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.
12.9.11
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.
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.
9.9.11
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.
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.
24.7.11
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'.
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'.
23.6.11
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.
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.
22.6.11
It sounds like "GAW-RAH"
Last week a friend asked about the blog and about Gohere Bay, but he pronounced it "Here-Go". I must admit, I winced a bit, but then I suppose the fault for the confusion lies with me. After growing up on Gohere Bay, I had not seen it written until I was in junior high. And I admit to confusion at seeing 'Gohere' when I had always heard 'gaw-rah'.
For years I have sought the origin of the name. I have asked friends who spoke different languages and those who studied language. I thought I had hit on something when reading Nordic mythology I came across the character of Gerdr, which in Norse script more closely resembles Geror. The anglicized translation, however, is Gerda. This Jotunn, or giantess, is married to Freyr, though romantically connected to Odin in other myths. In certain adaptations, this union is seen as the "divine coupling of sky and earth or at least fertility god and representative of the soil." I think many who have visited Gohere Bay, with its gently sloping shorelines, grassy shallows and plentiful weedbeds, would agree this seems to be a place where sky and earth meet.
For years I have sought the origin of the name. I have asked friends who spoke different languages and those who studied language. I thought I had hit on something when reading Nordic mythology I came across the character of Gerdr, which in Norse script more closely resembles Geror. The anglicized translation, however, is Gerda. This Jotunn, or giantess, is married to Freyr, though romantically connected to Odin in other myths. In certain adaptations, this union is seen as the "divine coupling of sky and earth or at least fertility god and representative of the soil." I think many who have visited Gohere Bay, with its gently sloping shorelines, grassy shallows and plentiful weedbeds, would agree this seems to be a place where sky and earth meet.
13.5.11
Charlie, Chuck and Charles
People don't live on in the memories of those they touched as complete people, rather they become a distillation of the best, or sometimes, worst of all they have been. Each person's memory is like a chapter in a book or a line in a poem. When assembled there is a cohesive piece of work; without all the pieces, much is left for interpretation and the possibility of being taken out of context.
Charles Jacob was the middle son of Willard and Mary. As middle children go, with all respect to Richie Cunningham, he was a success. A military officer, college graduate and proud parent as well as family peacekeeper and mischief maker. There was a certain seperateness about him that only increased after his untimely death. The seperateness was in the fragmentation of his persona by those who knew him and how well they knew him. I have a relic from his earlier military days where he monikers himself as C.J.. I understand those in the military often use different names or nicknames, I suppose as a way to distance the two incongruate worlds of war and peace, though which is which may be open for debate.
I knew him as Uncle Chuck, my godfather and, I suppose, one of my first role models and heroes. I remember his height, he was over six and a half feet tall, and a kind of softness for someone so large. What has bugged me for years, is that I can never recall his face. I can close my eyes and picture the tiny lawn tractor he drove, pulling my red wagon behind, the shades of red and brown on the cowling. I can also see his uniform, crisp and dark, but the face is forever washed out by the glow of his sparkling white cover. I was young when he died, only six or so, I wish I had a longer chapter.
To his brothers, he was Charlie, an instigator with the charm to bring peace, a source of pride for a generation. In some eyes, his legend would grow, others would attempt to project the troubles that would have challenged him in life. He turned family tradition on its head one Thanksgiving. To maintain an orderly table with a large number of people and dishes to pass, all dishes passed in the same direction, whether clockwise or counter, depending on the direction of the first pass. Charles sat across from Jr. and as the prayer ended, he swiftly grabbed a platter in each hand and passed one each direction. In short order, Jr. had a pile of serving dishes in front of him and more on the way.
Most intriguing were the pieces of the book Mary carried with her. Perhaps it was Mary's moments of vulnerability that I was blessed to experience, or the trust I somehow garnered, lead to the sharing of so many stories. Charles, like myself, had an aversion to water. Not a real phobia, just a strong feeling that there were few truly good reasons to put one's face under water and to this end we were willing to strongly defend our position. That Pat and Jr. both took to the water fairly easily which, being surrounded by it and constantly in and out of boats, was considered a good thing, if for no other reason than personal safety. The benchmark was being able to swim around the length of the long main dock. At more than 90 feet, it was a good swim for a young person. The other two boys had long since passed this test but Charles was hesitant. He had asked for, and received, a set of flippers which improved his kick, but held out on the 'dock swim'. He also had a large snorkel mask that he wore with the fins as though he was protected by these items, perhaps more symbolically than physically. Finally, on a hot July afternoon, Mary sat bargaining with Charles over a game of gin rummy. The stakes began low enough, swim the dock and you can have a soda and your choice from the snack counter. Charles dealt another hand of cards. A soda every day for a week and your choice from the counter, Mary upped the ante. Charles tallied the score for the card game silently, but Mary sensed an opening. A case of soda, you get to pick the flavor. Mary fixed her eyes on Charles. He pushed his chair, slowly and purposefully, away from the table and walked to his room. He emerged, seconds later, with his flippers and goggles in place and trudged awkwardly to the stony shoreline. Cautiously, he negotiated the layers of Canadian Shield granite until the water lapped at his flippers. Fixing his mask, he began the gentle descent into Gohere Bay. Once he reached a depth where his legs no longer touched bottom, he kicked off, flippers sending a wake behind. Mary would later describe how the push provided by those flippers combined with the length of his legs and feet to propel him through the water such that his shoulders barely touched the surface, let alone his face. The goggles were wholly unnecessary. Charles picked up speed after turning around the end of the dock and continued until he reached the marshy sand on the east side of the dock. Placing two hands on the boards, he swung himself from the water, kicked off the flippers, raised the mask and jogged to the camp store where he filled a flat with a combination of sodas, piled several chocolate bars atop the cans and returned to sit across from Mary and deal the next round.
Charles died young, barely thirty years old. Mary and Willard were at the island. It had been a rough year or so following an accident in which Charlie's boat had collided with a boat full of fishermen that were trolling in a main channel. In the wake of his death, the incident was resolved by insurance. Charlie struggled at times, as many military men do, returning to the boredom of civilian life after the intensity and discipline of his time in the service and tour in Vietnam. Mary often spoke to me of a series of dreams she had in the months leading up to Charles' death.
The south side of the island on which the Camp is built melts gently into the green waters of Gohere Bay. From the windows of the owner's cabin, two smaller islands stand sentry, a kind of gateway. The dream, she would say, is the same, though it comes infrequently, it still comes. I see Charles, walking down to the edge of the water, just like the day he proved he could swim. This time he has no flippers, no goggles, no protection. He wades into the water, slowly at first, sinking bit by bit, until he is floating, and begins to kick. His arms raise and swing into the water and he glides smoothly to the end of the dock. I think he'll turn around, like he did on that day, but he just keeps swimming. I call to him and he doesn't hear or doesn't listen. He keeps swimming. There is a fog that rolls between the islands from the end of the bay and he just swims into it. The water is calm and fluid and the fog doesn't roll, it just grows. And then I'm alone at the end of the dock, calling his name.
People live on in pieces and memories, like chapters in a book, torn from its binding. To me, he was Uncle Chuck.
Charles Jacob was the middle son of Willard and Mary. As middle children go, with all respect to Richie Cunningham, he was a success. A military officer, college graduate and proud parent as well as family peacekeeper and mischief maker. There was a certain seperateness about him that only increased after his untimely death. The seperateness was in the fragmentation of his persona by those who knew him and how well they knew him. I have a relic from his earlier military days where he monikers himself as C.J.. I understand those in the military often use different names or nicknames, I suppose as a way to distance the two incongruate worlds of war and peace, though which is which may be open for debate.
