And here face down beneath the sun
And here upon earth’s noonward height
To feel the always coming on
The always rising of the night . . . .
—Archibald MacLeish
Copyright © 2001, 2014 by Louise Jones
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
eISBN: 978-1-62873-939-8
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-62636-573-5
Printed in the United States
Contents
Part I Downstream Bebop
1 On the Water
2 The Cannibal-Killer
3 “Servivers will be Perssacuted!”
4 The Flambeau Boys
5 Twodoggone Lake
6 A Loon Hunt
7 College Girls
8 Coyote Nowhere
9 The Friends of Gayelord Schnauzer
10 Marlows Leap
11 After the Storm
12 The Sign of the Flying Red Horse
13 Crossing the Bar
Entr’Acte: In the Forest of the Night
Part II The Same River Twice
1 Timor Mortis
2 The Afterlife
3 Preparations for Getting Underway
4 Night of the Bull Newt
5 The Cryptobranchs
6 Theory & Practice of Rivers
7 A White-Gloved Howdy
8 Shikaree Lodge
9 The Elephant Revealed
10 Violators
11 The Solid-Gold Cadillac
12 Trés Riches Heures
Coda
PART I
DOWNSTREAM BEBOP
(Autumn: 1950)
1
ON THE WATER
From the height of land where the river rises, you can sometimes see the far, faint, steelblue glint of big water in the distance. Lake Superior lies fifty or sixty miles to the north, but more like a hundred if you meant to reach it, as we did, by canoe along the twists and turns of the Firesteel River. The country between the height of land and the big lake was wild and tough, much as its first explorers found it three hundred years earlier. The only thing missing, or so we thought, were the savages who once lived here.
It was a clear, crisp morning in the middle of September. We stood beside a black, rust-blotched iron trestle spanning the headwaters of the river. The logging truck that had brought us this far clattered across the loose floorboards of the bridge and disappeared to the west, toward Solon Springs and a load of white cedar. The canoe, a heavy, eighteen-foot Old Town framed in cedar and covered with dark green canvas, much patched after years of abuse, rested in the grass at the edge of the dirt road. She was a fat old pig, slow and hard to maneuver in white water, but she was our pig and we loved her.
Beside the canoe stood our dunnage, a waist-high, lopsided pile of sleeping bags, fry pans, cook pots, and water pails; orange crates filled with cans and bottles and vials of items as various as Hormel chili, Old Woodsman’s brand fly dope, Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs, Quaker Oats, Dinty Moore beef stew, Brisling sardines, bread-and-butter pickles, Ritz crackers, strawberry jam, mayonnaise, anchovies, a mason jar full of brown sugar, two tins of Carnation evaporated milk, a large box of waxed, sulphur-tipped kitchen matches, two boxes of Aunt Jemima’s pancake mix, a quart of Skippy’s peanut butter, a smoke-blackened coffee pot within which nested a tangle of war surplus aluminum knives, forks, and spoons that tinkled discordantly whenever the load was jostled; three loaves of already squashed Wonder Bread; a stained black canvas tarpaulin that smelled of woodsmoke; two pairs of swim fins and face masks, a spear gun powered with surgical tubing; a leather-sheathed cruising ax that needed sharpening; a roll of fine-meshed mosquito netting; two cased 12-gauge shotguns, Harry’s a double-barreled Winchester Model 21, mine a battered Remington Model 29A pump action prone to jamming; and a pair of disassembled two-section flyrods stowed in light, much dented, metal tubes: an elegant, amber-finished nine-foot Payne of split Tonkin bamboo (guess whose) and an eight-and-a-half-foot hardware-store Heddon, all cracked varnish and rusty snake guides, that, when assembled and placed beside the Payne, looked about as graceful as a telephone pole. A case of waxed paper shotgun shells, two canvas reel cases, and several neatly labeled Hardy flyboxes topped off the load. We’d tied all the flies ourselves and we knew they worked. And even if they didn’t, they were pretty.
