Wawa. What a strange name for a town, Jack mused when he noted the name on a roadside sign as he entered a populated area. It must mean something, somehow. Then he came upon a large, a very large goose. Actually a large statue of a Canada goose in a small park at the center of the town. “Wow!” Jack said aloud. That thing must be twenty-five or thirty feet tall, he thought. It would reach to the top of a football goalpost. It’s as tall as a two-story house.
Jack pulled his car to a stop at the curb and got out. “That’s quite a goose,” he said to a passing woman.
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s our wawa. Our town mascot. You can read about it on the sign over there.” She pointed to a sign in the park beside the goose statue.
Wawa, Jack learned from the sign, was a corruption of wewe, an Ojibwa word meaning goose. Okay, thought Jack. But it’s still a stupid name for a town. Canada geese were pests, in his mind. Their droppings despoiled many of the paths in Ohio parks, paths upon which he and Marilyn enjoyed walking. Here, quite obviously, people felt differently about geese—about wawas.
Jack liked Wawa—the town, if not its goose. I could live here, he thought. A small town, perhaps like Thompson near his Ohio home. A friendly town, he supposed. Marilyn would like Wawa. But not for a while. For the present, he needed to find a town with a university, and he doubted that there was one in Wawa. Nonetheless, he took time to drive around the area, finding attractive residential streets and a school building, but nothing that suggested it might house a university. He returned to the center of the town and found a park bench where he rested and ate his granola bar lunch.
Back in his car, Jack consulted his map and decided he would make White Lake Provincial Park his next stop. It would probably take no more than an hour to drive there. He would have most of the afternoon to enjoy the park. First, however, a stop to buy food for dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast.
The road north from Wawa left Lake Superior and coursed inland in an arc that eventually would reorient it to head west. Jack found White Lake Park and established himself at a site in the campground. The park was at the southern end of a large lake, and Jack soon had his boots off and was wading out from a sandy beach. Children were swimming, and Jack regretted not having a bathing suit.
— — — —
The next morning found Jack back on the highway, continuing his trek west. Why he continued driving was uncertain to him. He felt reasonably confident that Wawa was a potential ultimate destination. He had to find a community with educational facilities for him for the present, however. The next possibility, he thought, might be Nipigon. And he remembered having Paddle to the Sea read to him by his mother. I was younger then, and she was sober and a wonderful mom, he thought ruefully. In that story the small toy canoe started in Lake Nipigon before making its way through the Great Lakes to the St. Lawrence River and the Atlantic Ocean.
Jack drove around in Nipigon. A small town, mostly devoted to fishing and touring on Lake Nipigon just north of the town. Nothing that looked like a university; Thunder Bay probably provided higher educational opportunities for Nipigon youth who wished to pursue them. He found a campground—a private one, not a park, but attractively laid out and well maintained—on the southern edge of the town overlooking a river flowing to Lake Superior. Maybe he would see a descendent of Paddle to the Sea coursing down the river as he ate his evening meal. After dinner he called Marilyn, as he had done every evening since leaving home.
“Oh, Jack,” she said. “I have exciting news.”
“Oh?”
“Your mom came into the library today. She looked like her old self. Nicely dressed. Made up—sort of, a little, nice looking. She took out a book. A novel by Louise Penny. Penny writes about a small town in Quebec. Good books. Anyway, I was shelving books in the fiction section when your mother came in. We chatted. She told me she was busy trying to catch up with two to three years of the accounts from the garage and winery and that she needed a book to read when taking breaks. Jack, she must have stopped drinking. She was a new person.”
“Marilyn, that’s terrific! That’s the best news I’ve heard in years.” At the same time, he knew, alcoholism wasn’t an easily shed problem. It would take ongoing effort by his mother and the entire family, he believed. His father hadn’t been able to deal with it. Could he do something to help? Maybe, but he wasn’t helping now. Not from Canada. Not while running away from the problem. Then he added, impulsively, “I’m coming home. If Mom’s better, I’m coming home.”
