sound of her laughter. It lingered in my mind and got me thinking about how that window was something like a crystal ball for me. How it looked onto a future that might have been very grim if not for those glimpses of Harry and his fishing boat.
But as soon as the thought of him crossed my mind, I was struck by the notion that Rebekah and I might have been waiting and wishing for the same man.
T HE FIRST DAY beyond Burnt Wood Lake was the last of their easy days. The weather was fair, their lungs and legs were fresh, their outfit was complete. The fish were biting, and that night they ate walleye breaded in crackers and fried in oleo, so their guts were well pleased. They were equal on the water, which surprised Gus as much as it did Harry, but he was commended for it. He saw, with every paddle stroke, a stoutheartedness he’d always known in his father but was thrilled to discover in himself. The looming voyage made sense for the entire day. They found the first portage and crossed two more lakes before making camp and finding a long night’s sleep.
Already the next morning the maps proved unfaithful to the country, accounting for fewer and fewer of the lakes and portages, and by the third afternoon on this stretch they were relying more on compass and feel than on charts. The fact that they were lost—paddling shorelines for hours, looking for access into the woods, cutting trail through cedar swamps or pine stands when they couldn’t find any—didn’t seem to alarm Harry. And because he was nonchalant, even confident, Gus put his own worries aside. Until the night the wind came.
They were four or five days beyond Burnt Wood Lake when a squalling, screaming rain ambushed them on what they guessed was Malcolm Lake. They took shelter in the lee of its craggy shore, which didn’t provide much. Whitecaps swamped their canoes. Lightning split thunderheads. Late in the afternoon they found a place to camp along a narrow arm of the lake and pitched their canvas between two trees on the granite shore. With everything too wet for them to start a fire, they ate jerky and crackers for dinner and then hoisted the food packs into a swaying pine before settling in.
All night the wind hollered. The flapping canvas and dropping temperatures made sleep fitful. Twice Gus was shaken wide awake by the sound of a snapping tree. At one point Harry crept from the tent to check on the canoes. When he came back in and burrowed into his sleeping sack he said, “It’s unnatural, that wind.”
The rain relented before dawn and Gus had an hour of peaceable sleep. When he woke, he crawled from the tent and saw his father staring across the lake. Atop the ridge that they’d canoed under the evening before, all the pines had been blown over. Hundreds of trees. Thousands. A mile of trees, felled in a single night. They could have built a lodge from them.
Harry turned and smiled. He held his compass in his hands, the wind blowing the pompom on his red hat like a rooster’s tail on a weathervane. “A perfect day for scouting, eh?” He had to shout to make his voice heard above the relentless gale.
He pointed up the narrows. “North!” he said. “Look at that rise.” He moved next to Gus and leaned into his shoulder. “A hill like that could damn well be the divide.” He turned and looked again up the lake. “What do you think?”
Gus scanned the ridge once more. “I think we’re lucky we didn’t get crushed by timber last night.”
“I guess any night you don’t die under a falling tree is a lucky one,” Harry said. He had a dopey look on his face.
Gus looked up the narrows. “You really think that could be the divide?”
“I’ll make coffee, then we’ll go have a look.”
—
They launched only one canoe, Harry taking the helm. Even though it was no great distance up the narrows, they were paddling into the northerly wind funneling down the gorge, and it took them nearly half an hour. Near the end of the lake Gus
But as soon as the thought of him crossed my mind, I was struck by the notion that Rebekah and I might have been waiting and wishing for the same man.
T HE FIRST DAY beyond Burnt Wood Lake was the last of their easy days. The weather was fair, their lungs and legs were fresh, their outfit was complete. The fish were biting, and that night they ate walleye breaded in crackers and fried in oleo, so their guts were well pleased. They were equal on the water, which surprised Gus as much as it did Harry, but he was commended for it. He saw, with every paddle stroke, a stoutheartedness he’d always known in his father but was thrilled to discover in himself. The looming voyage made sense for the entire day. They found the first portage and crossed two more lakes before making camp and finding a long night’s sleep.
Already the next morning the maps proved unfaithful to the country, accounting for fewer and fewer of the lakes and portages, and by the third afternoon on this stretch they were relying more on compass and feel than on charts. The fact that they were lost—paddling shorelines for hours, looking for access into the woods, cutting trail through cedar swamps or pine stands when they couldn’t find any—didn’t seem to alarm Harry. And because he was nonchalant, even confident, Gus put his own worries aside. Until the night the wind came.
They were four or five days beyond Burnt Wood Lake when a squalling, screaming rain ambushed them on what they guessed was Malcolm Lake. They took shelter in the lee of its craggy shore, which didn’t provide much. Whitecaps swamped their canoes. Lightning split thunderheads. Late in the afternoon they found a place to camp along a narrow arm of the lake and pitched their canvas between two trees on the granite shore. With everything too wet for them to start a fire, they ate jerky and crackers for dinner and then hoisted the food packs into a swaying pine before settling in.
All night the wind hollered. The flapping canvas and dropping temperatures made sleep fitful. Twice Gus was shaken wide awake by the sound of a snapping tree. At one point Harry crept from the tent to check on the canoes. When he came back in and burrowed into his sleeping sack he said, “It’s unnatural, that wind.”
The rain relented before dawn and Gus had an hour of peaceable sleep. When he woke, he crawled from the tent and saw his father staring across the lake. Atop the ridge that they’d canoed under the evening before, all the pines had been blown over. Hundreds of trees. Thousands. A mile of trees, felled in a single night. They could have built a lodge from them.
Harry turned and smiled. He held his compass in his hands, the wind blowing the pompom on his red hat like a rooster’s tail on a weathervane. “A perfect day for scouting, eh?” He had to shout to make his voice heard above the relentless gale.
He pointed up the narrows. “North!” he said. “Look at that rise.” He moved next to Gus and leaned into his shoulder. “A hill like that could damn well be the divide.” He turned and looked again up the lake. “What do you think?”
Gus scanned the ridge once more. “I think we’re lucky we didn’t get crushed by timber last night.”
“I guess any night you don’t die under a falling tree is a lucky one,” Harry said. He had a dopey look on his face.
Gus looked up the narrows. “You really think that could be the divide?”
“I’ll make coffee, then we’ll go have a look.”
—
They launched only one canoe, Harry taking the helm. Even though it was no great distance up the narrows, they were paddling into the northerly wind funneling down the gorge, and it took them nearly half an hour. Near the end of the lake Gus
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