LAST PORTAGE – A Tribute to the Father I Never Knew

As a teenager I, like most adolescents, believed my parents were total nerds. Knew nothing, I thought, about music, sports, adventure, fun—all the stuff I was into. They were so…well…old, that they embarrassed me.

But as they aged, my dad started sorting through his mementos, and when he showed me some of them it opened up a whole new window on his world. Among those relics were a few small black-and-white pictures of him canoeing with his friend, Bob Clough, in Minnesota’s north woods. They looked to be in their late teens or early twenties, young and fit and happy. I was intrigued.

          This made us not just cool kid
          and dorky father, but kindred spirits.

There were also receipts from outfitters in Ely and Winton, Minnesota, towns near entry points to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCAW).* They listed flour, sugar, lard and various canned goods,** all in quantities sufficient for extended stays in the wilderness.

And there was this map, printed on treated canvas, of a portion of Ontario’s Quetico Provincial Park, the BWCAW’s even wilder counterpart across the border in Ontario. Hand-drawn on it was a new portage the two had blazed across the base of a long peninsula, cutting off a couple of hours’ paddling time around it. They’d tentatively claimed it on the map with a red arrow and their last initials, C&W.

KINDRED SPIRITS
I’d known Dad was a Boy Scout, but this was something else, something more exciting than good deeds and merit badges. The guy had roughed it on his own terms, for weeks at a time, in true wilderness, back when that word meant more than it does now. A real man’s man. And, since I’d also done many BWCAW and Quetico trips myself, this made us not just cool kid and dorky father, but kindred spirits.

Fast forward to 1997. Dad was 91; I was 52. And that July Dad passed away. Even though Mom was still living, I felt like an orphan. I regretted not having known him better. But finally being aware of that adventurous, woodsman side of his was still pretty special.

When it came time for the family to divvy up Dad’s stuff, I didn’t want much. But I wanted that map. And I got it.

That old cloth map stirred something in me. And during the following year I began planning a canoe trip up to that portage. I invited six friends with varying degrees of wilderness paddling experience who I thought would most appreciate the adventure. We put our heads together to plan logistics: dates, route, menu, equipment… And I created graphics and mementos for The Memorial Expedition—a six-inch round commemorative plaque and a dozen three-inch souvenir medallions—and had the design sand-etched onto clear glass blanks.

          The miracle material can stop a bullet
          or just about any other impact, but,
          incredibly, is helpless against abrasion.

GETTING THERE
On June second, 1998, we headed north for the five-and-a-half-hour drive to Lake Superior's North Shore, the Gunflint Trail and Tuscarora Lodge, where we’d arranged to bunk for the night and rent canoes for the trip. When we left home, temperatures had been summer-like, with predicted highs in the mid-80s. It looked like the warm streak would apply to northwestern Minnesota too, and hold for at least several days. That was good to know, as it allowed me to pack fairly light, always an advantage for a wilderness canoe trip.

Alas, that night, on a cot barely fit for a prisoner, it soon became clear I’d been grossly misled about the weather. With no heat in the bunkhouse, the near-freezing chill easily breached its walls and my flimsy, ultra-light sleeping bag, making for a miserable night.

Next morning, we were introduced to our two slick, translucent, super-light Kevlar canoes. I learned that this miracle material—originally developed by Dupont as a replacement for the five-times-heavier steel belts used in racing tires, and later as the basis of bulletproof body armor—can stop a bullet or just about any other impact, but, incredibly, is helpless against abrasion.

All this to explain why our host applied a strip of silver duct tape along each canoe’s keel at the bow. If we returned the craft with any part of that tape worn through, we’d be charged a penalty. No problem, considering several of us had long ago learned that a canoe’s bow must never, ever touch anything but water or air.

THE TWO SAGS
They loaded up our gear, Carl’s beautiful wood-and-fiberglass Old Town Canadienne and the two canoes we’d rented, and drove us up to the end of the Gunflint Trail. There we put in at the tip of the long, narrow south arm of Lake Saganaga, one of the BWCAW’s biggest and prettiest glacier-scoured lakes.

We paddled a couple of miles north up the narrow, river-like channel and then into the huge expanse of Big Sag itself.

Then it was west for about six miles across the widest part of Saganaga, skirting its numerous islands and crossing the international border. Once we entered Cache Bay, we had to register with Canadian Customs, letting them know where we were headed and for how many days.

As we paddled away from the rangers’ island, the wind picked up and it started to snow—something I’d only once before encountered up here in June. Luckily, paddling into the wind generated enough body heat to stay quite comfortable…for a while. But soon, the piercing cold was conspiring with high winds and some nasty two-foot waves to deny us much headway, so we found a good landing spot on the lee side of a small island, and built a fire.