I knew him as Uncle Chuck, my godfather and, I suppose, one of my first role models and heroes. I remember his height, he was over six and a half feet tall, and a kind of softness for someone so large. What has bugged me for years, is that I can never recall his face. I can close my eyes and picture the tiny lawn tractor he drove, pulling my red wagon behind, the shades of red and brown on the cowling. I can also see his uniform, crisp and dark, but the face is forever washed out by the glow of his sparkling white cover. I was young when he died, only six or so, I wish I had a longer chapter.
To his brothers, he was Charlie, an instigator with the charm to bring peace, a source of pride for a generation. In some eyes, his legend would grow, others would attempt to project the troubles that would have challenged him in life. He turned family tradition on its head one Thanksgiving. To maintain an orderly table with a large number of people and dishes to pass, all dishes passed in the same direction, whether clockwise or counter, depending on the direction of the first pass. Charles sat across from Jr. and as the prayer ended, he swiftly grabbed a platter in each hand and passed one each direction. In short order, Jr. had a pile of serving dishes in front of him and more on the way.
Most intriguing were the pieces of the book Mary carried with her. Perhaps it was Mary's moments of vulnerability that I was blessed to experience, or the trust I somehow garnered, lead to the sharing of so many stories. Charles, like myself, had an aversion to water. Not a real phobia, just a strong feeling that there were few truly good reasons to put one's face under water and to this end we were willing to strongly defend our position. That Pat and Jr. both took to the water fairly easily which, being surrounded by it and constantly in and out of boats, was considered a good thing, if for no other reason than personal safety. The benchmark was being able to swim around the length of the long main dock. At more than 90 feet, it was a good swim for a young person. The other two boys had long since passed this test but Charles was hesitant. He had asked for, and received, a set of flippers which improved his kick, but held out on the 'dock swim'. He also had a large snorkel mask that he wore with the fins as though he was protected by these items, perhaps more symbolically than physically. Finally, on a hot July afternoon, Mary sat bargaining with Charles over a game of gin rummy. The stakes began low enough, swim the dock and you can have a soda and your choice from the snack counter. Charles dealt another hand of cards. A soda every day for a week and your choice from the counter, Mary upped the ante. Charles tallied the score for the card game silently, but Mary sensed an opening. A case of soda, you get to pick the flavor. Mary fixed her eyes on Charles. He pushed his chair, slowly and purposefully, away from the table and walked to his room. He emerged, seconds later, with his flippers and goggles in place and trudged awkwardly to the stony shoreline. Cautiously, he negotiated the layers of Canadian Shield granite until the water lapped at his flippers. Fixing his mask, he began the gentle descent into Gohere Bay. Once he reached a depth where his legs no longer touched bottom, he kicked off, flippers sending a wake behind. Mary would later describe how the push provided by those flippers combined with the length of his legs and feet to propel him through the water such that his shoulders barely touched the surface, let alone his face. The goggles were wholly unnecessary. Charles picked up speed after turning around the end of the dock and continued until he reached the marshy sand on the east side of the dock. Placing two hands on the boards, he swung himself from the water, kicked off the flippers, raised the mask and jogged to the camp store where he filled a flat with a combination of sodas, piled several chocolate bars atop the cans and returned to sit across from Mary and deal the next round.
Charles died young, barely thirty years old. Mary and Willard were at the island. It had been a rough year or so following an accident in which Charlie's boat had collided with a boat full of fishermen that were trolling in a main channel. In the wake of his death, the incident was resolved by insurance. Charlie struggled at times, as many military men do, returning to the boredom of civilian life after the intensity and discipline of his time in the service and tour in Vietnam. Mary often spoke to me of a series of dreams she had in the months leading up to Charles' death.
The south side of the island on which the Camp is built melts gently into the green waters of Gohere Bay. From the windows of the owner's cabin, two smaller islands stand sentry, a kind of gateway. The dream, she would say, is the same, though it comes infrequently, it still comes. I see Charles, walking down to the edge of the water, just like the day he proved he could swim. This time he has no flippers, no goggles, no protection. He wades into the water, slowly at first, sinking bit by bit, until he is floating, and begins to kick. His arms raise and swing into the water and he glides smoothly to the end of the dock. I think he'll turn around, like he did on that day, but he just keeps swimming. I call to him and he doesn't hear or doesn't listen. He keeps swimming. There is a fog that rolls between the islands from the end of the bay and he just swims into it. The water is calm and fluid and the fog doesn't roll, it just grows. And then I'm alone at the end of the dock, calling his name.
People live on in pieces and memories, like chapters in a book, torn from its binding. To me, he was Uncle Chuck.
3.5.11
Blueberries or How to avoid an unpleasant task by performing a less pleasant task
Mid-summer on Gohere Bay is marked by long daylight hours when even novices feel comfortable with long boat rides after dinner. Games of horseshoes or pinochle begin after dinner and last into the late night hours with very little lighting assistance. These long days provide the energy for a surprising lush growing season of juniper, pine, aspen, birch and even maple and oak trees as well as tastier treats such as gooseberries, strawberries and blueberries. Very few treats are as satisfying, after a long summer day, as a bowl of vanilla ice cream covered in fresh blueberries.
Blueberries are the most challenging, and often the most rewarding and tastiest of the treats. Right off the vine, they are cool and mildly sweet. The challenge comes from the growing habits of the blueberry bush. They grow mixed among juniper berries and at first glance, the mass of green dotted with little globs of blue seems an easy target, especially from a safe distance. Blueberries and juniper both enjoy sunlight so are found in open patches between groves of trees. These openings usually occur where there is insufficient soil to allow trees to grow such as mossy rocks or outcroppings, where soil collects between the cracks of granite. These open patches allow the sun to beat down on the would-be blueberry pickers while the evergreen stands block cooling breezes off the lake. The combination leads to an intense heat when reflected off the rocky field.
Perched on hill sides, the juniper are evergreen type shrubs and taller than the deciduous blueberry bushes. Juniper are small berries with white flesh and a bitter taste. To reach the sweet and juicy blueberries, requires reaching through the prickly juniper and rolling the larger, round blueberries. Between the prickliness of the juniper and the ever-present mosquitoes (as there is no breeze to keep them at bay) long sleeves are a necessity. Because of the sun's northerly arc and constant presence, long sleeves are hot. Many are the days where hours are spent collecting a can of juicy berries, only to watch them tumble down the hillside, knocked over by an errant elbow or while swatting mosquitoes or adjusting cramping legs.
While all this sounds very romantic and sweet, such is truly not the case. I HATE picking blueberries!!! Perhaps 'hate' is the wrong word, maybe 'despise' or 'dread' or 'would rather shove juniper needles under my fingernails' (actually that happens a LOT when picking blueberries, but I digress). So when Mary suggested that there were no chores that needed to be done and it was a lovely afternoon, she would like blueberries for her morning corn flakes, I tried to blend into the carpet. Willard assembled a variety of tin cans and a pail while I grabbed a denim work shirt and baseball cap. As we headed to the boat house, I hit my head on a low hanging branch from a fallen pine tree that leaned over the path and rested atop the motor house. My indignation rose as I stomped down the wooden steps and grabbed the chainsaw to end this problem once and for all.
The saw roared to life and in short order, the tree lay squarely across the path. Willard shook his head "You can't leave that there." I accepted the challenge with another burst on the throttle and before the fuel tank was empty, I had limbed the offensive beast. Willard returned from the motor house with lopping shears as I divided the trunk into tidy six-foot sections. We hauled the logs to the wood pile, tossed the branches on the compost heap and raked the path, clearing the debris of our afternoon's work.
