A Benevolent Wilderness
Gene Palmisano
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Gene Palmisano
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Table of Contents:
1
Tom sped his truck down Oliver Avenue towards Dale’s house. He swerved hard into the parking lane, and the right front tire bounced off the curb. Dale was standing out in the yard, smoking a joint with a couple of regulars; they hardly noticed Tom’s arrival.
“Let’s go fishing!” Tom hollered from the street where he walked around his truck, securing the tie downs on the canoe he had strapped into the bed. Finished with his task, he strode over to where the boys were congregated.
“Are you ready to go ‘bro?” Tom asked.
“Not really,” Dale said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke.
“Don’t tell me you’re not packed yet?”
“No ... I’m not going.”
“Not going!” Tom was floored; he never saw it coming. “We’ve only been planning this trip for the past year, and now ... all of a sudden you’re not going.”
Come to think of it, Dale had been aloof these past several days; he didn’t act like a guy who was going on a two week fishing adventure in the wilderness.
“How can you not be going?” Tom asked. “This is the Boundary Waters we’re talking about here, the Minnesota fishing opener ... remember?”
“I’m not going.”
“Dude, my truck is packed. I have all the food, the gear, everything; all you need to do is grab your fishing pole, and let’s go.”
“I can’t go,” Dale said. Turning his back on Tom, he walked into the house with his entourage in tow.
Tom brought up the rear as they all flopped into furniture about the living room. These guys were old high school buddies who were famous for partying like wild men. Although they had graduated in 1976, not much had changed. Three years later and here they were, doing the same old thing: gambling, drinking, and smoking dope. Dale’s place was like a second home for these guys. He always had plenty of weed, and getting high was the order of the day. Beyond that there wasn’t much happening.
How could Dale pretend to be going all this time and then back out at the last minute? Tom squirmed in his chair. That son of a bitch must have been planning this betrayal all along. Tom wanted to stroll over and blast Dale in the nose with a straight right hand and wipe that shit eating grin off his face, but he knew these guys would all jump in and throw down on him. Instead, he sat there contemplating his next move.
It was too late to invite someone else; he was packed and ready to travel. Dale owed him an explanation. Why was he crapping out at the last minute?
“So what happened? I thought we were going fishing.”
“I scored a pound of weed last night, and I need to stay in town to sell it. I need the cash.”
Tom shook his head in disbelief. “You would rather stay here and sell pot than go pound walleyes and northerns for two weeks in the Boundary Waters?”
“Look ... don’t you get it? I don’t want to go!”
“Well, I wish you would have told me sooner instead of waiting until the last minute. I could have offered it to someone else.”
Dale fired up another joint, took a deep drag and passed it down the line. He had given Tom his final answer. When the joint came Tom’s way, he waved it off; he was in no mood to smoke.
Tom sat staring out the window at his truck. What to do? He had been to the Boundary Waters a number of times before, but never alone. He had all the gear, and he knew how to navigate with a compass and map. Screw this; he didn’t need Dale or any of these losers. He was going fishing.
“See ya,” Tom said, bolting for the door.
“Where you goin’ Anderson?” Dale asked.
“I’m going canoeing in the Boundary Waters, Dipshit! Fishing for two weeks over the opener by myself,” he said, letting the screen door slam behind him.
Everyone in the room looked at one another in disbelief; they were so codependent they couldn’t conceive of doing anything alone, especially a camping trip of this magnitude.
“Do you really think he’s going?” someone asked.
“No, he’s bluffing,” Dale said. “You’ll see him hanging out at the bar tonight.”
Tom jumped in his truck wondering why he had ever asked Dale to go in the first place. He’s an idiot. He has no idea what he’s missing. Tom wasn’t going to let anyone stop him now; besides, he could never live with himself knowing he let a looser like Dale torpedo his dream. Tom revved his truck and dumped the clutch.
“Fuck’em,” he said, squealing away from the curb, filling the air with burning rubber and smoke.
This trip meant every thing to Tom. He had worked for the power company all winter, trimming trees in the freezing cold and snow, stashing away what money he could to pay his bills in advance, so he could quit his job and go fishing the whole month of May
He dug under the mound of clothing on the seat next to him, looking for a semi cold can of Dr Pepper. It felt good not having any commitments; he could take his time now, be spontaneous, and return home when he was damn good and ready. He couldn’t ride his Harley for another month yet anyway; might as well stay up north. Besides his bike was safe at the clubhouse; Lance promised to keep an eye on it for him.
It wasn’t long before he hit the cross-town exchange and banked the truck onto 35W north. His timing was perfect; rush hour was over and traffic was light. This stretch of interstate would carry him out of the city and clear up to Duluth. Come tomorrow, he would be standing at the trail head. He could launch his canoe and paddle wherever his heart desired, the border lakes and rivers, Canada. Hundreds of miles of relentless wilderness all belonged to him; it was all waiting 300 miles to the north. All he had to do was get there.
He was riveted now. Excited about what lay ahead, he sat on the edge of the seat clutching the steering wheel with both hands. The prospect of being in the open spaces again made him speed. He was anxious to see the countryside and drink in as much of it as he could before nightfall.