“Oh, Jack, do. That’s great.”
“But it will take some time to get things worked out, so don’t tell anyone yet. You know, I’m not in Florida. I never have been.
“But…”
“Yeah, I told you I was in Florida. Actually, I’m in Canada and have been all along. But I didn’t want anyone to find me.”
“Canada!”
“Yeah. And right now I’m in Nipigon. Remember Paddle to the Sea? Nipigon is where that story starts. And I don’t have a passport anymore, so I’ll have to figure out how to cross the border.”
“You don’t have a passport!”
“Um-hmm. I tore it up! I was mad, and glad to be away. So I tore it up in Niagara Falls, just after entering Canada. Now I’ll have to arrange how to get back into the U.S., and I don’t think I can do anything about it in Nipigon. There’s nothing here but stores selling fishing tackle. Maybe I’ll have to turn around and go back east to Ottawa. I think there should be a U.S. embassy there. Anyway, I’ll figure it out and let you know. But for now, just don’t tell anyone.”
“All right, if you say so. But your folks will be excited to learn you’re coming home. And so am I.”
“Yes, but I need to work out how I’m going to do it. Then I’ll let them know. You, too. And, Marilyn?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“Oh, Jack, I love you, too.”
Having ended the phone call, Jack sat on a bench near his campsite. How could he do this, he wondered. He was not far from Thunder Bay and the Minnesota border. He opened his map on his lap. There, at the mouth of the Pigeon River, was the border. If he were to stay tomorrow night at Silver Islet, he could easily drive to Minnesota. But he wouldn’t be able to enter the U.S. without a passport; he was quite certain of that. Supposing that he would have to turn back and go to the embassy in Ottawa, he folded up his map and headed for his tent.
— — — —
In the morning he made his way to the campground shower, soap and towel in hand. As he toweled off, he said aloud, “There has to be a way.” And with that, he decided to push on rather than turn back. He would get across into Minnesota somehow.
About thirty kilometers beyond Nipigon Jack encountered signs for Silver Islet. Thinking that it might be interesting and worth a visit, he turned south on the provincial roadway indicated by the signs. He soon entered Sleeping Giant Provincial Park. I can camp here tonight he thought, as he drove on through the park. I’m close to the border, and I think I should arrive there early enough in the day to negotiate whatever needs to be arranged. The road ended in a small lakefront town. A few houses seemed to be summer cottages—not apparently winterized. There was a café, the only commercial enterprise in the town.
Jack parked his car and walked down to a dock at the lakefront. A placard told him that Silver Islet’s mine had once been the source for most of the world’s silver. A small island just off shore was comprised of nearly pure silver. It rose only a few feet above the water level. After its discovery in 1868, enterprising and hardy prospectors had mined it. Year after year, more and more silver was recovered, essentially decapitating the small islet. With that, the island had disappeared below the surface of Lake Superior. Timbered dikes were constructed to allow continued mining below the lake water level, but winter ice destroyed them each year. With the discovery of silver in the Rocky Mountains, mining at Silver Islet came to an end. Having read this history, Jack looked out across the sun-bathed w
ater. A lovely lake view, he thought, with no remaining trace of Silver Islet’s silver islet. So much for that.
Jack turned and walked into the café where he treated himself to a Diet Coke and a hamburger with French fries. Dinner. Better than what he might cook for himself in the campground. Maybe as good as he would find for himself in Minnesota. He then returned to the Sleeping Giant Park and found a vacant site where he set up his tent. It was still light; evening comes late in the north woods in summer. He set off for a walk along a park trail. Recalling his map in his mind, Jack wondered if he could enter Minnesota by water—in a canoe, perhaps. That would avoid formal immigration and the need for a passport, he assumed.