About that time, Mary appeared, surprised we were back already. Willard gave me a sheepish glance as he began to explain that I had 'distracted' him by playing lumberjack, though he did note how the path was now clear. Mary huffed and said dinner would be ready in ten minutes and we'd best not be late.
It was a quiet evening that ended with plain vanilla ice cream, no blueberries. The next day began the same way, plain corn flakes, no blueberries. The morning required a trip to the Falls for mail and such. After lunch, Willard began to round up the cans and such again when I appeared at the wood pile, saw in hand. "Just want to block this for you, then in the spring it'll be ready to go." I smiled and started the saw. The afternoon passed in a blaze of sawdust and flying woodchips. The woodpile grew from a single low pile to a four-sided arrangement of neatly stacked, fire-place length logs, nearly five feet tall on every side. I looked around and suggested we put a roof on for an extra sleeping cabin. Willard finished raking the pine needles and shavings as Mary appeared with her hand out. I anticipated the sheepish glance.
After breakfast on the third day of blueberry avoidance, I bounced out of bed and headed to the wood-pile once again and sharpened my splitting maul. I sent chunks of evergreen and birch and aspen flying in an impressive display of lightning-fast hands, strength and dexterity. By the time Willard joined me, I was in full swing and on my second sharpening. By the time lunch rolled around, we had the split wood piled once again and the pile cleaned up with enough wood and kindling for an entire season or more. Satisfied at a job well-done, I showered before lunch and dressed in shorts and t-shirt. My joy was short-lived as Mary served my lunch in a plastic pail and hung my work-shirt on the back of my chair. Willard, looking sheepish once again, said "I don't think there's any more wood to cut or block or split anywhere on this island". His steely grey eyes looked straight into mine, mostly to avoid the triumphant gaze Mary wore.
That evening, as I applied lotion to my mosquito bitten ankles and wrists, Mary served ice-cream with fresh blueberries and when she set out the cereal bowls, each pre-filled with corn flakes, they were each topped with a handful of fresh Sabaskong Bay blueberries. The rest went in the freezer for later. LATER??
Blueberries are the most challenging, and often the most rewarding and tastiest of the treats. Right off the vine, they are cool and mildly sweet. The challenge comes from the growing habits of the blueberry bush. They grow mixed among juniper berries and at first glance, the mass of green dotted with little globs of blue seems an easy target, especially from a safe distance. Blueberries and juniper both enjoy sunlight so are found in open patches between groves of trees. These openings usually occur where there is insufficient soil to allow trees to grow such as mossy rocks or outcroppings, where soil collects between the cracks of granite. These open patches allow the sun to beat down on the would-be blueberry pickers while the evergreen stands block cooling breezes off the lake. The combination leads to an intense heat when reflected off the rocky field.
Perched on hill sides, the juniper are evergreen type shrubs and taller than the deciduous blueberry bushes. Juniper are small berries with white flesh and a bitter taste. To reach the sweet and juicy blueberries, requires reaching through the prickly juniper and rolling the larger, round blueberries. Between the prickliness of the juniper and the ever-present mosquitoes (as there is no breeze to keep them at bay) long sleeves are a necessity. Because of the sun's northerly arc and constant presence, long sleeves are hot. Many are the days where hours are spent collecting a can of juicy berries, only to watch them tumble down the hillside, knocked over by an errant elbow or while swatting mosquitoes or adjusting cramping legs.
While all this sounds very romantic and sweet, such is truly not the case. I HATE picking blueberries!!! Perhaps 'hate' is the wrong word, maybe 'despise' or 'dread' or 'would rather shove juniper needles under my fingernails' (actually that happens a LOT when picking blueberries, but I digress). So when Mary suggested that there were no chores that needed to be done and it was a lovely afternoon, she would like blueberries for her morning corn flakes, I tried to blend into the carpet. Willard assembled a variety of tin cans and a pail while I grabbed a denim work shirt and baseball cap. As we headed to the boat house, I hit my head on a low hanging branch from a fallen pine tree that leaned over the path and rested atop the motor house. My indignation rose as I stomped down the wooden steps and grabbed the chainsaw to end this problem once and for all.
The saw roared to life and in short order, the tree lay squarely across the path. Willard shook his head "You can't leave that there." I accepted the challenge with another burst on the throttle and before the fuel tank was empty, I had limbed the offensive beast. Willard returned from the motor house with lopping shears as I divided the trunk into tidy six-foot sections. We hauled the logs to the wood pile, tossed the branches on the compost heap and raked the path, clearing the debris of our afternoon's work.
About that time, Mary appeared, surprised we were back already. Willard gave me a sheepish glance as he began to explain that I had 'distracted' him by playing lumberjack, though he did note how the path was now clear. Mary huffed and said dinner would be ready in ten minutes and we'd best not be late.
It was a quiet evening that ended with plain vanilla ice cream, no blueberries. The next day began the same way, plain corn flakes, no blueberries. The morning required a trip to the Falls for mail and such. After lunch, Willard began to round up the cans and such again when I appeared at the wood pile, saw in hand. "Just want to block this for you, then in the spring it'll be ready to go." I smiled and started the saw. The afternoon passed in a blaze of sawdust and flying woodchips. The woodpile grew from a single low pile to a four-sided arrangement of neatly stacked, fire-place length logs, nearly five feet tall on every side. I looked around and suggested we put a roof on for an extra sleeping cabin. Willard finished raking the pine needles and shavings as Mary appeared with her hand out. I anticipated the sheepish glance.
After breakfast on the third day of blueberry avoidance, I bounced out of bed and headed to the wood-pile once again and sharpened my splitting maul. I sent chunks of evergreen and birch and aspen flying in an impressive display of lightning-fast hands, strength and dexterity. By the time Willard joined me, I was in full swing and on my second sharpening. By the time lunch rolled around, we had the split wood piled once again and the pile cleaned up with enough wood and kindling for an entire season or more. Satisfied at a job well-done, I showered before lunch and dressed in shorts and t-shirt. My joy was short-lived as Mary served my lunch in a plastic pail and hung my work-shirt on the back of my chair. Willard, looking sheepish once again, said "I don't think there's any more wood to cut or block or split anywhere on this island". His steely grey eyes looked straight into mine, mostly to avoid the triumphant gaze Mary wore.
That evening, as I applied lotion to my mosquito bitten ankles and wrists, Mary served ice-cream with fresh blueberries and when she set out the cereal bowls, each pre-filled with corn flakes, they were each topped with a handful of fresh Sabaskong Bay blueberries. The rest went in the freezer for later. LATER??
23.4.11
We crossed the border, now what...
In my last post, I provided directions from Chicago to Frostbite Falls. Today we will continue on the Gohere Bay. Mind you, these directions were from several years ago and things are constantly changing, but the general route is the same.
On to Gohere Bay -
"Welcome to Canada!!" read the sign that spans Fort Frances main road when entered from the International Bridge that crosses International Falls on the Rainy River as it nears its terminus on Rainy Lake. Rainy Lake is pretty and scenic in a pastoral way, lacking the drama of Lake of the Woods. The shorelines are less dramatic and islands more sparse. There are fewer towering rock formations and more places where the land seems to slip into the rippling waters. Just east of town is Pither's Point, a spot where founding fathers are believed to have camped. A lovely park, complete with a real ranger station, as well as a salvaged logging boat occupy the park along with the areas largest log chair. A great photo opportunity.
Back to our trip, Fort Frances is home to decent shopping but it's better left for the return trip. Right now, we need to reach Nestor Falls before dinner. Turn left at the stoplight after the welcome sign. In Ontario, a flashing green light indicates an 'advanced green' or protected left turn as we like to call it here. Highway 11 winds through Fort Frances past all our favourite places such as Canadian Tire and the McDonald's. As you leave town, you may notice a corridor of deciduous trees lining the road on either side. I was once told this is a memorial to WWII soldiers lost in combat, one tree for each local man who did not return home. I don't know if it's true, but it makes for a nice reflection.