Tom pulled into the left lane and stayed there. It was a straight shot up north and out of town. He looked up to see the city evaporating in his rear view mirror. Soon he would be free of it, with all its hang-ups and bullshit, free of his alcoholic father and brother, not to mention those so-called friends of his. He felt emancipated again, only this time it wasn’t by tragedy; he wasn’t that thirteen-year-old castaway from a broken home any longer. This time it was his choice. This time he was twenty years old, strong and at the top of his game. This time he commanded his own future. The world belonged to him; he owned it.
He entertained the thought of staying up north indefinitely, fishing for a living or cutting trees for a lumber outfit. He was a damn good tree trimmer and knew how to handle a chainsaw. He could get a job at the ski resort in the winter making snow or lift operating, maybe even ski patrol. Hell, he could write his own ticket, fishing in the summer and ski bumming in the winter.
As the truck surged forward, the rural countryside unfolded before him. He began to relax and let the open road consume him. He passed mile after mile of jet black, fallow fields ready for spring planting. Traditional farms with big red barns and familiar grain silos cropped up everywhere.
He tried to take it all in as it rushed by at 60 miles per hour. He counted: 2, 6, 8, Black Angus cows in a hollow, before noticing a ring-neck pheasant glide into a stand of old corn stalks on the other side of the highway. Mallards, Wood Ducks and Coots dotted the surface of every little pond, and road kill began to litter the highway.
He cracked the window and pushed open the wing until the cool evening air blasted into his face. He drank it into his body, sweet fresh spring air rushed into his lungs. He let it pour over him like a cleansing tonic, washing away the filthy city. It was like a drug he couldn’t get enough of. He rolled the window all the way down, climbed half way out and let the exhilarating air rush over his head. He opened his mouth, and his cheeks billowed and flapped with sweet country air. It tasted like home, a home he had never known, but desperately longed for.
God how he loved to travel! He had been introduced to it at an early age by his grandmother who took him camping every summer.
“You boys pitch that tent, and Granny will get dinner started,” she would say every evening when they’d pull into camp for the night.
“Where do you want it?” Tom would ask.
“In the flattest spot you can find.” This was their daily camping ritual, one she knew so well, one he was so eager to learn. Back in the sixties they’d load up Granny’s old Buick Skylark with gear and head for a National Park, Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon. They saw them all back in those days, back when they were still pristine places, back when you could drive right in, and plop down a tent without making a reservation. Back when your neighbors wouldn’t even consider playing loud music and partying all night. Tom was more than grateful for what his grandmother had done for him. She was the only one who protected him from his brother’s wrath.
“You leave that boy alone!” she would yell, fending off Tom’s older brother with her shoe, smacking him over the head with the heel when he’d try to pry Tom away form behind her skirt.
“I mean it! You’re so damn mean to that boy, when he gets older he’s not going to have anything to do with you!” Little did Tom know then, those words were to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Now that he was older, he had little use for his sociopath brother.
He fought back the tears. Damn, why does it always have to end like this every time he thought about Granny? If only he hadn’t missed his chance to hold her, comfort her and tell her how much he loved her before the cancer swept her away? It wasn’t his fault; he was too young, too naive to realize what was happening. He could taste salty tears on his lips, signaling the time had come to tuck her back into the safety of a fond memory, like he’d done so many times before.
He crested a small hill and saw another dead coon. That makes nine so far. It reminded him of an old joke: Why did the chicken cross the road? To prove to the raccoon it could be done. He was having the time of his life; it was a party and he was the guest of honor.
He was discovering the unique, the special, all hiding in plain sight: a feral cat mousing amongst a broken down combine, a sway back barn preparing to collapse under the next strong wind, a crippled farm dog limping down a lane on three legs—small things really, things that people look at everyday but seldom see. Observation was a gift he never stopped to consider. It was a skill that would soon define him.
Before long he was squinting, peering through the windshield trying to make out the road. He had become so engrossed with his immediate environment that he didn’t notice the sun had gone down and it was time for headlights.
Better watch close for deer; it’s the golden hour, the twilight after sunset when most critters get smashed on the road. Hitting a deer would end this adventure real quick. He scouted the shoulders of the highway, ever on the lookout for a kamikaze deer ready to jump in front of his headlights.
“Pine City 21 Miles,” the sign read. Pine City was like an imaginary line where the first traces of the North woods became evident. Miles of farm country would now be replaced by birch, alder, aspen, and fir. Once you hit Pine City you knew you were on the fringe of the great North Woods.
It was dark by the time he passed the Pine City exit. He yawned deeply and stretched. It was the first time in two days he actually felt tired. He had tossed and turned all last night with visions of waterfalls and big fish dancing in his head. It was always that way with him, so eager to travel, that he could never sleep the night before an adventure. But now slumber had found him, and he contemplated finding a spot to bivouac.
He drove North past Hinckley to the Sand Stone exit. There he jumped onto a county road where he found a deserted pull out. It was a remote spot where he could sleep in his truck without being hassled. He killed the motor and climbed out of the cab into the darkness. He shivered for a second and then looked to the heavens. Every star known and unknown to man sat there twinkling above him. The city lights had hidden them away for so long, but now they were the only thing illuminating the night sky and at that moment he reclaimed them all as his own.
