The Last Trip

Last weekend, one of our favorite groups of fishermen arrived to try for some trout. Some of these fellows have been coming up for more years than I have been here, so they know the lodge, the family, and more importantly, the lake, really, really well. I know that I've shared a tale or two about them on these pages. When I think of trout season, I often think of these guys.

Word over the weekend was that this was the last time one of the guys would be up. Wow, that was tough to hear. Fortunately, it wasn't that he is too ill to come--he's quite healthy. Rather, it just isn't so easy to do this anymore. He's getting on up in years, so mobility is more challenging, and staying warm in the cold weather presents itself, too. Even at my "tender age", I notice these things, albeit on a whole different scale. But he wanted to do a last trip, and so they came and fished, and with the aid of trucks and snowmobiles and space heaters, they made it a comfortable expedition.

That thought of a last trip stayed with me throughout the day. I contemplated it more as I lay in bed that night. Recognizing something as important as "the last time" is hard for me to do. I remembered when our oldest son Robert was getting ready to leave home and move to Alaska. It struck me that because we had not taken a family vacation that year, our last trip together had already occurred, and I didn't even know it at the time. It made me sad to think about it. But would I have done anything differently, had I known? Maybe not.

I think the tough part is that I would be attempting to get every last bit of enjoyment and importance out of each moment. And I would be sad at the same time, so that might actually interfere with the fun of it all. It's probably better for me to be clueless, in these cases. It's kind of the same way with good-byes for me. I prefer to say good-bye to someone when they leave with the hope that I will someday see them again. The nature of this lifestyle and business we have is that we do see people come and go all of the time. Of course it is impossible to expect that we will see them all again, but we've been blessed with many return customers and guests who have become good friends. I love the opportunity to check in with them each year, to have them back around my table so to speak. I guess I'll just forever be an optimist that can't say a final good-bye.

One thing I do know is that when a certain west wind starts to blow on Gunflint Lake, and the trout fishermen are waiting to head out, I'll be thinking of Wes. That's his kind of wind.

Ditchmobiles....A Fact of Life

Just when you think everything is going fine, cruising down the road at a reasonable speed, you move over a hair. That's when the pull begins, and bingo, you can't fight it. You're a ditchmobile. No, this hasn't happened to me in a long time. And only once, thank heavens. It did have to be at New Year's, one of my busiest stretches of the year. But that was so long ago, I can't even recall if it was Dec. 30th or 31st.

Whenever I see the scars from vehicles that have gone into the ditch, I think that it might make for an interesting blog post. It's not that I would photograph and broadcast someone's misfortune. Maybe it's more that it is a good reminder for myself to do my best to stay away from the deceptive edges of the road. That is really the problem here. The snow does an excellent job of hiding where the road ends and the shoulder begins. In some cases, the shoulder is only inches wide and the ditch below it is quite deep. The snow acts like quicksand, and sucks the tire right in. You aren't going anywhere in that case.

Greg is quite adept at pulling cars out of ditches. Anyone up here with a big truck likely is. It comes with the territory. What I find interesting are the ways in which a ditchmobile finds a good Samaritan, way out here in the remote areas. If you are within walking distance of people, you can find someone willing to help. But if it's miles to the next residence or lodge, you are at the mercy of whatever traffic might be driving by. On a cold winter night, you might wait a while.

Last night, I was waiting at the end of the side road for a friend who kindly picked up a plow part in town for Greg. She was on her way home, and we had pre-arranged to meet at the Trail when she would be passing by. Since Greg was out plowing, I said that I would meet her. I sat out there with my knitting, pleasantly listening to the radio while I waited. She got there about ten minutes after our expected meet-up, but that was not surprising given the driving snow that was falling at the time. She apologized for her delay, and explained that she had stopped to help a couple in the ditch about a mile back. The three of them were unable to get the car unstuck, so she said that she would relay the situation to me.

It happened that I had seen Greg's truck parked at a neighbor's, so I drove back to where he was. After telling the story, I had not one, but two plow guys ready to help out. We drove down the trail, and sure enough, by the Loon Lake access road, there they were. Within about ten minutes, Greg and John had the straps and chains in place, and in a blink, Greg had backed up and the car popped right out and up on to the solid road bed. He made it look so easy.

Naturally, the couple was quite thankful and appreciative. We were more than happy to help them. It's a neat sort of karma that lets paths cross in the way that ours all did last night. That's reassuring when we think that it might be us next time in the ditchmobile.

A Page from the Notebook

In the Quiet of Winter

The days have passed, the calendar pages turned, and I find myself in the middle of the quiet winter. It's quiet in that way that nature provides. When I walked up to the mailbox earlier, the only sound was the squeak of the snow under my feet. More flakes were falling silently, joining the millions of others already laying on the ground. This is one of the prettiest winters that I can remember, as the trees are still laden with thick, heavy dollops. The roofs are stacked with layers of previous snowfalls. In some cases, I can see the delineations, like the lines in sedimentary rocks. Fortunately, the ice line is very small, almost unnoticeable. That came right after Christmas, and was immediately followed by more snow. As a result, we've not had to deal with icy roads. Just a good old-fashioned winter with plenty of snow.

Despite the quiet nature of the season, life is busy here and all around us. Yesterday morning as I sipped my tea, I heard Greg call to me from the kitchen. It was in that loud whisper sort of way that signals to me that Something Big is Happening Outside. I silently hurried to where he stood by the door, and saw a big beautiful timber wolf, standing in the roadway. We watched, unmoving and mute, as it surveyed the area. Greg whispered that, while he was preparing his cup of coffee, he had noticed a deer running by, outside the kitchen windows. He went to investigate, and there was the wolf. The deer was nowhere in sight. Somehow, the wolf had lost the trail in its pursuit, and was attempting to determine its next move. It started to sniff along the ground, and came to a bit of leftover food, given the previous day to the ravens. The wolf then looked up, and suddenly caught scent of something. It gracefully lifted its nose into the air and did a quick circling motion--amazing to watch. Then it headed down the road towards the point for a short distance, changed its mind, and turned to go back up the main road, from whence it had come. I watched as it loped up the hill, with a gait that was measured, steady, and powerful all at the same time. I also knew, though I couldn't hear, that it was a silent trek, unlike the crunching sound that I make when walking the road. The wolf turned on to one of the many deer trails criss-crossing the land, and continued with its hunt. I hope it was successful. We love having the wolves around.

Late in the afternoon, I was walking down the hill to the sauna, to fire it up. As I looked out at the lake, a musher with a team of eight dogs sledded by in front of me. They, too, were silent, as the dogs made their way through the deep snow. Carefully, gracefully, they strode along, pulling the sled and musher behind them. It wasn't long before they were well down the lake and nearly out of sight.

Such an amazing place in which I get to live.....Each day, I find reminders of that.