When last we reminisced on Gohere Bay, I had dropped the gas barge at the Government Dock. I was soaked from rain and water sloshing between the two boats when I arrived back at camp to taunts of "what took so long?" and "whatcha do, fall in again? Didja swim all the way back?" etc.
The stew I had been so looking forward to was cold and had developed that whitish congealed film that beefy type things get when left to sit too long. It also had developed a skin strong enough to resist the serving spoon and the carrots were mushier than the gravy. How about a grilled cheese sandwich instead???
Back in the cabin, I pondered the injustice of developing sunburn during a rainstorm before drifting off to sleep.
KABOOOOMMM!!! The explosion echoed through the early morning mist of Gohere Bay. KABOOOOMMM!!! Another fired off as I tumbled out of bed and crawled to the window. Outside stood Willard with a 30-06, lining up another shot. I covered my ears just in time to dull the third shot, threw on a shirt and headed out into the chill.
"Well look who's up.." laughed Brad. Willard chambered a round, pointing at a piece of driftwood thirty yards or so off the front of the island bobbing lazily in the water, and handed me the gun. Now for those who have lost track, at the time I was a skinny kid and the last firearm I handled was a .22 target pistol and that had been a while. I cuddled up to the stock of the rifle and gently squeezed the trigger. A puff of smoke, a serious boom and a splash about a hundred yards out. Brad and Willard roared.
"How's the shoulder, there, eh?"
"Fine" I chambered another round, concentrating, keeping the bead on the bobbing target, I spotted a knot sticking above the waterline, cuddled up to the stock, squeezed more slowly, took a deep breath, blew it out. KABOOOOOMMMM!!!!
"Well, damn, Skutr, looks like ya hit somethin'." Brad slapped my back. Willard already had the binoculars up, shaking his head. "Yup, I think he hit it."
We spent the rest of the morning shooting cans off the icehouse ruins across the back of the island. The distance was just about perfect and the grassy hill behind the building was a perfect backstop. Brad pulled out his .308, which I soon found kicked more than the 30-06 and Willard grabbed a .22 rifle because the rounds were cheaper. It was an interesting experiment in ballistics and inertia to see the difference between the .308 hitting a half full soda can and the .22. Cans hit by the larger bore rifle kind of disintegrated and jumped dramatically off the wall. Those punctured by the .22 just sat there with a hole in them, perhaps leaking if hit low enough. Usually we had to resort to the binoculars for scoring.
About this time Sandy, the cabin girl, wandered by talking smack. I offered her the .22 but I guess even women have moments when the hormones get the better of them. She grabbed Brad's .308 and sat on the hillside, eyeing the line of soda cans across the water. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM she sent three cans flying. She handed Brad his rifle and walked over the hill muttering something about an old basketball injury.
After lunch, the call came that the barge was full. The morning fog had lifted, revealing a bright sunny day with little breeze. The waters had a shimmering quality as the light sparkled from rippled waves. I filled my tank (which seems a little odd in retrospect, I'd be carrying 500 gallons of mixed gas) and headed off to the Falls. The trip was beautiful and I had the barge secured in no time. I had learned so much bringing the fussy barge in from Split Rock that this trip would be a snap.
The outboard snapped to life and I clambered over the tanks on the barge to release the mooring ropes, gave a little push and hopped back over the barrels and into my driver's seat, flotation device/cushions arranged neatly in the rear corner of the boat, I nudged the throttle of the 25 Evinrude. The propeller began to throw up spray and the boat shifted attitude in response, but the barge continued to drift sideways, thanks to my enthusiastic push-off. I swung the tiller arm toward the barge, resulting in a slow spinning motion between the two watercraft. I was now sideways with the nose of both craft facing the dock and people's prized boats. On the positive, I had overcome the momentum and they now idled, practically still between docks. Here began my second experiment of the day on the effects of inertia.
As the barge now carried about 1800 gallons of straight gas, mixed gas and diesel fuel, it rode much lower in the water and had a much stronger sense of direction. Gone was the penchant for catching the slightest breeze, replaced by a knack for maintaining motion and direction, backed by the weight of the full tanks. Fortunately, my learning curve was shortening with every day in Gohere Bay. The barge ran straight and true through the water, but required planning to turn or slow. So with a little patience, swinging the turn out of the bay a little wide, I was on my way.
Now, once you leave the bay at Nestor Falls, there's about a five mile run that's pretty uneventful to the mouth of Gohere Bay. I hunkered down with the lunch I'd packed and began to hum as the motor purred along. The water sloshed between the two boats in a steady gurgle as we sliced across the mirror-like waters of Sabaskong. I was pretty proud of my developing skills and feeling as if maybe this summer on the Rock wouldn't be so bad after all. Wolf Island drifted past, majestic pines throwing long shadows across the channel as I adjusted course toward the rocky outline at the opposite end of the island from the camp. Passing cabin 6, I leaned on the tiller to make the left hand turn toward the docks. The barge, however, had a full head of steam and continued down the bay, dragging my little boat along with it. I cut back the throttle, then threw the motor in reverse which accomplished little except to throw a spray over the transom, soaking my shirt, pants and the last sandwich from my lunch before the barge came to a grudging halt.
By this time, I was a hundred yards out in front of the camp, the two craft lashed together spun lazily in the afternoon sun. Willard appeared from the store and began waving as if inviting me in. Brad popped his head out of the motor shed and began calling out to me "Don't stop there, bring it in!!"
The trip from the Government Dock to the island had taken about an hour. Landing the barge took nearly as long as the bulky thing over-reacted to every input or attempt to control its motions except, of course, those involving stopping or slowing. As I finally nudged the barge up to the dock and clambered over the tanks to secure the moorings, Willard's voice boomed, "How the HECK do you manage to get wet on a perfectly SUNNY day?"
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