***
Sleeping in the truck had never been his forte. He bunched up his coat for a pillow and covered himself with an old blanket from behind the seat. He lay prone and reached under the driver’s seat groping about for his pistol. He had stashed it a little too well. It took some wrangling, but before long he pulled out the S&W 41 Mag. Unsnapping the holster, he grabbed the butt and yanked it out. There he admired it in the muted light.
It was a thing of beauty, like a fine woman. She had flawless symmetry, a smooth double action, and a hair-pin trigger. Her sturdy frame and long sleek barrel provided deadly accuracy. Loaded with semi-jacket hollow points, she had plenty of stopping power. She was the perfect date; reliable, always at his side, she wasn’t high maintenance and never asked for dinner and a movie.
He slid her back into the holster and left it open. Gently tucking her back under the seat, he turned her so the butt was easy to grab. If he had to brandish her in a hurry, she would be ready to kill. She was his best friend now, someone he could count on to cover his back and save his ass in a jam—that was something Dale would never do. He chuckled.
He tried to convince himself that he was tired, so tired that sleeping in the truck would be a luxurious experience. First he lay on his right side until his arm fell asleep, then he rolled on his left side, until that arm fell asleep, back and forth, left then right, supine then prone, it was nocturnal hell. He caught a few winks here and there, but was constantly waking wondering what time it was, wishing the light of a new day would come streaming through his windshield.
A coffin would be more comfortable than this. Maybe he should unpack his sleeping bag and stretch out in the bed of the truck. No, with his luck a rabid raccoon would find its way into the bed and dine on his face. No, he would just tough it out; come tomorrow night he would be stretched out inside his tent at a pristine lake in the wilderness.
~ ~ ~
2
The morning light crept in like a burglar. A dense cloud cover obscured the sun, for that he was grateful. Exhausted from wrestling his coat pillow around all night, he covered his face with a sleeve.
He lay there dreaming of gas station food; a large cup of coffee with two sugars and those little chocolate donuts that come in a box. With renewed vigor he greeted the day and got behind the wheel.
Before long he was pouring a cup of hot Joe at one of those combination bait store/gas stations. The place was packed with sportsmen, so he took a spot at the back of the check out line next to the live wells where he watched the chubs and shiner minnows dart about. How he wished he could pack some minnows into the back country. Unfortunately, they would never survive the journey, and he had plenty of weight to carry without the burden of all that water. No, he would have to settle for a dozen night crawlers in a dirt-filled cup. Once he got up to the Boundary Waters, he could assemble his minnow trap and catch his own bait.
While he stood patiently waiting, he overheard a conversation between strangers discussing a fishing hot spot.
“Yeah, there’s a deep hole on the west end of Bear Lake there ...
“And?”
“And you can pull one pound Crappie out of there all day.”
“What’cha catch’em on?”
“White Mr. Twister and a minnow.”
“Maybe we should give that a try Barry”
“Maybe we’ll do that then. Thanks for the heads up mister”
Now that’s weird; a good fishing hole is seldom shared. It’s something you don’t confess to a priest or your wife. It’s something one takes to the grave. This guy’s a bullshitter, polishing his lines before the opener. Besides, here in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes at least 100 are named Bear Lake. Unbeknownst to these guys, they are probably talking about two different lakes with the same name.
***
Back on the interstate Tom juggled breakfast, almost dumping twenty ounces of hot coffee in his lap. He was struggling to tear a tiny sipping hole in the edge of the plastic lid with his teeth. Eventually he spat the little white triangular piece of plastic onto the floor of the cab, and in one swift gulp burned all of the taste buds off his tongue.
When the caffeine kicked in his mind churned out visions of Lake Superior. He wondered if Duluth had changed much since his last visit and whether—heaven forbid—the lake still had ice on it.
Mile after mile, familiar exits flew by kindling fond memories of previous fishing trips and earlier days. Tom squirmed in the driver’s seat and hunched over the steering wheel anticipating a glimpse of the Great Lake. He spotted sea gulls lofting high upon the thermals, harbingers of what lay ahead. His truck, laden with gear, toiled over a section of grade. He stomped the gas peddle to the floor and the engine roared until the truck topped a crest, and there below, shimmering cobalt blue, Lake Superior covered the earth.
The waters of the great lake were calm. The harbor was cluttered with ships of various sizes. Tugs and fishing boats skittered about, while iron ore carriers, their cargo holds loaded with taconite, waited to dock and take on fuel.
Duluth appeared to be crawling out of the water and climbing its way up the ridge to the west. The interstate took him through the heart of the city, and it unfolded before him like a museum. Tired warehouses and exhausted old homes lining the thoroughfare bore testimony of long, arduous winters. Down by the wharf the ships appeared savaged. Their rusty hulls, scarred by years of punishing ice storms, boasted of the lake’s nefarious legacy.
Tom had a strangle hold on the steering wheel, grasping it with white knuckles, jockeying the traffic while trying to anticipate his exit. He didn’t want to miss it like he had done on numerous other occasions. That potential disaster would take him miles out of his way before he could exit the busy thoroughfare, turn around, and back track.
His exit appeared abruptly. Tom gassed the truck around a dilapidated Volvo and then swerved hard to catch the exit. He let out a sigh and pointed the truck north up Hwy 53. This road would deliver him to the pines, where glaciated lakes carved in granite held the allure of big fish. He gathered his coat off the seat and crammed it behind the small of his back trying to get comfortable. This living in the cab of the truck was getting old.