“My God, Hairball,” I said, “we don’t need half this shit. We’ll only be six days on the river. With all this gear we’ll be shipping water even on the calm stretches.”
“L-luxury, Benjamin,” Harry said. “You never know when you’ll need a dose of it. Believe me, when you get to K-Korea you’ll look back on this journey with delight.”
I took some comfort from those words. They were an admission of doubt. Harry stuttered only when he wasn’t sure of himself.
On top of the pile perched Harry’s black leather saxophone case, scuffed and battered from many trips we’d made together. Harry had discovered Lester Young and Charlie Parker a year or two ago, and he now played the alto sax. He’d always been good at music, even in grade school, and now he was a full-fledged bopper. Or that’s how I saw it anyway. On outings like this, Harry riffed on his “ax,” as he called it, with me ticking out the beat on empty tin cans or riverside rocks, pushing it up to the big bang on hollow logs in camp at night. Or even in the canoe, tapping time on the thwarts as we drifted in unpromising trout water. But Harry is always above the beat, wailing away with the water.
His sax is fluent where his tongue isn’t.
I pulled the Coast and Geodetic Survey map from the pocket of my fatigue jacket and spread the stiff, recalcitrant sheet against the iron beam of the bridge abutment.
On the topo map, the headwaters of the Firesteel resembled a spider web, broad at the top, its strands flimsy and tentative at first, then thickening as the rivulets gained strength from one another, the webbed skein narrowing toward the bottom until it spun itself into a single liana-like strand, the main stem of the river snaking its way toward the lake.
“Okay,” I said, placing a finger on the map, “we’re here.” I looked up from the map, to the north. “Hey, have a gander, you can see Lake Superior! Gitche Gumee, by God. The shining Big-Sea-Water.”
Harry adjusted his glasses and peered where my eyes were pointing. He squinted. “Bullshit,” he said. “I don’t see anything but t-treetops. If your gumee really gitches that bad, I think I’ve got a can of baby powder in one of those boxes somewhere.”
“No, really, if you look real hard you can just make it out—that brighter blue. Hell, I can even see whitecaps.”
“Old Eagle Eye,” Harry said. “Any action in the wigwam of Nokomis?” He leered and waggled his eyebrows, Groucho fashion.
I looked back down at the map again. Smart ass. Hiawatha was long gone from these parts. “This fi
rst stretch of the run seems kind of twisty,” I said. “What they call meanders. A lot of muskeg and tamarack, I suppose, slow water. All this country hereabouts is fed by limestone seeps, the roots of mountains scrubbed flat by the glacier. The guy I talked to at that tackle shop in Tomahawk said the upper section of the Firesteel is like an enormous English spring creek, all marl and sand on the bottom, packed full of watercress and big, juicy brook trout.”
“Good eating, them specs,” Harry said. “And not too choosy when it comes to f-flies.”
So why did he have to bring along those canned sardines? Then I remembered. Back in grade school, I’d known him to eat sandwiches made of peanut butter, strawberry jam, and sardines. Sometimes he’d even add a dollop of mayo.
“Well,” I said, “we’d better start humping this stuff or we’ll never get on the river.”
Harry Taggart and I had been friends since kindergarten, growing up together in Heldendorf, a small farming and logging town in central Wisconsin. His dad owned the sawmill in town. My dad was the yard foreman. We both played football, ran track, and swam on Heldendorf High’s state championship swim squad, Harry the butterfly, I in the freestyle sprints. During those high school summers we’d worked as lifeguards together at the town’s Olympic-sized public swimming pool. But our real love was the wild country, or at least what remained of it. Since we were little kids we’d been prowling the woods and swamps and lakes and streams that surrounded the town, hunting, trapping, fishing, and just generally fucking around in boats. When the war in Korea broke out that June, just after high school graduation, I’d enlisted in the Marine Corps. The great regret of my young life so far was that I’d missed World War II. Here was my chance to redeem that lost opportunity. To get a taste of fame and glory.