The wind kept pounding us for the next couple of hours until, finally, we were able to make a run for it to the nearest decent campsite.

      I thought of all the millions of footsteps
      that have followed in theirs over 75 years.

At the time, officially-designated campsites in the Quetico weren’t shown on the Fisher maps, so we scouted our own site and, hurried by pending nightfall, quickly reacquainted ourselves with the various roles and tasks it takes to set up camp, prepare a meal and protect our food pack from bears.

I shared a tent with my brother-in-law, Carl. Thank goodness neither of us is a super-loud snorer. Nonetheless, it proved to be another long, miserable night, for, once again, the temperature kept dropping, this time to well below freezing.

My nearly see-through sleeping bag, with its scant one inch of loft and a rating for about 50 degrees, came up short—or should I say thin—for me, even wearing every stitch of clothing I had. At dawn’s first scant light, still shivering in fetal position, I looked enviously over at Carl, tucked in his brand new LL Bean, five-inch-thick, zero-degree-rated goose down sleeping bag, blissfully sawing wood. It was all I could do not to either crawl in there with him…or punch him!

Next morning, we had breakfast and broke camp rather leisurely, and then paddled west toward Silver Falls, where we made several small portages before entering the very southeastern tip of the narrow, twelve-mile-long Lake Saganagons*** (Indeed, its name is that similar to Saganaga’s.)

ETCHED IN STONE AND GLASS
About three miles up the north side of Saganagons, we scoured the irregular shoreline for the legendary portage. In the Quetico, portages are not clearly marked with Forest Service signs as they are in the BWCAW. So it took a while, but we finally spotted it, tucked behind a point that we'd mistaken for an island. At last, this was it. I felt we'd accomplished at least the physical and logistical part of our mission.

And then there was the spiritual part. I’ve always been a sucker for all things mystical, especially if they involve ceremony. I felt an immediate reverence for this place we were about to consecrate, picturing my dad and his friend standing there, dirty and exhausted, celebrating their success slogging their way across to the other side of the peninsula. And I thought of all the millions of footsteps that have followed in theirs over 75 years.

We paused for trail lunch**** before starting out across the 52-rod—about 285 yards—trail.

I dug out the small packet of Dad’s ashes I’d filched from the plastic-lined boxful we got from the crematorium. As we slowly retraced my father’s steps, I scattered the sacred dust here and there, saving some to anoint the lake on the other side. And I handed each member of the expedition one of the commemorative glass medallions as a keepsake.

I’ve filed a detailed description of the plaque's and medallions' burial site with my will.

As we walked back, I scouted the surroundings for the best place to bury the glass plaque and the remaining six medallions. I spotted a rock outcrop with a distinctive, linear groove. Following that line down to the point where it receded beneath the soil, I measured off a few feet past that and dug a hole in the spongy, peat-like earth. And there I carefully laid the mementos, along with the last of Dad's ashes.

After I solemnly replaced and tamped down the soil, we gathered on the trail. There was no question that Dad was present. Those who felt the inclination offered heartfelt reflections about him and about the extraordinary experience we were sharing. Some read or recited poems; others simply offered their memories of Dad. I shared one of my favorite T.S. Eliot quotes from his Four Quartets:

“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

We made camp that night on a lovely island not far from the portage, and laid over there for one more day before heading back home.

Our paddle back across the border was much more tranquil than the one getting to Saganagons—and no snow this time. I think we all felt a sense of accomplishment, as 50-somethings, having proved our mettle against the challenges of the wilderness, albeit for just five days.

And I felt I’d done my father proud, acknowledging a part of him I’d barely known, but came to greatly admire and respect. I realize it’s pure romanticism, but I’ve filed a detailed description of the plaque's and medallions' burial site, complete with map and photos, with my will.

My hope is that one of my antecedents—who knows how far into the future—might learn of this tribute through family lore, and mount their own quest to find Oscar Willius’s and Bob Clough’s portage and excavate the buried medallions.

Call me a dreamer; I guess it's in my blood.

* The Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness is a 1,090,000-acre (4,400 km2) wilderness area within the Superior National Forest in northeastern Minnesota (United States) under the administration of the U.S. Forest Service. Its network of glacial lakes, streams and connecting portages provides over 1,200 miles of canoe routes.

** Until cans were outlawed in the BWCAW in 1971, the accepted practice had been to put empties into your fire to burn off their inner coating of shellac, and then sink them in the deepest part of the lake where one presumed they’d eventually rust and disintegrate.

*** Both Saganaga and Saganagons are Ojibwe for something like "lake of many islands."

**** Traditional "trail lunch," formulated for simplicity, packability, freshness without refrigeration and high caloric content, consists of: a chunk of hard salami, a chunk of cheese, a few RyeCrisp crackers, peanut butter and jelly, a handful of raisins, a few squares of Bakers semi-sweet chocolate and a cup of Kool-Aid. More recent interpretations have replaced several of these items with a few handfuls of gorp. Swapping some of these components among trip members is common.