Rolling out of town, Tom spied a stranger sitting on a duffle bag at the edge of the road. The guy wore a scruffy black beard, a tattered ball cap and held an old rubber rain slicker draped over his knee. Too tired to stand and flag a ride, he propped his right arm out, extending his thumb. The guy looked half dead. Tom could relate; he had been there before. He stopped the truck in front of the stranger who tossed his bag in the bed and reached for the door handle. The guy climbed in like an arthritic tortoise, and instantly; the pungent smell of dead fish permeated the cab.
“You got an open can of sardines in your pocket—or what?” Tom asked.
The stranger smiled exposing a gaping hole where two front teeth used to live.
“No, just got done fishing,” he said.
“Where’s your catch then?”
“Back in the boat, the Isabella; she’s docked in the harbor.”
“Oh…” Tom said. “Commercial fishing ...”
“Yeah, that’s right. I fish for a living these days.”
“Hey, I’m Tom Anderson.” He held out his hand.
“Leaf John,” the fellow said, grabbing Tom’s hand, almost crushing it in the process.
“So… what is it you do on the boat?”
“Oh… man the nets, put the fish in the hole, ice down the catch, that sort of thing.”
“Do you like it?”
“Not really. I can’t stand fish. I’d rather starve than eat one.”
Tom laughed; he found the irony amusing.
“I used to work for Reserve Mining until the god damn environmentalists shut it down,” Leaf John said. “A lot of good people lost their jobs; it hurt everyone. The range dried up. A lot of folks had to leave town to find work. I was one of the lucky ones, got a job with a fishing outfit here in Duluth.” An angry silence filled the cab.
“So where you headed now?” Tom quickly changed the subject.
“Virginia. I have a week off so I’m headed home for a while my family’s all there.”
“How about you ... It looks like you’re going fishing,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the canoe strapped in the bed.
“Heading up to Ely, up to the Boundary Waters.”
“You better have plenty of warm clothes. It’s colder than a witch’s tit up there. Hell, the ice just went off the lakes a week ago.”
“So I heard,” Tom said. “The walleyes should be running good.”
“Hell ... they’re going to be so thick in those rivers; you’ll be able to walk across on their backs.” He laughed.
Virginia appeared a ghost town, a mere skeleton of her former self.
“Drop me off over there,” Leaf John said.
Tom pulled up in front of a fast food joint and let him out. “Hey you want to join me for lunch?” Leaf John said. “I’ll buy.”
“No ... no thanks. I need to get up to Ely and pick up my entry permit for the Boundary Waters.”
“Well good luck fishing. I hate fish,” he reiterated, closing the door.
Tom sped away searching for a good reason why the hell anyone would want to sit down and eat lunch with a guy who smelled like a kipper snack.
He drove out of town to the junction of Hwy 169 north. Years of frost heave had battered the narrow road, and Tom’s truck jolted over every uneven crack. Tom’s spirits were high now. Driving down this stretch of 169 was like being reunited with a lost friend. It would lead him through some spectacular country and take him clear up to Ely.
The forest grew dense and impenetrable, and Tamarack swamps cropped up everywhere. A small crystal lake appeared through the trees. A lone crane hunted the shallows amongst the reed beds, ever on the prowl for small fish and amphibians.
Tom entertained a recurrent fantasy of a lone cabin at the edge of a remote lake, a place all his own where he could drop in on weekends, hang out and fish till his heart’s content. Someday he would come to live there permanently. He could always find work as a lumberjack or truck driver. Yep, some day he’d own a piece of lake property in the North Woods.
He breezed through the small town of Tower Sudan where a billboard advertised the Sudan Mine. It read: “The world’s largest underground iron mine. Tours daily.” There were a few cars in the parking lot. Obviously, someone was taking the tour. Tom always wanted to go down the shaft just to say he’d been there and done that. Maybe next time; it was one of those things he was always putting off.
He coasted into Ely real slow. The town hadn’t changed much since his last visit, same bars, outfitters and gas stations. He made his way toward the visitor center on the north end of town. There he would pick up his entry permit to the wilderness area. The parking lot was deserted, and a rush came over him.
What if they’re closed? The hell with it; he’d save ten bucks and go without a permit. Fortunately they were open, and a perky old gal wearing a forest service uniform was attending the counter.
“Hello young man,” she said with a smile. “How can I help you today?”
“I’m here to pick up my Boundary Waters permit for the Nina Moose River.”
“You’re the first one.” she said.
“What?”
“You’re my first customer this year. Heck, we just opened up yesterday. Say… I hope you have plenty of warm clothes; it’s been awful cold.”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Tom said.
The old girl pressed down hard with a pen, her arthritic hand trying to score the carbon copies beneath.
“How many in your party then?” she asked.
“Just me.”
The old woman paused and peered over her bifocals. “Just you? You’re goin’ up there all alone? ”
“Yup.”
“We don’t get that here too often. As a matter of fact, I’ve never heard of anyone going up there all alone, well maybe for just a day or two, but never for two weeks. You sure you know what you’re doing? We have people die up there every year. Hypothermia kills most of ‘em.”
“How much is it?” Tom asked. He didn’t need an ambiguous sermon right now. He’d heard different versions of it his whole life. Jack, his father, used it whenever he wanted to bring Tom down to his level.