So far it was hardly that. I’d completed boot camp at Parris Island during the summer, a ten-week nightmare of aching muscles, muck, bugs, leeches, stifling heat, and soul-crunching humiliation that made football, even in the mud and blood of a Wisconsin winter, look like a game of patty-cake. I was due to ship out from the West Coast at the end of September, when my transit leave was up. In Pusan I’d join the 1st Marine Division. Harry was draft exempt. He’d just started his first year of premed at Marquette University. Though we sensed it only vaguely at the time, this farewell fling on the state’s last wild river would mark the watershed between boyhood and maturity for both of us. An alembic of sorts.
Only that morning, deadheading north with the canoe in a logging truck owned by Harry’s father, we’d heard on the radio of MacArthur’s surprise Inchon landing. The newscaster called it a masterstroke. With one brilliant move, Dugout Doug had outflanked the gook army that had pinned our boys in the Pusan perimeter since early summer. The commies were in full retreat. I remember worrying, as we listened to that broadcast, that the war might be over before I got there. I had nothing to fear. Not that anything scared me in those days. I was, as they say, too dumb to choke.
By straight-up noon we had the Old Town launched and loaded. She rode a bit low in the water, but there was still plenty of freeboard for the rapids downriver. We’d tucked the waterproof tarp over the crates, which occupied the center of the canoe. I paddled stern, with Harry, who was lighter, in the bow. The river ran cold and clear, the color of liquefied amber, and I could see a mosaic of small stones and pea gravel shimmering on the bottom through five feet of silent, fast-moving water. The aspens were just beginning to turn, the oval, pale green leaves yellowing at their rough-toothed edges. Here and there a swamp maple blazed bright as blood against the cloudless blue sky of midday. Ahead, where the Firesteel widened and slowed as it entered the swamp, white cedars grew thick and dark green from the shallow water. In the bow Harry was rigging his flyrod.
“What do you think, an Adams?”
“Might as well,” I said. “Try a Number Ten if you’ve got one—big fly, big trout. I’ll use a Royal Coachman. Brookies go ape for them.”
The swamp was a necklace of deep, blue-floored spring pools strung on a narrow, cedar-flanked flowage. Elodea fringed the pools. The skeletons of drowned pines stood tall and barkless, bone white against the low, dark alders and cedars that dominated the bog. A family of mergansers sculled downstream ahead of us, the chicks drab but almost full grown, and a great blue heron took flight from the reeds, squawking like a rusty hinge. In places we had to duck low to avoid cedar boughs, but then the channel widened into a broad, quiet, sunlit pool. Here and there hummocks of pale cattail and spiky marshgrass rose roundtopped from the water like the heads of submerged giants. The current barely moved in here, the breeze was dead, dragonflies clicked like knitting needles above the water and mated in midair. No black flies, though. The frosts of early fall must have killed them.
Harry worked out twenty feet of flyline, thirty feet, and dropped the Adams near the right-hand edge of the pool. I backed water with my paddle, stirring up a cloud of pale blue marl from the bottom. We watched the fly turn as it danced on the surface, twirling slow and delicate, its hackles tracing silver runes on the water’s meniscus.
A dark blue shadow moved out from waterweed. Fast at first, then slower as it neared the fly. I could see the pale wormlike squiggles across its broad black back, the red and bluegray and yellow spots scattered along its flanks, and the larger red spots haloed in a brighter blue. The large spots looked the size of dimes.
A foot and a half if he’s an inch, I thought. No. Twenty inches. Maybe three pounds.
The brook trout hovered beneath the Adams, hesitant and suspicious. Then two more shadows darted out of the weed, smaller fish, and with that the big trout surged upward, engulfing the fly. I could see the take, just a quick white flash. Harry’s rod bowed as he set the hook. He turned and grinned back at me.
“Bingo!” he said.
The ratchet of his reel sang, and he snapped back to full attention, caught up in the fight. The big fish bucked at the sting of the hook, rolling with a heavy splash, and I could see the broad, dark orange lozenge shapes of his pectoral fins, edged in ivory, the belly going brick red where it flanked the white along the trout’s bottom. Already into his spawning colors. He dove back toward the safety of the weeds.