Eventually, the city fades and the open road beckons, but beware, that speed limit sign that says 90 is actually kilometers and the OPP know very well what you're thinking. Ontario, by the way, is one of only two provinces with their own Provincial Police departments. Mounties take care of the rest. In case you're wondering, Quebec is the other, go figure.
After a bit of winding, the metropolis of Emo is next. Emo is an exercise in urban planning with such creative nomenclature as Emo Road Number 1, 2 etc and Front Street (faces the river). Emo is nestled along the Rainy River and hosts a hospital/nursing home and the area's poison control center (that's a whole nother story). There is also a decent hardware store, fairgrounds and race track.
After Emo is Devlin, essentially a gas station and general store, then La Vallee (did you know he wrote Oh Canada?). You will then see a sign for pedestrian crossing and a sign welcoming you to the Reservation, the official name escapes me now. Notice that the speed limit changes. When on a reservation, you are in a different country and they take it seriously. They have their own police and are rumoured to stop OPP's to check for contraband. A stop sign is up ahead. Sometimes there is an antique store or farm stand that pops up here. Turn right at the stop sign after coming to a full and complete stop.
You may notice along the roadside, two large metal barrels mounted on metal stands. These are for straightening logging loads. In Minnesota, the logging truck carriend loads neatly cut into standard lengths and loaded crosswise on the trailers. Up here, the logs are loaded lengthwise and are often cut in random lengths, 'rough cuts' they're called. As such, they tend to shift from time to time. If you're lucky, you may see a truck back the trailer betweent the giant barrels to straighten the load. DO NOT try this with your car. The consequences can be severe.
Also along this stretch of road, you will notice a looooong stretch with no curves, eleven miles to be exact. Off to the side, you may see stretches of old pavement, abandoned as the road was straightened, bit by bit, through marshes, passes blasted through granite and bridges replaced. The history lives on in names such as Mather Township, home to Mather Creeks 1 through 16, Mather Road East, West, Slightly Less West etc. There is also Finland. I recall a collection of tiny log buildings that appeared to be remnants of a farm near the sign for Finland. Wonder if it's still there....
HEADS UP!!! The stretch of eleven miles without a turn (I've measured it on my odometer many times, not much else to do) ends with a long downhill stretch followed by a 90 degree left turn along a granite outcropping with water on the left side. A rather startling arrangement and definite wake-up call. You are now in lake country. Big Pine Lake, Little Pine Lake, One Sided Lake. The road winds between lakes and creeks, the granite of the Canadian Shield rising and falling, trees clinging precariously to crevaces in the rock face until suddenly, Nestor Falls.
Your entry to the Falls is noted by the old Esso station that now sells Mercury outboards (or did) and Dock Road which leads, oddly enough, to the Goverment Dock. The Falls are straight ahead, after Helliar's and before Arrowhead. The actual falls in Nestor Falls are due to a change in elevation between Lake Kakabikitchewan (Crow Lake for short) and Lake of the Woods. Proceeding along the highway, are Sunset Cove, Willards Corner (see earlier post) and, eventually, Lawg Caybun restaurant, a hardware store, the sight of Willard's old store and Dalseg's IGA. This is Nestor Falls answer to a strip mall, housing the post office, laundrymat, grocery store and LCBO (Liquor Control Board of Ontario), the only place to buy alcoholic beverages and since the government is involved, the prices are pretty hefty (I told you to stop at Bob's in Eau Claire, did you listen?).
From here, call the camp and, as the brochures always read, "We will transport you to the camp in our large, enclosed runabout".
So to summarize -
On to Gohere Bay -
"Welcome to Canada!!" read the sign that spans Fort Frances main road when entered from the International Bridge that crosses International Falls on the Rainy River as it nears its terminus on Rainy Lake. Rainy Lake is pretty and scenic in a pastoral way, lacking the drama of Lake of the Woods. The shorelines are less dramatic and islands more sparse. There are fewer towering rock formations and more places where the land seems to slip into the rippling waters. Just east of town is Pither's Point, a spot where founding fathers are believed to have camped. A lovely park, complete with a real ranger station, as well as a salvaged logging boat occupy the park along with the areas largest log chair. A great photo opportunity.
Back to our trip, Fort Frances is home to decent shopping but it's better left for the return trip. Right now, we need to reach Nestor Falls before dinner. Turn left at the stoplight after the welcome sign. In Ontario, a flashing green light indicates an 'advanced green' or protected left turn as we like to call it here. Highway 11 winds through Fort Frances past all our favourite places such as Canadian Tire and the McDonald's. As you leave town, you may notice a corridor of deciduous trees lining the road on either side. I was once told this is a memorial to WWII soldiers lost in combat, one tree for each local man who did not return home. I don't know if it's true, but it makes for a nice reflection.
Eventually, the city fades and the open road beckons, but beware, that speed limit sign that says 90 is actually kilometers and the OPP know very well what you're thinking. Ontario, by the way, is one of only two provinces with their own Provincial Police departments. Mounties take care of the rest. In case you're wondering, Quebec is the other, go figure.
After a bit of winding, the metropolis of Emo is next. Emo is an exercise in urban planning with such creative nomenclature as Emo Road Number 1, 2 etc and Front Street (faces the river). Emo is nestled along the Rainy River and hosts a hospital/nursing home and the area's poison control center (that's a whole nother story). There is also a decent hardware store, fairgrounds and race track.
After Emo is Devlin, essentially a gas station and general store, then La Vallee (did you know he wrote Oh Canada?). You will then see a sign for pedestrian crossing and a sign welcoming you to the Reservation, the official name escapes me now. Notice that the speed limit changes. When on a reservation, you are in a different country and they take it seriously. They have their own police and are rumoured to stop OPP's to check for contraband. A stop sign is up ahead. Sometimes there is an antique store or farm stand that pops up here. Turn right at the stop sign after coming to a full and complete stop.
You may notice along the roadside, two large metal barrels mounted on metal stands. These are for straightening logging loads. In Minnesota, the logging truck carriend loads neatly cut into standard lengths and loaded crosswise on the trailers. Up here, the logs are loaded lengthwise and are often cut in random lengths, 'rough cuts' they're called. As such, they tend to shift from time to time. If you're lucky, you may see a truck back the trailer betweent the giant barrels to straighten the load. DO NOT try this with your car. The consequences can be severe.
Also along this stretch of road, you will notice a looooong stretch with no curves, eleven miles to be exact. Off to the side, you may see stretches of old pavement, abandoned as the road was straightened, bit by bit, through marshes, passes blasted through granite and bridges replaced. The history lives on in names such as Mather Township, home to Mather Creeks 1 through 16, Mather Road East, West, Slightly Less West etc. There is also Finland. I recall a collection of tiny log buildings that appeared to be remnants of a farm near the sign for Finland. Wonder if it's still there....
HEADS UP!!! The stretch of eleven miles without a turn (I've measured it on my odometer many times, not much else to do) ends with a long downhill stretch followed by a 90 degree left turn along a granite outcropping with water on the left side. A rather startling arrangement and definite wake-up call. You are now in lake country. Big Pine Lake, Little Pine Lake, One Sided Lake. The road winds between lakes and creeks, the granite of the Canadian Shield rising and falling, trees clinging precariously to crevaces in the rock face until suddenly, Nestor Falls.