“You can’t do that!” was Jack’s favorite motivational speech. He wielded it like a club to crush Tom’s aspirations. Tom hated him for it. Who was Jack to tell him what to do, anyway? He was never around when Tom needed him. Jack couldn’t even protect Tom from his own brother.
“That will be ten dollars young man,” she said. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing. The forest service gets pretty upset when they have to go up and rescue people.”
Tom paid the lady, folded the permit and stuck it in his top shirt pocket.
He doubted that the forest service had ever saved anyone. A person would starve by the time that outfit arrived. Besides, how the hell would they know if you were in trouble or not? The only thing the U.S.F.S. was good at was making rules and regulations, not to mention passing out fines. Next year there would probably be a new rule prohibiting people from going into the Boundary Waters alone, or they would have to hire a guide, some ridiculous shit like that.
***
The Iron Ore Bar was cold, dank and deserted. It was a two-story square cement structure with walls three feet thick. It reminded Tom of a military building, something impervious to bombing. The bar was on the first floor; god only knew what was on the second. A buzzer sounded when Tom opened the door. He walked up to an empty bar wondering if it was self serve.
“Anybody home?” Tom called out
Suddenly, a bartender sprang to life, wiping down the bar with a filthy white rag that he probably just picked up off the floor.
“What yah’ have?” he asked.
“A bump and a snit,” Tom replied.
The bartender poured a shot of Wild Turkey and then drew a seven ounce glass of beer. Tom looked around the bar at the various species of stuffed fish hanging on the walls. Twenty pound northern pike and gigantic walleyes hung on wooden plaques surrounding the room, some appeared antique, while others were examples of poor taxidermy. Above the bar, hung an old, stuffed fifty pound musky, its body and fins cracked and broken, its hide stained yellowed from years of second-hand smoke.
“Hey can you get Wide World of Sports on that thing?” Tom asked pointing at a television with rabbit ears in the corner. “I think Sugar Ray Leonard is fighting Roberto Duran for the title today.”
The bartender handed Tom the remote. “We get channel nine and channel four. If it’s on one of those, we’ll get it.
“Pretty slow, eh?” Tom asked glancing around the vacant room.
“Yeah… Most tourists won’t come till it warms up some; then they’ll start pouring in here.”
Tom was reaching for a bowl of stale pretzels when he heard the familiar buzzer announce the arrival of another customer.
Two guys about his age strolled in and grabbed stools next to him. One appeared to be a half breed Indian; the other looked like a movie star, a giant size version of Robert Redford. They started badgering the bartender right off.
“Hey how’s my credit in this joint?” The Indian asked.
“If it was bad ... you’d be in great shape,” the bartender said, then laughed.
The Indian turned toward Tom and stuck out his hand. “I’m Houser and this here is Big John,” he said grabbing Tom’s hand.
“Tom Anderson,” he said reaching across the bar where Big John about shook his arm off. “Give these guys a beer and put it on my tab.”
Before long, everyone was carrying on laughing and joking like they had known each other for years. Those boys made Tom feel like a local.
“Fishing?” Houser said. “Yeah we like to fish too, but not when it’s this damn cold. Come back next month when it warms up and we’ll take you out netting.” They all laughed. “That’s what I call fishing.”
Curt Gowdy came on the TV and announced they were hunting bull elephants in Africa with some celebrity aficionado. Tom had his dates mixed up; Sugar Ray’s title fight wasn’t until June. He would have to settle for hunting—which next to fishing was his favorite pastime.
After a couple of beers, Big John produced a little wooden box about the size of a cigarette pack. He slid open a trap door and a little brass pipe sprang out. He rotated the box and opened another little door, inserted the pipe, and with a twist of his hand presented it to the bartender, who sparked it up with a lighter and took a long drag.
These guys are crazy. Who smokes dope in public—sitting at bar?
Big John dipped the little one-hitter in the wooden box again, and then handed it to Tom.
“When in Rome,” Tom said, before drawing hot smoke through the little brass pipe. The bitter resin hit the back of his throat and he gagged; it was all he could do to catch his breath. As the afternoon waned, Big John passed the pipe, the bartender poured another round, the celebrity aficionado killed a charging bull elephant, and nobody else entered the bar. Eventually, the Wide World of Sports was replaced by the Pro Bowlers’ Tour, and Tom felt the urge to move on.
“Well gentlemen,” he said. “It’s time I head on down the road.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Houser asked in a loud voice.
“I was planning on a burger, then hunting up a campsite.”
“Oh no buddy. We have plans for you,” Houser said. “Its party night and you’re the guest of honor.”
Tom hesitated, “I don’t know ...” He was drunk, and all he really wanted to do was get back in the woods, camp and sleep it off.
“You have to come; besides there’s something we need to show you,” Big John said, making the offer intriguing.
How could he refuse? These guys were twisting his arm.
“Sure I’ll go, but first I need to get something to eat.”
“Meet us back here in the parking lot in half an hour,” Houser said, as he and John staggered towards the door. Tom watched the two drive off, then gulped the last of his beer and headed for the door.
He didn’t feel like partying. He was tired of that whole scene, hanging around a bunch of drunks and bimbos, tired of the same old small talk with a bunch of strangers. He always felt like he was doing it for their benefit instead of his own, and that was exactly how he felt now.
