Page 10 of God’s Country

“What?”

“I’m in my golden years. The rocking chair is calling. I hate that thought.”

She reached out and put her hand against my cheek. “Do not go gently into that good night.”

I gave her a puzzled look.

“A line from a poem by Dylan Thomas.”

“You and Daniel and your poetry,” I said.

“I wouldn’t worry about the golden years,” she said. “You’re still quite a stud.”

Now she pressed against me and kissed me long and in an inviting way. I rolled toward her and whispered, “You won’t talk me out of going.”

“Furthest thing from my mind,” she said.

CHAPTER 7

There are many beautiful places on this earth, I’m sure, but none more beautiful than the place I call home.

When we set out for our entry point into the Boundary Waters, it was a glorious morning, promising in every way. The sky was clear, the sun lighting the eastern horizon with amber and gold, the air fresh and fragrant with the scent of all the wondrous growing things the Creator had imagined for the North Country of Minnesota—spruce and pines and tamarack and leatherleaf and bog rosemary and early-blooming flowers, bloodroot and wild strawberries. My heart was fine. More than fine. I felt as if I could live forever.

The weather forecast said there was a chance of an overnight shower, but dealing with rain is often a part of the Boundary Waters experience, so I wasn’t particularly worried.

I led the way in my Expedition with Mal and Luke and Stephen. Daniel followed in his pickup with Waaboo riding shotgun. Our entry point was a fair distance from Aurora, one that not many people used. I liked it for that reason. Our first lake wasn’t visible from the dirt road. We’d have to carry our gear and our canoes a significant distance from where we parked, something I figured would deter those of fainter heart. The path through the woods was marshy, also one of the reasons this wasn’t a popular entry point. I was surprised to find that there was already a vehicle and canoe trailer in the small parking area, which was really just a wide spot off the side of the road. I was even more surprised to see that on the driver’s side door was printed BOREALIS OUTFITTERS.

Cordell Bishop and his three city folks had entered the Boundary Waters the same way I’d planned. What were the chances? As a cop, I’d learned never to trust coincidence. On the other hand, I knew that the Great Mystery operated in ways and for reasons that defied human explanation. I’d neglected to ask Babs when Cordell and his group had taken off, but I figured they’d come at least a day before. If Cordell intended to guide them along the same route I was planning to take, it would be a loop, and since they were already ahead of us, we’d probably never see them.

We unloaded and carried our canoes and gear to the lake. That’s when I found the first evidence of the kind of people Cordell was dealing with—a wrapper from a Snickers bar, crumpled up and dropped carelessly on the shoreline. For city people used to seeing litter in street gutters, this might not seem like a big deal. But one of the primary rules of the Boundary Waters is this: What you carry in and don’t eat, you haul out. Nothing gets left behind. Especially a damn candy bar wrapper.

I felt the first faint stirrings of resentment. I was of two minds. On the one hand, I didn’t want to see anybody else during our outing. The Boundary Waters is a place to lose yourself in magnificent solitude. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have minded running into the group and giving those soft-handed city slickers a piece of my mind. I was certain that if Cordell had been aware of that wrapper, he would himself have delivered to his charges a strong message about respecting the sanctity of the wilderness. That he had missed the dropped wrapper probably meant he had his hands full.

I picked up the wrapper and stuffed it in one of the pockets of my cargo pants.

We loaded the three canoes and split up, a father and son to each canoe—Stephen and I in one, Daniel and Waaboo in another, and Mal and Luke in the third. I wasn’t sure about putting Mal and Luke, the least experienced among us, in the same canoe, but it was what Mal wanted. Although he’d never done the Boundary Waters or camped much at all, he’d canoed and kayaked a good deal on Lake Michigan, so he knew how to handle a paddle.

The mosquitoes and blackflies had been bothersome while we got ourselves organized on the shore, but once we were out on the water, we left them behind us. The Ojibwe called the lake Makade, mashkikikwaaboo, meaning “black medicine water.” Which is another way of saying “coffee,” the name you’ll find on maps—Coffee Lake. The sun was just mounting the treetops along the eastern shoreline, and the air was still. The surface of the lake in front of us was a mirror reflecting a fired sky. I sat in the stern of my canoe, and the other two fathers were the stern paddlers in theirs. If you don’t canoe, here’s something you should know: In tandem canoes, stern paddlers are responsible for keeping the craft on course, using a variety of strokes and pitching the paddle blade. Bow paddlers supply power or help as best they can in that regard. You keep your paddles on opposite sides of the canoe. In the stern, you take your cue from the bow paddler. The bow paddler tires and switches sides, the stern paddler switches to the opposite side. It keeps the canoe balanced and moving smoothly.

The spiritual magic of the wilderness touched us almost immediately, and we didn’t talk. The only sounds were the dips of the paddles, the calls of the birds among the trees along the shoreline, and far to the left, a pair of loons, probably mates, making no sound but diving now and again for a fish breakfast.

I’ve canoed the Boundary Waters all my life, and still it affects me in remarkable ways. It quiets my mind. Although it can be physically challenging, it relaxes me. It feels like medicine for my spirit. Not everyone may be affected in this way, but I believe that for those who open themselves and embrace the spirit that is all around them, even the most wounded of souls can be healed here.

In the Boundary Waters, the path you hike between lakes is called a portage. Carrying your canoe and gear is called portaging. The profound sense of beauty I’d felt when we entered the wilderness took a blow on our first portage. It was a short hike, only a few rods. (A rod is an archaic measure of distance used by the early voyageurs and still used by many who canoe to the Boundary Waters. It’s the equivalent of five and a half yards, or sixteen and a half feet. I’ve honestly never investigated why that’s the length, but I suspect it goes back to land measurement in ancient Europe.) Halfway along the portage, I spotted something silver glinting in a patch of sunlight just off the trail. I finished portaging my canoe, left the Duluth pack I was carrying, and went back to investigate. I discovered the foil wrapping of a stick of gum. I could tell it hadn’t been there long.

City folk, I thought and felt my heart harden. Which was the last thing I wanted to feel.

I grabbed the wrapper and rejoined the others at the end of the path, which opened onto our second lake, called Miskwa Ginebig—Red Snake—by the Ojibwe. On official BWCAW maps, you’ll find it marked with the English translation. The reason for the snake part of the name is obvious. It’s a long, slender, crooked body of water. The water also has a crimson cast, the result of bog seepage full of tannin.

I held up the foil wrapper. “Man is in the forest,” I said.

“That’s from Bambi,” Waaboo said with delight. He loved Disney movies, the old animated ones especially. My influence, I like to think.

“Cordell’s group?” Daniel asked.

“That’s my guess.”

“Baa-baa.” Waaboo bent, fished among the reeds, and came up holding a half-smoked cigar with a plastic tip.