Your entry to the Falls is noted by the old Esso station that now sells Mercury outboards (or did) and Dock Road which leads, oddly enough, to the Goverment Dock. The Falls are straight ahead, after Helliar's and before Arrowhead. The actual falls in Nestor Falls are due to a change in elevation between Lake Kakabikitchewan (Crow Lake for short) and Lake of the Woods. Proceeding along the highway, are Sunset Cove, Willards Corner (see earlier post) and, eventually, Lawg Caybun restaurant, a hardware store, the sight of Willard's old store and Dalseg's IGA. This is Nestor Falls answer to a strip mall, housing the post office, laundrymat, grocery store and LCBO (Liquor Control Board of Ontario), the only place to buy alcoholic beverages and since the government is involved, the prices are pretty hefty (I told you to stop at Bob's in Eau Claire, did you listen?).
From here, call the camp and, as the brochures always read, "We will transport you to the camp in our large, enclosed runabout".
So to summarize -
- Take your favourite route to Wisconsin
- Turn right on Rte 53
- Cross the bridge between Superior and Duluth
- Follow your nose to International Falls
- Turn left at the light
- Turn right at the Indian Reservation
- Stop at the next wide spot in the road
- Call for a ride to Camp
21.4.11
Driving Directions
Several years ago, I gave directions to the Camp at Gohere Bay to some friends who were coming up for a long weekend. Since they were first-time visitors, I added a few travel notes for them to take in along the way. All these years and nearly as many changes in e-mail addresses later, I came across these directions and wanted to share them with my followers, in case you wanted to join us for an evening or two with a beer wedged between the rocks with the cool sparkling waters of Gohere Bay to keep it cold.
Note - Directions are from the Chicago area
Directions to Gohere Bay - Take your favourite route out of Chicago. Heading out of Chicago, there is no one best way to leave the city or the state, as the traffic is so variable. My father was a huge fan of Route 47 that winds through Yorkville and farmland area. It is rather twisty and hilly so may not be best if you're pulling a boat or haven't yet finished your first cup of coffee. From Joliet, I like to take Route 52 west to Interstate 39, a lightly travelled patch of road. Route 53 works well , though has been overrun by the new 355 tollway in many areas.
Once you have escaped the congestion of Chicago, you should find yourself on Interstate 90-94. This is known in parts as the Veteran's Memorial Parkway or some such. It is rather scenic, especially further along. The traffic really thins out after the exits for the Dells and Mirror Lake but the toll collectors don't. I learned on my honeymoon that Wisconsin State Troopers gladly accept all major credit cards and can run them conveniently from their dashboard. It should be noted here that Wisconsin troopers drive stylishly dark green patrol cars that blend remarkably well with the scenic pine trees and such.
In Wisconsin, you will also notice a strange calmness from the steering wheel as they seem to have developed a vaccine for potholes that Illinois is seriously lacking. The highways are silky smooth and they have a whole other idea of divided highways. There are no flimsy metal dividers or threatening concrete barriers, but real, honest to goodness trees. And when they say divided, I'm talking lanes divided by nearly half a mile of forest or a hundred feet in elevation. All this provides lots of shady spots for those friendly troopers to rest while waiting for flat-landers and others.
The scenery can become redundant as the road straightens out. But keep an eye out for Moccasin Mike Road, no particular history, just like the name. All in all, this part of the trip should be about six or seven hours to Eau Claire, the traditional halfway point for us. The Oasis in Janesville is a popular stop and, at one time, was a busy rest spot on the main road, Route 53. Now it requires an exit from the interstate and is more tourist trap than anything, but nostalgia being what it is, I can almost picture the curtains in the back windows of the station wagon. The Dells can be an interesting stop, if you don't mind the traffic and crowds.
Take the exit for 53 North to Eau Claire. Eau Claire sits on the Chippewa River and is consistently listed among the most livable towns in America, whatever that means. For you, Eau Claire means a great place to stop, stay overnight if you're tired or get food. It also is the best place to pick up adult supplies such as beer or Canadian whisky. That's right, don't wait for the "Duty Free" stores at the border. The liquor is duty free no matter where you bought it so long as you don't have too much. Typically a bottle per person of legal drinking age. There are many places, I recommend Bob's. Have you ever seen an alcohol warehouse?
This is also the last of your major chain restaurants for a while so have a last Pizza Hut of Taco Bell.
As you leave Eau Claire, you will notice that Rte 53 is NOT an Interstate Highway. The billboards are 20 feet high and 10 feet wide in reflective yellow with black letters. What that means for the average traveller is that the federal speed limit allowing 65 mph is not in effect here. 55 is the rule for the most part, but there are tons of small towns with limits of 45, 35 and even 25. BE CAREFUL. The road is still Wisconsin's version of divided highway with interesting overpasses and, in many places, railroad tracks nearby. You will also notice as you head north that the roads begin to turn red. This is due to the iron content in the road mix. You will also notice that steep hills have two lanes headed uphill and only one coming down. Slower traffic to the right please and if you're driving the diesel with the heavy boat, that means you pull over and let others go by. On the way down, no passing is allowed in these areas. I'm not sure if you've ever been face to face with a logging truck, but it's not a good feeling. Also keep an eye out for Smitty's bar and restaurant and the Woodcarver's Museum in Spooner. This used to be on the main road, but now requires a side trip.
As thing start to leave out, you will close in on Superior, Wisconsin. Stop here and take a deep breath, look out at the majesty of Lake Superior, the biggest and nastiest of the Great Lakes. There are iron ore boats and museums as well as a huge mansion overlooking the Lake that was an orphanage for many years and is now a museum. On the right is one of the most scenically placed McDonald's anywhere. There is also a gas station along the right hand side of the road, near a bait shop, that has a pink rocket near the front of the lot. Just saying....
Now, after a deep breath, make sure you have the correct driver for the next leg. It's a doozy. Rte 53 will take you to Duluth, Minnesota, provided you remember to get off the Rte 2 loop that will take you endlessly to the seedier side of Superior. Once on the correct road, you will be twisted and looped until you find yourself about a mile above the water (hey, they need to get ore boats through). At this dizzying height, it may be difficult to concentrate, the highway department was kind enough to install green posts to block oncoming headlights, but one wrong turn sends you to Minneapolis (and really, who wants to go there). Should you survive the high level bridge (and I do mean high level), you will find yourself nearly back at lake level and looking up. Straight up. I have always wanted to own a brake shop in Duluth, maybe transmission repair as well. The main street through town is a serious test for the best of transmission cooling systems. Add in boats, manual transmissions and weekend drivers and it becomes a harrowing trip with a four-way stop in the middle.
There's a house along this road that is three stories on one side and a single story on the other side, that's how steep the hill is.
Having survived that (I told you to take a deep breath in Superior) you've earned a break at Perkin's. Turn left at the top of the hill to get there. Afterward, you can test your speedometer and odometer in the specially marked "Odometer test zone" with signs at regular intervals to compare with your own odometer for accuracies sake.
Outside of Duluth, be sure to watch for the Hockey Hall of Fame in Evelyth as well as the Iron Range cities of Hibbing and Virginia. In the middle of nowhere, mixed in among the railroad shacks and hunting cottages, is the Potlatch plant. At night, the combination of factory lighting and steam in the woods make for an eerie sight.
At some point after Duluth, you can begin to follow your nose to International Falls, also known as Frostbite Falls, home to Rocket J. Squirrel and Bullwinkle J. Moose. Did you know the Simpsons all have the middle initial J as a tribute to Jay Ward, creator of Rocky and Bullwinkle? Or that Rocky and Bullwinkle was banned in Canada for its negative portrayal of Mounties? There is no mention of the pair in "the Falls" but there is a statue of Smoky Bear. There are several pictures of me and my brother in front of the statue.
