rockford area. That story will be coming soon.
C
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