Change of Plan Due to Dead Brain

     So I was going to write this entry for the Uncle Emil Blog. Call it Uncle Emil's Tackle Box. But I was going to cheat and use my father-in-law's old box. Seems Uncle Emil didn't like the idea and wouldn't loan me any inspiration to make it interesting and Emil-ish. So I was stuck with looking into a sixty year old, metal tackle box with plenty of interesting stuff.
     None of that interesting stuff has any real monetary value. But, on the other hand, it belonged to my wife's dad and hasn't seen the water in five decades.
    I knew more of John's history than I did of my father's. Not all that unusual considering I knew my father-in-law a lot longer. To say anything more would lead to a sinkhole of poor guessing. Let's just say John spent some time on the water before I knew him. And his box tells a lot of fishing history with a few stories on the side.
     It's a simple box from a time when fishing was much simpler. And from the looks of the few items, fish were a lot easier to fool. Or maybe we've come to overthink the game, lean way too heavily on technology to outsmart a relatively simple animal. What the hell, they're born, eat, procreate and die. With the weak point being eating. That's about it. We throw something at them that is, or at least looks like food and hope they're hungry.
     It's green steel and has a slight patina of rust. Don't remember if that rust was there when it passed into my hands. One tray, seven lure compartments. Made by Union. From the looks of the box it could easily have been a small tool box, which would have fit John to a T. He'd been a medic in WWII during the recapture of the Philippines. His service brought him the GI Bill, and a teaching certificate. But in his spare time he loved to work with his hands. Wood mostly but did his share of electrical work and plumbing. The hand tools passed down to me were in metal boxes. He born in a time of steel and wood.
     Unfortunately, his lures were from the time of transition or a heartbeat after. Here he went for modern rather than classic. Or maybe the lure making industry didn't offer him a choice. Had they been wood, they'd have far more value. But wood or plastic they'd still be in that box and on my equipment shelf. They were his and that's all that matters.

The Picky Stay Home

     Yup, it was unseasonably warm up north. No, not all the lakes were iced over, just the ones I wanted to fish.The word was all of the lakes had already frozen but had since melted off. All except the smaller ones, the canoe lakes. Even if they were open, the wind was up and the water was cold and I'm growing a sane streak up my spine, kind of an off-yellow. Maybe that's just age melting me down and a strong desire to get even older.
     Walking was restricted to the sand roads. Down the middle with blaze orange on. Biking was the same. Hardly anyone out and about besides the deer hunters. And they weren't on the roads.
     A half dozen times each hour rifle reports would tell of a sighting or boredom. All directions of the compass. I'm familiar with the cracks of an AK47 and an M16. Not much different from your typical, slightly deeper throated deer rifle. But every so often I'd hear a whole 'nother animal. Sounded like some of the boys out in the woods were sportin' buffalo guns. Could be the idea behind the big guns was a near miss shock wave would knock the deer down and give a poor marksman a second chance. Or a lonely one a chance at un-natural love.
     As it turned out I had a fine time. Gathered and split some oak. Squared up a couple of aspen and birch log slabs. Both leftovers from mantel making. Brought them home with the idea of re-sawing them into full two by twos, followed by the embarrassment of shaping out some more little artsy-fartsy trees. Those that have seen them haven't laughed and have even asked for a couple. Good gifts.
     The hours of my day were never enough. But the pleasure of an evening's reading with nothing better to do is to be savored. Meaning in life? I let you know if I find it. 'Til then the shush of the wind bending the white pines will have to do.

Change of Plans?

     The weather forecast says highs in the mid 40's for the Northland this weekend. If I can float the solo, I will. Two rods packed just in case. Cold water, slow fish, small presentation. Bobbers or jigs slowly dragged on the bottom in about twenty five feet of water on the edges of rock piles or reefs. Dress warm and wear a lot of blaze orange for the last weekend of deer hunting. Seems like nothing looks so much like a deer as a fisherman in a bone white canoe.

Poinggg and Boinggg

     It's that time of year and I'm headin' up north this weekend to hear it. The lakes will be freezing over. Their skin stretching and cracking. After sunset when the temps are dropping they begin to sing. Could be the song of angels, both saved and fallen. That's a bit heavy, approaching stupid even. But I wrote it and ain't turnin' back.
     The neatest part is heading outdoors to take a leak in the dark. Urination serenade. Poingin' and boingin' in the background. Throw in some northern lights and it's enough to make an aging man pray for a small bladder.