In International Falls, you will see a plethora of Duty Free stores advertising tobacco and alcohol. Don't fall into the trap, I told you to get that stuff in Eau Claire where it's cheap. Do be sure to stop in the Delta filling station. This was another tradition, so humor me. There is an IGA (Independent Grocers Association) store in the mall, such as it is, west of town. Rules are constantly changing about food so check first.
BEFORE YOU APPROACH THE BORDER...a few words about etiquette. There is a bridge to cross to enter Canada at this point. It is owned by the paper mill (the funny smell you began to notice just north of Duluth) and shared with trains, pulp trucks, bicycles and pedestrians. Be patient. Tidy up the car a bit and be sure everyone looks somewhat reputable. Open the ash tray and have your stuff in order. Border guards are a generally friendly lot, don't get smart and they tend to leave you alone. They all have favourite tricks like asking kids questions, especially about fireworks and the like. A common practice is to reach in and poke in your ash tray. I always have change in mine. Remember, if you get cranky or touchy, they can take your car apart and leave you to put it back together.
Welcome to Canada!!!!!
Next time - - - What do I do now that I got this far????
Note - Directions are from the Chicago area
Directions to Gohere Bay - Take your favourite route out of Chicago. Heading out of Chicago, there is no one best way to leave the city or the state, as the traffic is so variable. My father was a huge fan of Route 47 that winds through Yorkville and farmland area. It is rather twisty and hilly so may not be best if you're pulling a boat or haven't yet finished your first cup of coffee. From Joliet, I like to take Route 52 west to Interstate 39, a lightly travelled patch of road. Route 53 works well , though has been overrun by the new 355 tollway in many areas.
Once you have escaped the congestion of Chicago, you should find yourself on Interstate 90-94. This is known in parts as the Veteran's Memorial Parkway or some such. It is rather scenic, especially further along. The traffic really thins out after the exits for the Dells and Mirror Lake but the toll collectors don't. I learned on my honeymoon that Wisconsin State Troopers gladly accept all major credit cards and can run them conveniently from their dashboard. It should be noted here that Wisconsin troopers drive stylishly dark green patrol cars that blend remarkably well with the scenic pine trees and such.
In Wisconsin, you will also notice a strange calmness from the steering wheel as they seem to have developed a vaccine for potholes that Illinois is seriously lacking. The highways are silky smooth and they have a whole other idea of divided highways. There are no flimsy metal dividers or threatening concrete barriers, but real, honest to goodness trees. And when they say divided, I'm talking lanes divided by nearly half a mile of forest or a hundred feet in elevation. All this provides lots of shady spots for those friendly troopers to rest while waiting for flat-landers and others.
The scenery can become redundant as the road straightens out. But keep an eye out for Moccasin Mike Road, no particular history, just like the name. All in all, this part of the trip should be about six or seven hours to Eau Claire, the traditional halfway point for us. The Oasis in Janesville is a popular stop and, at one time, was a busy rest spot on the main road, Route 53. Now it requires an exit from the interstate and is more tourist trap than anything, but nostalgia being what it is, I can almost picture the curtains in the back windows of the station wagon. The Dells can be an interesting stop, if you don't mind the traffic and crowds.
Take the exit for 53 North to Eau Claire. Eau Claire sits on the Chippewa River and is consistently listed among the most livable towns in America, whatever that means. For you, Eau Claire means a great place to stop, stay overnight if you're tired or get food. It also is the best place to pick up adult supplies such as beer or Canadian whisky. That's right, don't wait for the "Duty Free" stores at the border. The liquor is duty free no matter where you bought it so long as you don't have too much. Typically a bottle per person of legal drinking age. There are many places, I recommend Bob's. Have you ever seen an alcohol warehouse?
This is also the last of your major chain restaurants for a while so have a last Pizza Hut of Taco Bell.
As you leave Eau Claire, you will notice that Rte 53 is NOT an Interstate Highway. The billboards are 20 feet high and 10 feet wide in reflective yellow with black letters. What that means for the average traveller is that the federal speed limit allowing 65 mph is not in effect here. 55 is the rule for the most part, but there are tons of small towns with limits of 45, 35 and even 25. BE CAREFUL. The road is still Wisconsin's version of divided highway with interesting overpasses and, in many places, railroad tracks nearby. You will also notice as you head north that the roads begin to turn red. This is due to the iron content in the road mix. You will also notice that steep hills have two lanes headed uphill and only one coming down. Slower traffic to the right please and if you're driving the diesel with the heavy boat, that means you pull over and let others go by. On the way down, no passing is allowed in these areas. I'm not sure if you've ever been face to face with a logging truck, but it's not a good feeling. Also keep an eye out for Smitty's bar and restaurant and the Woodcarver's Museum in Spooner. This used to be on the main road, but now requires a side trip.
As thing start to leave out, you will close in on Superior, Wisconsin. Stop here and take a deep breath, look out at the majesty of Lake Superior, the biggest and nastiest of the Great Lakes. There are iron ore boats and museums as well as a huge mansion overlooking the Lake that was an orphanage for many years and is now a museum. On the right is one of the most scenically placed McDonald's anywhere. There is also a gas station along the right hand side of the road, near a bait shop, that has a pink rocket near the front of the lot. Just saying....
Now, after a deep breath, make sure you have the correct driver for the next leg. It's a doozy. Rte 53 will take you to Duluth, Minnesota, provided you remember to get off the Rte 2 loop that will take you endlessly to the seedier side of Superior. Once on the correct road, you will be twisted and looped until you find yourself about a mile above the water (hey, they need to get ore boats through). At this dizzying height, it may be difficult to concentrate, the highway department was kind enough to install green posts to block oncoming headlights, but one wrong turn sends you to Minneapolis (and really, who wants to go there). Should you survive the high level bridge (and I do mean high level), you will find yourself nearly back at lake level and looking up. Straight up. I have always wanted to own a brake shop in Duluth, maybe transmission repair as well. The main street through town is a serious test for the best of transmission cooling systems. Add in boats, manual transmissions and weekend drivers and it becomes a harrowing trip with a four-way stop in the middle.
There's a house along this road that is three stories on one side and a single story on the other side, that's how steep the hill is.
Having survived that (I told you to take a deep breath in Superior) you've earned a break at Perkin's. Turn left at the top of the hill to get there. Afterward, you can test your speedometer and odometer in the specially marked "Odometer test zone" with signs at regular intervals to compare with your own odometer for accuracies sake.
Outside of Duluth, be sure to watch for the Hockey Hall of Fame in Evelyth as well as the Iron Range cities of Hibbing and Virginia. In the middle of nowhere, mixed in among the railroad shacks and hunting cottages, is the Potlatch plant. At night, the combination of factory lighting and steam in the woods make for an eerie sight.
At some point after Duluth, you can begin to follow your nose to International Falls, also known as Frostbite Falls, home to Rocket J. Squirrel and Bullwinkle J. Moose. Did you know the Simpsons all have the middle initial J as a tribute to Jay Ward, creator of Rocky and Bullwinkle? Or that Rocky and Bullwinkle was banned in Canada for its negative portrayal of Mounties? There is no mention of the pair in "the Falls" but there is a statue of Smoky Bear. There are several pictures of me and my brother in front of the statue.
In International Falls, you will see a plethora of Duty Free stores advertising tobacco and alcohol. Don't fall into the trap, I told you to get that stuff in Eau Claire where it's cheap. Do be sure to stop in the Delta filling station. This was another tradition, so humor me. There is an IGA (Independent Grocers Association) store in the mall, such as it is, west of town. Rules are constantly changing about food so check first.
