I love fall, perhaps because I am a November baby. Happy November 7 Birthday to me.
The chill in the air and smell of fires and heaters, soggy leaves on the ground or blowing on crisp breezes bring me to life as I layer wool sweaters or flannel shirts. The weather is moody, often dark or mysterious then, suddenly, calm and easy, much like the temperment of the the lake once referred to as La Mer des Isles.
This brings us to November at Cyclone Pointe in 1932, when the Peterson family met Dennis Chabot in Nestor Falls en route to our beloved camp. The story is among the first posts on this site and you may revisit those early posts for all the details. The Petersons and Chabot would take their last journey that November, all save Christine, wife and mother, who would survive to relay her harrowing tale.
A little simple math, working backward from the November 9th publishing date in local newspapers stating Mrs. Peterson had been in the wilderness overnight and allowing a day to reach press, place my birth on the theoretical date of the accident. If news was published in Fort Frances and Kenora on the 9th, she was probably rescued on the 8th and the party would have sailed the evening of the 7th.
I'm sure Dianne will correct me if my details are askew, and I welcome the correction, but it can put one slightly ill at ease to note the convergence, if one were to note such coincidences.
For now, I offer a sip of scotch, I don't know if either of them actually drank the stuff, to the first generation of the Camp at Gohere Bay.
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