      I sometimes go back and read what I've written, months or years later.  It's now March 10, 2013.  I browsed the titles and didn't recall what this one could possibly be about.  Sounds like a children's story by Wanda Gag (with an umlaut above the last a).  Hard to believe I wrote these few words.  Sounds just like me, maybe even better.  Don't know where the words come from but I doubt it's me making them up.  When it all lines up right who, or whatever it is, has been paying enough attention and the story sounds just like the key stabber is telling it.  Don't know if that makes much sense but not a whole lot in life does so I guess it's okay.

The Beaver Giveth

     Last year one of our beavers hung a large aspen. I can't say for sure it was the beaver's fault. Maybe a storm blew through and dropped the tree while Bucky was off somewhere else? Whatever the reason she's entwined among three red oaks. Pulling out the chainsaw and finishing the job was a powerful temptation but my voice of reason, I call her Lois, said doing so was way over the hill and into the land of stupid. So far in, it bordered on suicide. So it hung there for near on a year.
     My daughter Annie and her husband Ryan came to the rescue by building a new house. A gas fireplace will be in the house. On top of which was to be a rustic mantel. Their old house had one made from a birch log. The log came from our woods up north. Moving it out of the trees taught me my knees weren't what they used to be.
     Long story short, a log was pulled from the aspen when Lois wasn't watching. The mantel is drying in the garage. But that's not the point of the entry.
     Last summer Lois and I spent an afternoon in Duluth with some friends. One artsy gift shop led to another. In passing, a display of local artisan, cartoon-like, evergreens carved from wood was spotted and admired. Another one of those things Lois said we could figure out and do ourselves. Our drawers are lined with such never done projects.
     While there I picked one up, looked at it both right side and upside down and said the usual, "Uh huh. I could do 'er. Yup. No doubt about it." Said that many times over the years and had yet to prove I could actually do any of them.
     For some reason those trees have stuck in my craw. Years past, when I was working, there was always something demanding my time way more important than putzy crap like itty-bitty trees and bird houses. Well, it's a little embarrassing but I've built a few birdhouses now. Truly an immoral waste of time but it seems my morals, like my knees, ain't what they used to be.
     So, with scrap aspen and band saw I be makin' me some trees. Lordy, lordy what have I sunk to? Beaver and storm hangs tree. I cut log from said tree, chainsaw out a slab, square it up with planer and circular saw. Cut the slab to mantel size and have a six foot mini-timber left over. Mini-timber is made into corbels on which to mount mantel. Remainder of timber is quartered lengthwise. From these are made artsy-fartsy, mini-trees. Little trees from big ones. It's embarrassing for sure. Don't tell anyone.

Woodstove

     It's a Franklin, thirty years old. Made of cast iron, she's a beast, inefficient, requires maintenance and will outlast me by quite a bit. On its face is a profile of the inventor, said by Mad Magazine to have invented everything that Jefferson and Edison didn't. Seeing as how the wheel didn't as yet have rubber on it back in Franklin's day there were a lot of holes yet to be filled. Opportunity galore.

     Hmmm. These silk stockings just ain't doin' the job anymore. My dogs are freezin'. Shoulda built a fireplace in the workshop. Maybe if I built me an iron box, got it up off the floor so's it wouldn't burn the place down, I could build a fire in it and warm these tootsies up.