He pulled into the drive-up at the A&W. Like everything else in town it was deserted.
“Well, tonight will be a change of scenery anyway,” he rationalized. Besides, maybe he’d meet a smoking hot chick who likes to camp and give head. Getting laid would be a great way to end a perfect day. He finished his burger, tipped the car hop, and headed back to the bar.
***
The guys were nowhere in sight. He contemplated going inside and buying another beer, but his money was running low and he was beginning to wonder whether he could afford gas for the trip home. The smart move would be to ditch these two and go find a camp spot. He put it in gear and started to drive off when Houser came to a sliding stop in the gravel. “Let’s go! Follow me,” He shouted, fishtailing out of the parking lot, slinging rocks against the side of Tom’s truck.
These bastards are crazy, but he was all in now, and fell in line behind them, looking over his shoulder for the cops as they drove out of town.
They took Road 18 north out of town. It wasn’t long before the asphalt ended and the road turned primitive. He followed them over miles of gravel, deep into the woods, where all traces of civilization vanished. Tom began to wonder where these drunken fools were taking him.
Suddenly his intuition screamed, “Danger.” What the hell is going on here? He was alone, miles from nowhere with a couple of dudes he just met in a bar. Maybe these guys were going to roll him, steal his truck and gear and leave him for dead. Nobody would be the wiser; nobody would even come looking for him for weeks. Out here in the boonies they would never find his body; he’d be just another face on a milk carton.
His mind was racing. Maybe these guys did this for a living, befriend strangers, murder them and plunder their gear. Up here, all his stuff is valuable and easy to fence. Tom reached under the seat and pulled out his 41 Mag.
If these guys tried to fuck him over—he swore on his grandmother’s grave —he’d kill them both. Nobody would know; by the time their bodies were found, he would be deep into the wilderness. He’d have to ditch the gun though. He’d take it apart; dump it piece by piece in Moose Lake while he paddled along. The law would never find it. If there was going to be a victim tonight, it damn sure wasn’t going to be him.
Houser slowed to a stop, and both he and John jumped out.
Shit, it’s going down right now! Grabbing the pistol in his right hand, Tom stuck it up under his coat. He pointed the barrel at the driver’s window, cocked the hammer, and slid his index finger over the trigger guard. Houser approached the truck while Big John pissed in the bushes. Tom rolled down the window and played dumb.
“What’s up?”
“We’re almost there; stay close so you don’t miss the turn off.”
“Hey, I’m right behind you,” Tom said, wondering if Houser could smell his fear.
After an uncomfortable silence, Houser asked, “Hey man ... you feeling alright? You seem a little nervous.”
“Never felt better—let’s get it on,” Tom prodded, knowing he had the drop on these two.
Houser shot him a strange look, then turned and ambled back to his truck.
What are these guys up to? They were supposed to be going to a party, but he hadn’t seen another car on the road yet. He eased the hammer down on the pistol and placed it on the seat beside him. He really wanted to leave, just drive off, but where could he go? There was one road in and one road out.
Houser’s truck veered off on a road through the brush. Tom followed at a distance. They ascended the driveway through the trees, when suddenly it opened up revealing an immaculate log home and a parking lot full of vehicles.
“Well’ I’ll be damned,” Tom said, with a sigh of relief. He was grateful he hadn’t killed anybody.
“I told you we had a surprise for you,” Big John said. “Park that thing and let’s go inside. It looks like we’re the last ones here.” Tom backed his truck up into a parking spot on the brink of the hill.
Surprise was an understatement. Tom was in shock and couldn’t believe what he was looking at. The place was incredible, hand hewn white and red pine logs, all shining like a beacon in the wilderness. Tom could still smell exterior stain as he walked toward the house. Inside the double doors was a great room where a towering rock fireplace rested between massive log ceiling timbers. Speakers hanging from the cross members blasted Bob Seger tunes, while a burley dude at the door collected a cover charge and handed out beer glasses for the keg.
Tom was astonished by all the people who were there. He figured they must have come from all over the county. Something he noticed immediately was the shortage of women; the men outnumbered the ladies 3 to 1. His drunk-girl camping fantasy abruptly ended. He was a stranger here and people were noticing; it was unnerving, like being a black man at a Klan Rally.
“I want you guys to meet my cousin, Tom,” Big John said, introducing him to others at the table where they pulled up chairs. “He’s from Minneapolis, up here for the weekend to do some fishing.”
Tom played along. It was better to be Big John’s cousin, than some nobody from the city.
Tom couldn’t get over the magnitude of the place. Houser explained how the county had built it for various community functions and how they let the young people party there, as long as they kept it clean and didn’t trash the place. There were the familiar stuffed fish hanging on the walls, accompanied by mounted ducks and pheasants. Above the fireplace stood a stuffed beaver, striking a familiar pose on a log. Everything appeared new inside and out. The windows still had the manufacturer’s stickers plastered on the glass, and the screens had yet to be installed. Tom decided to work the crowd, talking to strangers while avoiding all eye contact with the women. He didn’t want to give these locals any excuses to kick his ass.