MY FATHER'S HANDS – The Kindest Bequest

I remember my father’s hands. They were more than ample for a man his size.
And strong too. Not farmer hands, but you could tell they were those of a fellow who rarely needed a handyman. The veins on the back stood up like so many purply little hoses running this way and that across a floor of bone and tendon.

Over the top, shrink-wrap skin which, as he aged, gradually morphed from leathery—toughened and tanned by seven decades of work—to something more like loose onion skin—thin, crepey, nearly transparent.

His palms changed too, the callouses softening, the skin turning shiny, buffed so long by steering wheels, axe handles and the insides of gloves.

And there were spots. What had been a few nice brown freckles inevitably grew and grayed into age spots. And then exploded into those outlandish, reddish-purplish blotches (senile purpura) that decorate the hands of the very old.

        Now and then it was more, an outpouring 
        of pride that flowed into me like a tonic.

My father was fair-skinned; he had to be careful about the sun. But somehow those hands always wore a tan. Generally he kept them clean—I still associate them with the smell of Coconut Castile soap. His nails too were well tended, though they did collect their share of soil, putty, grease and fish slime.

Dad’s knuckles never got gnarly from arthritis as Mom’s did. So I don’t think they were wracked with pain as hers were. He could still do just about anything with his hands, including playing golf until just a week before he died. I don’t know why, but I wondered if he ever had to use them in a fight. I doubt it.

THE THINGS THEY CARRIED
I think of what those hands did over a 91-year lifetime. Once, they held me like some priceless antique; later, they spanked me when I deserved it, applauded me when I earned it, showed me how to toss a ball, pound a nail and reel in a fish.

They taught me how to replace bike chains and window panes and quite a few other tricks. After I’d flown the nest, they wrote letters to me…and the occasional check.  

My dad’s hands, though not accustomed to hugging, must have shaken my hand a few thousand times. I don't think a hug would have felt any better. His robust handshake spoke to me of his approval and assured me of his constancy. Often it was simply a Welcome home! or God speed, son. But now and then it was more, an expression of pride, a transfusion of well-being that flowed into me like a few milligrams of cocaine.

         The veins and creases etch a map of
         destinations quite different from his.

GETTING A GRIP
Dad was of a generation of men for whom a handshake meant a lot. More than simply a gesture of greeting or agreement, a man’s grip—along with a certain earnest kind of eye contact—was an indication of his integrity.

I don’t remember a lesson, per se, in shaking hands. It was more a matter of role modeling. As you reached for the other person’s hand, you opened the “V” between your thumb and index finger. You made sure your “V” got fully seated in the other’s “V.” At that precise moment, you squeezed. If one of you came up short you were left with not a handshake but an awkward, much-less-than-satisfying finger shake.

At least as important as the initial contact was how hard to squeeze. Generally, the firmer the better—up to a point. You had to gauge your own grip to the other person’s: less for folks with smaller or more sensitive hands; more for most NFL linebackers.

                 

Now, at about the age Dad was when his hands were starting to put his affairs in order for “senior living,” I look down at my own hands. The veins and creases etch a map of destinations quite different from his. But all these journeys started in the same place his did.

For sure, I inherited many good traits from Dad...and a few not so good. I got his nose, his receding hairline and his build. But I don’t think you could pay me a kinder complement than to tell me I have his hands.

Yes, I remember those hands as if they were right in front of me…and, as I look down, I like to think they are.

DANCES WITH WATER – How to Paddle a Canoe

I feel sorry for those who want or need a motor to propel their boats. Sure, it’s fast and easy, but it’s so remote, so…well…soulless. Not to mention loud, smelly and rushed.

PHOTO: boattest.com

I don’t remember who taught me how to paddle a canoe—very likely it was my dad. During his late teens and early twenties, he’d spent months canoeing in the magical lakeland wilderness now comprising northeastern Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCAW) and southwestern Ontario’s Quetico Provincial Park.

I’m sure my counselor at YMCA Camp St. Croix must have helped. At age ten I was part of an ambitious canoe trip that was—and likely still is—the longest ever launched from the camp: 360 miles down the St. Croix and Mississippi to East Dubuque, Illinois.

       I want my five- and nine-year-old grand-
       children to know and love canoeing—
       Minnesota style—too.

After that, I canoed for many years in the BWCAW and Quetico myself, first at YMCA Camp Widjiwagan, and then on expeditions I and my friends organized and outfitted ourselves. I still paddle—in my precious little 13-foot wood-and-fiberglass Mansfield Osprey—as often as I can.