     Or something like that.
     Oak, birch, aspen and pine. That's about it. Don't much care for the pine. Burns fast and gunks up the pipe. The pipe's triple walled from the loft floor on up. A straight eighteen foot run from stove vent to bonnet. A match, five sheets of newsprint, kindling and it takes off like a jet plane. And also will burn down to coals in two and a half hours. Not the most efficient wood burner but it's attractive in a black metal box kinda way.
     When I'm up north by myself I sleep on the window seat, cold nose beneath cracked window. Seeing the light from Ben flicker on the ceiling is a warming sight. Also gets me thinking of how close I am to becoming a crispy critter. The building's all thirty year old wood. Pine, cedar, redwood and fir. A little oak and ash on the walls and floor that'd burn way too slow if it wasn't oiled for both shine and explosiveness. A few thousand hours labor would turn into a pile of ash in minutes. And there I lay with a mid-sized inferno blazing away in the next room.
     I'm a hard head. Can't think of any other reason why I gather fire wood the way I do. All of which comes from the seven plus above water acres around me. Each log dead before I had my way with it. Oak usually comes from downed trees, snapped off or leveled by wind. There's a couple ready for the taking as I write this. One looks to have been lightning struck. Not that I'd know what that looks like. But this one if twenty feet of trunk topped by a three way split bent to the ground. Not sure how to drop it as the tree could fall any which way.
     The other had been dead for a few years. No idea how or why its trunk and branches turned a smooth, shiny black, like it had been creosoted, after its bark fell off. Another mystery of life in a life full of them.
     Birch takes a bit of watching. Like me, they tend to die from the top down. When the leaves are no longer there but the tiniest of branches remain, if I want the wood, now's the time to harvest. If not it rots on the stump quickly. A year and it's pulp. Five or so and it's bark and peat on the ground.
     The hard head part of the process, the part I love like a brother, comes in my manner of gather. The second of the above oaks lays a winding three hundred feet from where it'll be dismembered and stacked. Gettin' it there is the fun part. Cut to lengths it gets lobbed enough times to reach a path where the wheelbarrow awaits. Then the wood's carted and piled in the splitting area. Split by hand with a six pound maul of course. I prefer a hickory handle for its feel when the wood pops open but a fiberglass will do. My favorite maul head is on its third wood shaft. What I lack in accuracy I make up for in profanity. My love of swearing does a job to handles. Sometimes I miss on purpose. That's why the fiberglass sits nearby knowing its time will come.
     I think Lois loves the process. Especially the stacking part. Kinda like organizing drawers except for the inevitable split fingernails at the wood pile. She stacks elegantly. Nice, trim rows with the occasional rick to break up the monotony. She's a great help and a bit of a slave driver. Gets me goin' at a pace I can't sustain at age sixty-five. And I do love to split wood but there's only so much need. Gettin' 'er done too fast is like shootin' your wad two minutes into love makin' when you'd like it to last all night. Wonder if they make a wood splittin' viagra, the kind where if you're at it for more than four hours you should contact a forester?

And Know How to Use Them

     Last week I began. Mid-Fall is a good time in the woods. Before the deer hunting crazies and after the bugs have gone to bed for the winter. Fall color is a thing of the past unless you look down. And when I'm pumpin' along I do a lot of that. That's where the color lies and under which roots and rocks are hidden. Lookin' up to see where that woodpecker is workin' a tree trunk calls for a moment's pause. Watch your step is a rule of thumb. Unless you get a thrill outta brief flight.

     It rained for most of a day when I first hit the cabin. The woods and roads were wet. Not a problem on asphalt but sand is another story. You wouldn't think it but sand floats. Or so it seems. During a downpour you can feel yourself sinking. Immediately after, footing is loose and bike tires tend to have a mind of their own. Skidding sideways on two wheels holds little appeal for me so I left the bike home when I headed north to the trail.

     There was no doubt in my mind where I'd begin. In the five mile stretch I'd chosen, a double handful of lakes would be passed, three of which I'd fished. Though I'd be alone, the waters would be like visiting old friends. Not much more than a passing howdy but a visit nonetheless. 

     My only concerns involved stayin' on the trail and hunters. Like I'd said it wasn't as yet deer season. Grouse was the game of choice. A glance in the mirror assured me I looked nothing like the bird. But the thought of a local doctor pluckin' buckshot from my southern exposure held no appeal. That blaze orange always set off the blue in my eyes clinched the deal. Atop my blaze sweatshirt I threw on a fishing vest. Lots of pockets for compass, keys, hard candy, phone, camera, and it kept most of the orange exposed. A matching stocking cap to warm my skull and I was set.