He filled his beer glass and stepped outside to check on his gear. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving his truck out of his sight for too long. He was standing there on the sidewalk when two bikers pulled up on an old puke green Harley Dresser. It was a rat bike, held together with bailing wire and duct tape. These guys looked like the odd couple. The driver was a fat slob who resembled a bearded pig; the passenger was tall and skinny like a poplar sapling. They both wore sleeveless jean jackets adorned with patches, proclaiming the colors of some obscure motorcycle club.
A couple of wild-bunch wanna’bes. Tom knew the type well. He had been riding a Harley when he was senior at Richfield High, the only kid in Richfield who rode a Harley Sportster to school. He could tell right off that these two were real paper assholes—guys who lived vicariously through motorcycles.
“Nice Harley,” Tom said as the two got off and removed their goggles.
“Thanks man,” the fat one huffed making sure Tom saw his colors.
“What is it, a 74 cubic inch?”
“No man… 80.”
“What year?”
“It’s a ‘69 Dresser,” Skinny replied.
“Nice,” Tom said. “These days I ride a 74-inch Fat Bob Super Glide.”
Piggy looked around the parking lot. “Where is it man?”
“Oh, it’s not here. It’s at my place back in the city.”
The wanna’ bes looked at each other quizzically,
“How come you’re not driving it, man?” Skinny asked reaching inside his jean jacket for a smoke.
“It’s a cream puff,” Tom explained. “I have it all tricked out, custom parts and lots of chrome. I usually putt around town to the bars and stuff. It’s not the kind of scooter you would want to tour on.”
“Yeah right,” they both laughed.
Tom realized they didn’t believe a word he’d said. These dumb bastards are so wrapped up in the whole “bad boy” Harley image, it was inconceivable to them that someone would own a Harley and not eat, sleep, and worship it. These two were the die hard “live-to-ride, ride-to-live types.” Tom had met a lot of these types riding around Minneapolis. He often wondered where it was written that the day a guy buys a Harley he has to don leather chaps and boots, grow a beard, and proclaim to the world that he is a bad ass.
Tom strode back inside and joined his “cousin” John and Houser. The party was really rocking now; the music blasted, the beer flowed, and the bullshit got thicker by the minute. Everyone was wasted.
Tom was trashed. He stood in line waiting for another beer he really didn’t need. Looking around the room, he made an interesting observation—all of the women were gone, escorted off long ago by their boyfriends. The only people left were himself and twenty-five drunken testosterone junkies. Just then, a big ugly country boy shoved Tom aside and then poured himself another beer.
“Déjà vu”. Tom knew damn well what that was all about. He didn’t want any trouble; after all, he was the odd man out in this group of locals.
Filling his glass, he headed toward his table when the hair on his neck stood on end. Something was wrong; he could feel them all staring as he walked by. Animosity and treachery hung in the air like cigarette smoke. He found himself surrounded by ugly drunks who contemplated what to do with the stranger in their midst. Tom pretended not to notice he was about to get his ass kicked. Tom’s intuition had failed him; usually he could see these things coming a mile off and avoid potential trouble, but not this time.
He pulled up a chair next to his cousin Big John and Houser, but now even they seemed indifferent.
“So, Houser, how far is it to Winton from here?” Tom asked.
“How the hell should I know? Do I look like the visitor center to you?” Houser said, turning his back while the others roared with laughter. That hostile answer was exactly what Tom was looking for, confirmation he should have left the party an hour ago. He got up and pushed in his chair.
“Where do you think you’re going, cuz’?” Big John asked.
All eyes where glued on Tom. “Going to the head, I gotta’ piss like a race horse.” He knew his time was short, and a fight inevitable—a fight he couldn’t win. His instinct for self preservation kicked into high gear. He had to get the hell out of there, at least make it to his truck and his pistol, so he could fend off an attack.
He was in luck; the bathroom was empty. He slid open the bottom window of the double hung and crawled through, closing it behind him.
Slinking through the dark like a drunken Ninja, he avoided the flood light shining on the parking lot. He didn’t waste any time getting to his truck. This was one time he was glad his dome light didn’t work. He unlocked the door, slid inside, and put the stick in neutral, then jumped out and pushed hard on the door frame. Gravity did the rest. Tom jumped back inside the cab. He let the truck coast down the long drive in the dark. Gathering speed, he turned north and coasted down the main road. Then, before his momentum died, he turned over the ignition and slowly idled down the road a safe distance.
“Yee haw!” He shouted.
Turning on the headlights, he stomped on the gas peddle, flinging gravel and dust in his wake, making a flawless getaway. He was roaring with laughter picturing those dumb bastards standing there wondering where he had gone.
Those boys will just have to fight amongst themselves tonight. He felt like Clyde Barrow making a getaway after a Piggly Wiggly stick up. He couldn’t stop laughing. He was so consumed by his own cleverness, so full of himself he didn’t even see the deer.
“Shit!” He swerved before impact and found himself doing sixty in the ditch. Poplar branches smacked the window as he fought the wheel to keep the truck from hitting a tree. The truck tossed and bucked like a rodeo bull. Tom fought to gain control. In an act of desperation he crammed the wheel toward the road. Instantly the truck shot out of the ditch and vaulted over the road to the ditch on the other side. In his drunken state he had grossly over compensated.
Maybe it was blind luck, divine intervention, or both, because at that exact spot, his truck landed on a primitive drive out that emptied into a cleared field. He let the truck coast to a stop, killed the engine and yanked the keys, letting them drop to the floor boards before passing out.