BEFORE YOU APPROACH THE BORDER...a few words about etiquette. There is a bridge to cross to enter Canada at this point. It is owned by the paper mill (the funny smell you began to notice just north of Duluth) and shared with trains, pulp trucks, bicycles and pedestrians. Be patient. Tidy up the car a bit and be sure everyone looks somewhat reputable. Open the ash tray and have your stuff in order. Border guards are a generally friendly lot, don't get smart and they tend to leave you alone. They all have favourite tricks like asking kids questions, especially about fireworks and the like. A common practice is to reach in and poke in your ash tray. I always have change in mine. Remember, if you get cranky or touchy, they can take your car apart and leave you to put it back together.
Welcome to Canada!!!!!
Next time - - - What do I do now that I got this far????
5.4.11
From Wee Island to the Camp
The cottage at Wee Island was well appointed for summer living. Raised on pilings, it allowed for good venitlation. Large windows offered beautiful lake views in any direction and the open floor plan, with vaulted ceilings, gave an airiness to the pine building. It was a lovely place in summer, but not so in the chill of early April, when temperatures dove into the 20's overnight. A fire in the old franklin stove took a bit of the edge off, but required constant tending.
In the morning, bleary eyed and smoky, Willard trudged through melting snow to the dock where ice had re-formed overnight in the still and frosty air. The boat was ice-bound. Hopefully the morning sun would melt the ice and allow them to leave. Breakfast and, later, lunch passed reading, planning, listening to the radio for weather forecasts and hoping for a little wind to start the melt again.
Just after lunch, a southerly wind began to whip at the pines sheltering the cottage. At the southern edge of Wee Island, the ice began to ripple as it broke into pieces. The boat loaded and Wee Island secured for another day, Willard and Mary headed south toward Gohere Bay. The going was slow at first as they broke through remaining sheets of ice, nudging the boat gently onto the ice before it settled through. Once they reached the eastern edge of Wolf Island, the water cleared and Willard opened up the throttle as, after a ten year absence, they returned to the Camp at Gohere Bay.
In the morning, bleary eyed and smoky, Willard trudged through melting snow to the dock where ice had re-formed overnight in the still and frosty air. The boat was ice-bound. Hopefully the morning sun would melt the ice and allow them to leave. Breakfast and, later, lunch passed reading, planning, listening to the radio for weather forecasts and hoping for a little wind to start the melt again.
Just after lunch, a southerly wind began to whip at the pines sheltering the cottage. At the southern edge of Wee Island, the ice began to ripple as it broke into pieces. The boat loaded and Wee Island secured for another day, Willard and Mary headed south toward Gohere Bay. The going was slow at first as they broke through remaining sheets of ice, nudging the boat gently onto the ice before it settled through. Once they reached the eastern edge of Wolf Island, the water cleared and Willard opened up the throttle as, after a ten year absence, they returned to the Camp at Gohere Bay.
4.4.11
Spring in Gohere Bay
As the earth tilts and days grow longer, winter begins to ease its grip on Gohere Bay. Ice gives way to open water in the sunny channels while clinging to islands and bays. Watersheds swell and creeks rise and run with melted snow from rocky outcrops where the great Canadian shield pokes through moss and dirt. Weather, so wildly variable throughout summer and winter, is no more forgiving this time of year, with temperatures rising and falling, seemingly at random.
In older days, when the ice roads were used to access hunting blinds or trap lines, trucks and cars travelled the frozen lake, sometimes ending their journeys prematurely. They would be parked on whatever piece of land was nearby, usually next to or between pine trees, the most reliable indicator of land beneath the snow.
Often, forgotten or abandoned cars would spend entire summers on tiny reef-islands barely bigger than the vehicle itself.
In spring, sudden changes of temperature are common, combined with shifting winds, a channel open one day, may be an ice jam the next. Ice that seemed sure underfoot in the morning, would disappear by lunchtime.
Such was the case one spring as Willard and Mary ventured out onto Sabaskong Bay. After foreclosure proceedings granted them title to the camp once again, they were anxious to assess the condition of the camp. There had been a trip during the winter to check inventory such as beds and blankets and such, however boats were buried under thick snow drifts and cabins had been winterized, hopefully. They arrived in mid-April and found the cove at the Government Dock ice-packed and checked into a hotel. Next day, they were able to reach Paradise Island before ice could be seen. As the day went on, temperatures rose and a southerly wind kicked up. The warm up continued overnight and the party headed out next morning with high hopes.
They nudged carefully through slushy water around the point past Paradise Island, Jensen's Island and were nearly to Pingaree when a solid bump against the hull caught Willard's attention. Easing back on the throttle, he crept onward through chunks of soft ice, leaving a wake that resembled a stirred cocktail. The wind had died and the sky was grey and overcast as they passed Cyclone Point. The motor echoed through an otherwise eerie silence. There was a decision, cross the bay toward Wolf Island or turn west to Wee Island. The run to Wolf Island was about two miles, Wee Island was about three-quarter mile. Besides, what would happen when they passed Wolf Island? Would Gohere Bay be open water? Pack ice? Frozen solid? It was too late in the day to risk being stuck in the cold overnight. Willard nudged the wheel toward the west.
In older days, when the ice roads were used to access hunting blinds or trap lines, trucks and cars travelled the frozen lake, sometimes ending their journeys prematurely. They would be parked on whatever piece of land was nearby, usually next to or between pine trees, the most reliable indicator of land beneath the snow.
Often, forgotten or abandoned cars would spend entire summers on tiny reef-islands barely bigger than the vehicle itself.
In spring, sudden changes of temperature are common, combined with shifting winds, a channel open one day, may be an ice jam the next. Ice that seemed sure underfoot in the morning, would disappear by lunchtime.
Such was the case one spring as Willard and Mary ventured out onto Sabaskong Bay. After foreclosure proceedings granted them title to the camp once again, they were anxious to assess the condition of the camp. There had been a trip during the winter to check inventory such as beds and blankets and such, however boats were buried under thick snow drifts and cabins had been winterized, hopefully. They arrived in mid-April and found the cove at the Government Dock ice-packed and checked into a hotel. Next day, they were able to reach Paradise Island before ice could be seen. As the day went on, temperatures rose and a southerly wind kicked up. The warm up continued overnight and the party headed out next morning with high hopes.
They nudged carefully through slushy water around the point past Paradise Island, Jensen's Island and were nearly to Pingaree when a solid bump against the hull caught Willard's attention. Easing back on the throttle, he crept onward through chunks of soft ice, leaving a wake that resembled a stirred cocktail. The wind had died and the sky was grey and overcast as they passed Cyclone Point. The motor echoed through an otherwise eerie silence. There was a decision, cross the bay toward Wolf Island or turn west to Wee Island. The run to Wolf Island was about two miles, Wee Island was about three-quarter mile. Besides, what would happen when they passed Wolf Island? Would Gohere Bay be open water? Pack ice? Frozen solid? It was too late in the day to risk being stuck in the cold overnight. Willard nudged the wheel toward the west.
1.1.11
Christmas
Last week, as I dozed on my couch while enjoying the afterglow of another successful Christmas, I experienced a collection of sights, sounds and smells that took me back years to the holidays of my youth. In the current world, a successful holiday includes avoiding gift returns, not adding too many holiday pounds and not severely increasing the number of people you will need to avoid, for whatever reason, in the coming year.