     Visibility of the trail was an unknown to me. I had no idea of its usage or how well it was maintained. A cover of dying summer weeds and fallen leaves might have worked their magic and turned the affair into a disappearing act. The compass in my vest wasn't so much carried to help me find the North Country Trail as it was to point me in the way of the sand roads. Should I become unsure as to where I was, south was my friend.
     Goes without saying I missed my access point. I knew exactly what I was looking for. But my brain picture and reality didn't actually go hand in glove. Lucky for me I knew the area well enough to know when I'd screwed up. Back when I worked for Fedex our system was a lot like that. We didn't always know where a package was but did have a good idea where we lost track of it.
     A mere five minutes lost, I was parked and walking to the trail crossing. Started by firing off a shot of the official marker. Then climbed the embankment leading to a long, slow rise. In our part of the world mountains don't exist. Seriously tall hills are a long way off but hundred foot rises, like the one under my feet, do happen here and there. In fact they're all over the place 'cause of the glaciers. This is moraine country. Dig down a bit and you'd hit piles of boulders, the grit that melted off the ice as it retreated to the northeast.
     Northern Minnesota is lake country. But the lakes aren't but the deep spots of much larger glacial melt pools from the last ice age. A person takes a look at Leech Lake and thinks, "ooh wee, that's some big lake." And it is. But like an old timer once said about Lake Bemidji, "It ain't but a spit in the fryin' pan compared to Lake of the Woods," compared to those glacial waters it ain't much.
     So the start was a lot like the entire day's walk. I was either goin' uphill or down. A single glance up the track said there'd be no need for the compass. Though passing through a randomness of trees, the trail was wide, well maintained and marked. Every thirty strides or so, a blue slash was painted on the closest tree. Every few hundred yards an official metal stake appeared. Let me know I was still on the North Country Trail and wouldn't have to share it with motorized traffic. Gettin' lost would be a challenge.
     The Minnesota Trail Guide said timber wolves now roamed this far south. A passing thought said maybe, a very skeptical maybe. However, no more than a city block in, I came upon the scat of a very big dog who apparently liked to eat things with the fur still on, or maybe a wolf. Didn't make me feel like Little Red Riding Hood. But it did get me to wondering about the state I've sunk to when I find a pile of crap interesting philosophical fare. From what I knew of the animal it doesn't trust people a lot and goes out of its way to not be seen. Nice to know they still exist in our world. I made a mental note to not bleat like a tender lamb and moved on.
      Unlike my afternoon of scaring trout in the state forest, this day was deep in silence. Not much wind. Total overcast to muffle what little sound there was. Just the rustle of leaves underfoot and the shupping of my pant legs. Sounded like someone was always comin' up on me from behind the way the cloth whopped my shoes. That sound's always there when the long pants are on. Just that it usually gets lost in the background noise of the civilized world. Not so along the trail. There it dominated. Hard to shut it out.
     I stopped to shoot a picture of a log covered in multi-colored fungi. My camera glitched. Wouldn't take a picture and wouldn't close. Once again civilization had reared its ugly head. Simple solution: first I found a softball sized rock. A solid piece of granite with no observable cracks. Next, finding a waist high boulder, the moss covered kind this moraine area has in abundance, I calmly proceeded to reduce the camera to something less than the sum of its parts. Whistled while I worked. Thankfully I always carry matches for emergencies. Or random sacrifices. With them I was able to build a small fire and melt the shattered parts back into a single clot. I call it Modern Man's Revenge. A fine addition to anyone's collection of 21st Century Folk Art. What the hell, it woulda been another photo that would either have disappointed or been ignored once seen.
     Ten minutes in and the real world came calling. No, not in the form of paws and teeth. I had my phone stuck in the fly vest and it buzzed and chimed 'til I answered it. Actually I wouldn't have broken stride had it not been Lois. So I found myself in a position I'd never wanted to be, on the phone while walking a national trail. As it was I stood in a narrowing of the path where it passed through a mini-grove of white and red pines. Nice spot. A person I love on the line.
     Seeing the lakes I'd fished many times in the past was a treat. Mostly in the sense of a negative view.  Yoo hoo! Wave to the me who ain't there on the lake. In years past while behind the wheel for Fedex I'd fantasized about building some kind of shelter near the best of the lakes. Even picked a mental location for the cabin. The trail passed directly through the spot I'd imagined but had never seen. For once reality exceeded fantasy. Would of been a great spot and view.
     Reaching one of the trout lakes it was time to turn around. Again the quiet dominated. A hawk passed by fifty yards away. The sound of its wings beating the calm air gave it away. I could almost hear it breath and fart from exertion.
     Another pile of wolf scat. Solid and black. Tasted like mice and snickers bars. Probably 'cause Halloween wasn't far in the future.
     I spooked a grouse near the end of the walk. Or should I say it spooked me? I'm another one of those irrational dreamers who attributes perfection to nature. It is what it has to be. And wild creatures never err in their abilities. The grouse taught me otherwise when it distinctly whacked a bush as it escaped like a bat out of hell. How about like a grouse from the underbrush?