— — — —
It was an easy drive to Thunder Bay. Jack found a commercial campground on the outskirts of the city and secured a campsite. Having decided to reenter the U.S. by canoe, he needed to find an outfitter from whom he could obtain such a bark. Camping supplies, also, he thought, for it might take him several days. He then made his way through the city. A large city, he thought, reflecting how far from other cities it was. His map showed a solitary road heading west from Thunder Bay to Northern Lights Lake. He found the route, and soon arrived at the small town of Nolalu.
As he expected, there was an outfitters in Nolalu—two of them, in fact. He chose the larger. He found a man who introduced himself as Arnie. Arnie was clearly in charge, and he welcomed Jack’s query about renting a canoe the following morning. “We have canoes, and we can get you all set. When do you want to head out?”
“Tomorrow in the morning. After breakfast. Maybe around eight.”
“Okay. For how long?”
I should have anticipated this, Jack thought. “For four days, I think,” he said. “And I guess I’ll need supplies.”
“That we can handle,” Arnie said. He called to a coworker. “Andy, help this fine young man get outfitted.” And with that Jack soon found himself selecting gear and supplies for four days in canoe country. A four-day paddle home.
Jack wandered through the camping store section of the outfitters accompanied by Andy. He chose four freeze-dried dinners. “They’re real easy,” Andy said. “Just boil some water and pour them in. But use the amount of water specified on the package. Otherwise everything will just be soup.”
In addition to the dinners, Jack purchased coffee, oatmeal, and a dozen granola bars. “Anything else I need?” he asked Andy.
“Well, DEET, for sure. There are lots of mosquitoes out there. And I would take GORP for snacks along the way.”
“GORP?”
“Yeah, ‘good old raisins and peanuts.’ For snacks. Quick energy. Actually, I usually buy some M&Ms and add them to the raisins and peanuts GORP that we sell.
“And how about fishing gear?” Andy added.
“Will I catch anything? I don’t know anything about fishing.”
“Oh, yeah. Out there, for sure. But look, if you haven’t done much fishing before, get one of the small spinning outfits we sell to kids. Not too fancy and not expensive. Buy a few lures. A couple of spoons, good sized ones—daredevils are good here or any bright and shiny spoon. Some folks buy real small ones, thinking to save money. But if they’re too light, they don’t cast well. A lure has to be heavy enough to pull out the line. And take a couple of these phony minnow-like things with some sinker weights to add to them so they run deep. Also a couple of these rubber artificial worms.”
Jack said, “Sure, give me some worms. So in case I don’t catch any fish, I’ll still have some food for dinner. Anything else?”
Andy laughed. “You’ll need an Ontario outdoors card and fishing license. We can sell you those, too.”
Okay, thought Jack. Here we go. A new adventure.
But Andy wasn’t quite through. “You’ll need packs for your supplies,” he said. “These large canvas packs—Duluth packs, they’re called, for some reason—are what most people use. They hold a lot. Heavy to carry on portages if packed real full, but I guess you won’t be doing any of that.”
“Okay. How many do I need?”
“Two should do for you. One for gear and one for food. They’re good packs. You should keep them. But if you don’t want to, Arnie will probably buy them back from you. But you really should hang onto them. And while you’re paddling, put them in the bow of your canoe to balance your weight in the stern. Also, put the camp stove and axe in the bow.
“Now, another thing you need is matches. Things get wet when you’re out canoeing, and wet matches are no good. So take this waxed-together pack of matches. The wax keeps the matches dry. Just peel one off as you need it and strike it on a dry stone.”
Jack returned to the counter with his purchases and presented his debit card. “We’ll hold all these things for you until tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” Jack said. “Eight o’clock, right?”
“Right. We’ll see you then.”
8. Storm
The outfitters was a place of much activity when Jack arrived at the scheduled morning hour of eight. The place was busy. Morning starts early here, he thought. At the counter, he pulled out his wallet and paid for the supplies he had ordered, as well as four-day’s canoe rental.
“There’s a five hundred dollar deposit for the canoe,” Arnie told him. “I can take Visa or MasterCard for that.”