But through the haze of sleep and static-filled radio stations, echoes drifted across the airwaves, recalling the pop-filled music of 78 rpm records on a Wurlitzer juke box, barely audible as the melodies twist and spin through a tangle of holiday cheer. Voices blend into polyphonic din, punctuated here and there by shrill laughs, booming greetings, raspy chuckles and smoke-stained stories of business and fishing and lusty imagined friends. Such was the world of Willard's annual Christmas party. Early in the evening, I would take my assigned post, just inside the front door, greeting guests as they exited their cars, steadying high-heeled furs through ice and snow or sheltering wool and silk forms through drizzle and rain. Safely inside, names were placed on decorative stickers and a delicate dance ensued as to where, exactly, on that dress, was a proper place for name sticker and dare I be the one to place it. The men simply slapped the sticker on a lapel or, more rarely, a fuzzy sweater. Then I would haul the coats, wool and fur and polyester, smelling of perfume and smoke and bakery and liquor, to the appointed bedroom where they would join a growing pile of like items.
As the arrivals petered out, and my hand began to swell from shaking and writing and carrying, I would wander through the house, careful to avoid the dreaded key-hole arches and their ankle-smashing outcropping. My first stop was always the bar. Though too young for anything serious, I could take stock of the variety of soft-drinks while attempting to follow slurred directions for each guest's "usual...don't you remember, you made it for me last year..." The bar was on the deck of the enclosed swimming pool where the scent of whisky and rum and squirt mixed with the mustiness of damp astroturf and sharp sting of chlorine hanging in a smoky mix of pipe, cigar and cigarette smells. The room wasn't heated, except for the steam that rose from the water. There was no swimming at these parties, not since Marie flung her dress across the bar and splashed into the water several years ago. Marie had never been swimming in her 80-plus years, we were all thankful she had chosen to weare undergarments that particular evening. As she sank in the cool water, her eyeglasses fluttered toward the bottom while her upper plate of dentures drifted, like a tiny raft, toward the light-up Santa at the far corner or the room next to the exercise bicycle.
No, the swimming would be left to the grandchildren, like myself, in the days between Christmas and Willard's birthday. Or the days between their fall holiday and Sport Show Season and, in later years, the annual trip to Padre Island. For the Christmas party, there were jokes about swimming and swimming suits, discussions as to who at the party the uncles and cousins would like to see thrown in the pool, for whatever reason, and memories about the year Marie went swimming.
Next was the table with the food, smoked turkey, baked ham, corned beef, cranberry relish and veggie trays, coldcuts and cheese. Then the table with fruits and breads and the lightest angel food cake with whipped cream frosting and potica and cookies. Finally a round of familiar faces, many from Gohere Bay, looking so different in holiday finery, suits and jingle bells, cleavage-bearing silk and chin-cuddling cashmere. Different from the khaki and denim of Gohere Bay, not a bucket hat or fishing lure in sight. No Zebco or Garcia logo merchandise or baseball caps were to be found among the merriment. The stories were the same, fishing stories, hunting stories, jokes in a variety of colors and tones. Tales of seasons past and plans for the season to come were shared, dreamed and often forgotten among the eggnog and rum punch.
After a few rounds at the organ, with accompanists of varying skills, I would wind my way to the bedroom where I had piled the coats hours earlier. I would sit on the edge of the bed, next to a mountain of wool and mink and fox and leather, soaking in the perfume and musk and smoke and liquor, letting the sounds blend into that dissonant drone of the holidays, music and the tinkling of ice in crystal. Heavy footfalls and the soft click of high heels across linoleum punctuated the dreamlike half-light of the darkened bedroom. Somewhere in the early hours of morning I would succumb to the headiness of it all and rest my head on a soft mink or fox and doze, drifting in and out of consciousness. Guests would come and collect coats and purses, hats and scarves; kisses planted on my cheek amid hearty handshakes and back-pats. White Christmas and Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Bing Crosby and Nat Cole and Goggi Grant, the soundtrack of winters far from Gohere Bay, yet ever so near.
But through the haze of sleep and static-filled radio stations, echoes drifted across the airwaves, recalling the pop-filled music of 78 rpm records on a Wurlitzer juke box, barely audible as the melodies twist and spin through a tangle of holiday cheer. Voices blend into polyphonic din, punctuated here and there by shrill laughs, booming greetings, raspy chuckles and smoke-stained stories of business and fishing and lusty imagined friends. Such was the world of Willard's annual Christmas party. Early in the evening, I would take my assigned post, just inside the front door, greeting guests as they exited their cars, steadying high-heeled furs through ice and snow or sheltering wool and silk forms through drizzle and rain. Safely inside, names were placed on decorative stickers and a delicate dance ensued as to where, exactly, on that dress, was a proper place for name sticker and dare I be the one to place it. The men simply slapped the sticker on a lapel or, more rarely, a fuzzy sweater. Then I would haul the coats, wool and fur and polyester, smelling of perfume and smoke and bakery and liquor, to the appointed bedroom where they would join a growing pile of like items.
As the arrivals petered out, and my hand began to swell from shaking and writing and carrying, I would wander through the house, careful to avoid the dreaded key-hole arches and their ankle-smashing outcropping. My first stop was always the bar. Though too young for anything serious, I could take stock of the variety of soft-drinks while attempting to follow slurred directions for each guest's "usual...don't you remember, you made it for me last year..." The bar was on the deck of the enclosed swimming pool where the scent of whisky and rum and squirt mixed with the mustiness of damp astroturf and sharp sting of chlorine hanging in a smoky mix of pipe, cigar and cigarette smells. The room wasn't heated, except for the steam that rose from the water. There was no swimming at these parties, not since Marie flung her dress across the bar and splashed into the water several years ago. Marie had never been swimming in her 80-plus years, we were all thankful she had chosen to weare undergarments that particular evening. As she sank in the cool water, her eyeglasses fluttered toward the bottom while her upper plate of dentures drifted, like a tiny raft, toward the light-up Santa at the far corner or the room next to the exercise bicycle.
No, the swimming would be left to the grandchildren, like myself, in the days between Christmas and Willard's birthday. Or the days between their fall holiday and Sport Show Season and, in later years, the annual trip to Padre Island. For the Christmas party, there were jokes about swimming and swimming suits, discussions as to who at the party the uncles and cousins would like to see thrown in the pool, for whatever reason, and memories about the year Marie went swimming.
Next was the table with the food, smoked turkey, baked ham, corned beef, cranberry relish and veggie trays, coldcuts and cheese. Then the table with fruits and breads and the lightest angel food cake with whipped cream frosting and potica and cookies. Finally a round of familiar faces, many from Gohere Bay, looking so different in holiday finery, suits and jingle bells, cleavage-bearing silk and chin-cuddling cashmere. Different from the khaki and denim of Gohere Bay, not a bucket hat or fishing lure in sight. No Zebco or Garcia logo merchandise or baseball caps were to be found among the merriment. The stories were the same, fishing stories, hunting stories, jokes in a variety of colors and tones. Tales of seasons past and plans for the season to come were shared, dreamed and often forgotten among the eggnog and rum punch.
After a few rounds at the organ, with accompanists of varying skills, I would wind my way to the bedroom where I had piled the coats hours earlier. I would sit on the edge of the bed, next to a mountain of wool and mink and fox and leather, soaking in the perfume and musk and smoke and liquor, letting the sounds blend into that dissonant drone of the holidays, music and the tinkling of ice in crystal. Heavy footfalls and the soft click of high heels across linoleum punctuated the dreamlike half-light of the darkened bedroom. Somewhere in the early hours of morning I would succumb to the headiness of it all and rest my head on a soft mink or fox and doze, drifting in and out of consciousness. Guests would come and collect coats and purses, hats and scarves; kisses planted on my cheek amid hearty handshakes and back-pats. White Christmas and Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Bing Crosby and Nat Cole and Goggi Grant, the soundtrack of winters far from Gohere Bay, yet ever so near.
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