~ ~ ~
3
It wasn’t the light of a new day that woke him up. It was the little man trapped in his head who was using a double bladed axe trying to get out, at least that’s what it felt like to Tom. He crawled out of the cab and stood on shaky legs swaying in the breeze, ready to fall over with the slightest provocation.
Tom tried to produce a cognizant thought from his booze soaked brain. How could he be so stupid? This was bad, real bad.
He was destroyed, a slovenly wreck of poisoned protoplasm. Tylenol, caffeine and greasy hamburgers would not mitigate his hangover, not this time. It was a doozy, one that would linger for days.
Tom walked along his tire tracks in the soft soil back up to where he launched over the road. When he surveyed the ditch on the other side of the road, he concluded it was a miracle he hadn’t hit a tree.
And this open field in the middle of nowhere, how did it happen that he spontaneously landed here at precise the right moment? He should be dead. This wasn’t luck. He felt like a cat with nine lives, wondering how many he’d already spent.
Walking back to his truck, he surveyed the damage. It appeared minimal, only a cracked side mirror and broken radio antenna. He crawled under the chassis to inspect the oil pan—no holes, no pools of oil.
He rose to his feet suddenly and almost blacked out. He wanted to barf, but it wasn’t an option. A steel blue cloud cover blotted out the sun and promised rain. He was confused, wondering which direction would lead him to the trail head and the Nina Moose River. He figured he’d been traveling north when he ran off the road in the dark, but now he wasn’t so sure. He had a compass in his pack but felt too sick to dig it out.
Rolling out of the clearing to the edge of the road, he hung a left and drove off. He rifled through his glove box looking for Tylenol. When he came up empty handed, he realized Tylenol was something he forgot to pack.
He was angry now, angry at his own stupidity, angry because he drank too much, angry because he’d forgotten to pack the Tylenol, angry because he should be canoeing down a pristine river instead of driving around trying to find the trail head. Why was he always making the wrong decisions, self-destructive decisions that always had terrible consequences? He knew better, but always seemed to be a victim of himself.
All he wanted to do now was get to the trail head and start off down the first portage. He had been driving along for miles wondering when he was going to see a sign indicating he was on the Echo Trail. He had been down this road several times over the years and didn’t remember it being so far. He strained his eyes to make out a structure up the road ahead.
It was the visitor center. He had driven all the way back to Ely.
“Son of a bitch!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the dashboard. “Am I ever going to get out of this town?”
He had hit rock bottom. Instead of having a great vacation, he felt trapped in hell, and wanted to cry.
Why the hell hadn’t he taken the time to dig out his compass? Pulling over to the shoulder, he pinpointed his exact location on the map before turning round and starting back toward the trail head. Now that he knew exactly where he was, he would have no trouble finding the trail head. But he had wasted a lot of time and burned up a lot of gas, and he seriously wondered now if he had enough fuel or money to get back home.
After a while he found himself back in the hunt, rolling past lakes and slews that dotted the landscape. This menagerie of water bodies hosted an ecosystem unrivaled in the lower forty-eight. Insects fed fish, amphibians fed fish, fish fed fish, and fish fed Tom. Hopefully, he could remain on top of this food chain and not become fish food, although, right now, that was exactly how he felt—pickled bait cured in alcohol. He tried to rise to the occasion, but his hang-over kept slapping him down.
Nina Moose River Portage, the sign read. The road came to an abrupt stop at the dirt parking lot where the first portage cut through the woods. There was plenty of parking; he was the only one there. Tom off loaded his canoe and laid it in the parking lot. Gathering his two backpacks, he propped them up against the canoe, then rummaged through the side pouch on his frame pack for the plastic bag that contained wire twist ties and rubber bands, essential items he needed to anchor loose gear to the gunwales and seats of the canoe. He laid out various loose items: fishing poles, minnow trap, wire folding grill and sling shot. After his miscellaneous gear was properly fastened, he made one last check of the truck.
Oops… he almost forgot his girl friend. Pulling the 41 Mag from under the seat, he wrapped it in an oily cloth and plastic bag then sandwiched it between some layers of clothes in his frame pack. Then he locked up his truck, crawled underneath the chassis and wired the keys to a safe place on the frame; that way he wouldn’t lose them on the trail, and he’d know exactly where to find them when he returned.
At last, the moment of truth. It was time to head off down the portage. A year’s worth of planning and dreaming had culminated at this moment. He rummaged through the side pocket of his pack until he produced a cheap instamatic camera he had previously sleeved into an old sock and sealed in a plastic bag. He opened the bag, removed the camera, and with a click, immortalized his twelve foot Grumman canoe which was adorned with gear, his Feather Head paddle resting atop the load.
He was traveling heavy by most standards. Since he was alone, he would have to hump two trips over each portage, one for his packs and one for the canoe. He reached down and grabbed the canoe by its yoke, then hoisted it up on his shoulders and almost toppled over backwards. It seemed he had strapped all the additional gear in the wrong spots. He forced the bow down and lifted it off his shoulders, then gently set it back on the ground. He untied and rearranged all the loose items in the canoe. Satisfied with the new design, he retied everything, and after a few minutes he stood over a more balanced version. With a heave-ho he flipped it back up on his shoulders and trudged off down the trail.