Jack produced the debit card Mollie had provided for him. Arnie wrote out a receipt. “I’ll keep this charge slip here in my desk. I’ll hold it until you return. Then I’ll charge the daily rental. If there is any damage to the canoe, we’ll decide how much how much you might have to pay for the damage.”
“How much is a canoe like this worth?” Jack asked.
“Well, I’ll sell you this one for five hundred, but you couldn’t take it away on that VW you’re driving. This is a fiber glass canoe. Sturdy and tough. Hard to damage. Good for me to rent. Kevlar canoes are lighter, but not as rugged. If you want to buy a canoe, I can get a Kevlar one for you.”
“So, if it turns out that I like canoeing, I could just keep this one and not return it. You wouldn’t lose any money.”
“Well, I guess, but that would be stupid. The canoes I rent here get a lot of hard wear. I could get you a somewhat newer one for the same money.”
“No thanks. At least, not for now. Maybe I’ll really like canoeing, then maybe later.”
“The drive out to the lake is twenty-five dollars. You can pay Andy when you get there. He’ll be driving you out.”
“Okay. That works.”
Jack returned to his car. He took the registration and signed title out of the glove box and put them on the passenger seat along with the keys. They would make it possible for Arnie to take possession of the car when Jack failed to return. A pretty fair trade for a canoe, he thought. He left the VW unlocked.
Jack and Arnie collected the two packs of gear and food, an axe and a trenching tool, and a Coleman camp stove and gasoline. They carried them out to a waiting pick-up truck. Jack shook hands with Arnie. “I’ll be back in four days.”
“Good. We’ll see you then. Have a good trip.”
While Jack watched, Andy, apparently the worker-bee at the outfitter’s, lifted a canoe off of a rack at the side of the building and carried it to the pick-up, which was fitted with a canoe rack of two-by-four lumber. He eased the canoe into place and tied it down. Canoe paddle, life jacket, and Jack’s gear went into the back of the pick-up under the canoe. “Climb in,” Andy said, “and we’ll be off.”
“In a minute. I want to make a call first.”
Jack walked away from the truck and called Marilyn. He reached her in the library. “I’m about to take off and cross into Minnesota by canoe,” he told her.
“What!”
“Yeah. That way I won’t need a passport. But it means I’ll be out of touch and won’t be able to call you for a few days.”
“Will you be okay? Do you have a canoe?”
“Yup. I’ve just rented one—well bought it, p
ractically. I’m at an outfitters now. I have everything I need for a few days of paddling.”
“Okay, I guess. Well, hurry home. And, Jack, I love you and can’t wait to give you a big hug.”
Jack returned to the truck and climbed into the passenger seat as Andy was turning on the ignition.
The sporadically paved road to Northern Lights Lake wound its way through birch and spruce forest. It snaked along high ground between small lakes and marshy areas. Andy drove carefully, often slowly, dodging potholes, ruts, and broken pavement. As he drove he talked about the history of the region. French Canadian traders known as “voyageurs” travelled these waters to trade with the first people for beaver fur. It was much desired in Europe, because it made the best felt, and good felt was important for hats. Top hats, cocked hats, military uniform hats. Any hat that a proper European man would choose to wear. Even women’s hats, Andy supposed. As trade items, the voyageurs brought beads and trinkets and also steel beaver traps and guns and bullets to the area. And Hudson Bay blankets. In fact, Andy related, the international border had been defined by treaty as the usual canoe routes and portages used by these early Canadian traders.
Some twenty miles and two hours later the road ended at a lakeside clearing with a sloping ramp into the water. Andy put the canoe at the water’s edge with its bow in the water. Together, he and Jack stowed the supplies and camp gear in the canoe’s bow. “That phone over there takes quarters,” Andy said pointing to a phone mounted on a post and protected from rain by a battered canoe that had been mounted above the phone. “Also loonies. Call us when you get back, and I’ll come for you. You have our number?”
Lost in a Far Country Page 9