“Turn him!”
“I’m t-trying!”
Just short of the weeds the brookie tipped sideways and veered off downstream. Harry raised his rod tip and palmed the whirring spool.
“Christ, don’t bust him off!”
“It’s a f-f-four X tippet. No fear.”
He turned the fish at the far end of the pool and began to regain line. By now the bottom of the pool was clouded with stirred marl. I cleared the long-handled landing net from under the tarp. In the milky swirls I could see the dark, panic-stricken shapes of lesser trout darting in and out of the clouds like pursuit planes in a newsreel dogfight. Harry brought the big trout to the side of the canoe, and I leaned forward and netted it. It lay on its side in the mesh, gills heaving. The hook was lodged tight in the hinge of its mouth. Its dark eyes looked big as quarters.
“That’s a hell of a fish.”
“Biggest brookie I’ve ever seen,” Harry said. “M-much less caught. Do we kill it or let it go?”
“Your call.”
“The big ones don’t eat that good.”
“I bet he goes better than four pounds. Closer to five.” I leaned over and spread my hand wide, measuring the trout in spans. “Call it nine inches from the end of my thumb to the tip of the little finger. Damn near three hand spans. Say twenty-four inches.” I shook my head in disbelief. “Make a damn nice mount.”
“We don’t have any ice. By the time we get to the take-out he’ll smell pretty ripe.” Harry reached down, wet his hands, and worked the fly loose. He lifted the trout clear of the net by its belly and held it upright in the water, head upstream, working it back and forth in the minimal current.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he intoned in a deep voice. “Ego te absolvo. Or s-something like that.�
��
The gill action slowed, the big eyes began to roll. Where am I? The fish shook its head, as if shrugging off a nightmare or a hard blow, then burst from Harry’s loose grip and lunged back to cover, splashing us both as it dove with a flip of its broad, square tail.
Harry looked up, grinning. “Okay,” he said. “This pool is finished for now. What say we absquatulate?”
That brookie fish, taken on the first cast of the trip, proved to be the biggest either of us caught that day. In the next pool downstream Harry did the paddling while I fished, taking three smaller brook trout, ten or twelve inches, which we knocked on the head for supper. In the next pool below, Harry caught a fifteen-incher that we added to the wicker creel that trailed in the water from the rear thwart. From then on we pinched down the barbs on our flies and released everything we caught. Thirty-four brook trout in all that first day. As the afternoon wore along, we fished less and paddled more, hoping to clear the swamp by nightfall. The shadows were lengthening and with them came clouds of mosquitoes, big black ones. We slathered ourselves in Old Woodsman’s fly dope and traveled on in an acrid, not-unpleasant cloud that smelled of creosote. “Ah, the traditional aroma of the North Woods,” Harry sighed, turning his face skyward as he paddled. “Fresh air, pine needles, babbling brooks, cold stove pipes, and sweaty skivvies. Don’t you love it, old bean?”
“You missed your calling, Hairball,” I told him. “You ought to be an ad man.”
Now the channel broadened. Ahead through the breaks in the cedar jungle we could see sunlight on what looked like open meadows. The skeletons of a few fire-charred white pines stood scattered in a field of bluestem. Blowdowns littered the field like corpses. Wind worked across the grass from the northwest. We entered the last of the spring pools, a deep, broad reach of win-dowglass clarity, and paused. A pile of big cedar logs lay cross-hatched on the bottom, half sunk in the blue marl. I pulled out the topo map and studied it.
“The tackle shop guy in Tomahawk said there’s old burn just below the swamp,” I told him. “We can pull out there, plenty of dry firewood from the deadfalls, and that breeze should keep the mosquitoes down.” I looked at my watch. “Ten of six. Plenty of time to pitch camp. What do you say to a swim? This water’s too good to pass up.”
The Run to Gitche Gumee Page 1