Now this is by no means competitive—nor even especially athletic—canoeing; it’s just basic mobility for traveling, exploring and getting to my favorite fishing and photography locales. At least for now I’ll leave the racing, the tricks, to others more fit and able than I.

I’ve written about canoeing here before—how quiet, beautiful and spiritual it is; how efficient it is; how I feel more comfortable paddling my little Osprey than I do walking on dry land. But recently I’ve been thinking about another aspect of this elegant, ancient mode of travel: how paddling a canoe actually works, and how to teach that.

My motivation? My nine-year-old granddaughter is getting immersed by her closer-by fraternal grandparents in all the fun New-Englandy conveyances they grew up with—sailing, skiing…even surfing, for God’s sake. While I celebrate those opportunities, I also want her and my five-year-old grandson to know and love canoeing—Minnesota style—too.

PHOTO: Rockbrook Camp

THE PIVOT POINT
So how does one begin? I’m sure there are many wonderful, effective approaches, but here’s a teaching idea I’ve been thinking of for years—and have yet to actually use. I can’t wait to put it to the test with my grandchildren next time they come to Minnesota.

Think of the student sitting in the canoe’s stern seat with a paddle. (Typically, the bow paddler provides power while the one in the stern provides both power and steering.) Now imagine the very tip of that curve in the canoe’s bow attached to a dock (or simply held in place by someone), allowing just the stern to swing freely back and forth.

The essential trick in steering a canoe is to think of the stern paddler’s moving the stern back and forth, not the bow. Kind of like driving a car whose steering wheel turns the rear wheels, not the front ones. All the basic canoe steering strokes operate on that principle; when you move the stern to your left, the canoe turns to the right—and vice versa.

With this pivot point setup, I’d have the student practice moving the stern left and right—first simply experimenting on their own, and then using proper strokes. Then I'd untether them and let them practice integrating those strokes with forward motion, perhaps even following a simple slalom course.

    An expert can rotate a canoe on a dime and 
    even make it sidle to one side or the other 
    while moving neither forward nor back.

DIFF’RENT STROKES
Given that background, the kid’s ready to learn the actual strokes. There are dozens of them—for basic leisure canoeing, cruising, racing, whitewater, freestyle exhibition and more. You can learn about them here: Wikipedia   /   Knights of Dionysis    /   YouTube

ILLUSTRATION: Knights of Dionysis

Many folks think a canoe has to be moving in order to steer it. While movement does facilitate the stern paddler’s basic steering strokes, an expert can rotate a canoe on a dime and even make it sidle to one side or the other while moving neither forward nor back. (The latter involves either the draw stroke, the push stroke or, more elegantly, sculling—what I like to call the figure-eight stroke.)

A word about rhythm or stroke rate. This is generally up to the bow paddler, as is when to switch sides. But even if the stern paddler is an expert, steering takes a bit of extra time out of each stroke. And since a proper balance of both power and weight depends on the two paddlers paddling continually, in unison, a good bowman will allow a second or two of rest between strokes for the stern man to execute the steering strokes.

This is also a very efficient way to paddle, taking advantage of a certain amount of coasting after each stroke and enabling experienced paddlers to cover great distances over the course of days or weeks with a minimum of fatigue.

Speaking of efficiency, one of many fine points few leisure paddlers seem to understand is feathering the paddle between strokes. This means, after each stroke, rotating the paddle so the blade is horizontal while swinging it forward for the next stroke. This minimizes the amount of air resistance, which, especially on long trips and/or windy days, is no small consideration.

AROUND THE BEND...
Of course, there are other important chapters to any canoeing primer, like getting in and out and moving around the craft safely, loading, etiquette, bow paddling—including steering from the bow, flipping and portaging, maintenance, paddle selection, safety and others. While too involved to undertake in one post, perhaps I’ll dip my paddle into those waters in a future post or two…or when I write the book.

BEAUTY LOST AND FOUND – The Legacy of Tragedy

To my dear friends around the world. I so appreciate your expressions of support—both spoken and unspoken—as we in the USA struggle to make sense
of the unspeakable cruelty in our midst.

Many of us are in mourning, and, coming as it has, during this colder, darker, season when many of us already struggle to embrace the purported joy of the winter holidays, it has hit us all pretty hard.

For me, spontaneous tears well up when I fully sense my oneness with those who’ve lost so much. Most of us are sad; some are angry; others, afraid. Some
just feel a dark malaise. But we all feel something. It hurts.

The world is no less beautiful
a place than it was before Newtown.

A DARK ROOM
While, of course, we all must mourn this in our own ways, I encourage you to let this fact seep in through the cracks in your grief: the world is no less beautiful a place than it was before Newtown.

Seeing that, knowing that, is hard when we feel stuck in a small room where ugliness seems to have sucked out all the air and light.

Certainly, we cannot deny the monster, but we can and must open the windows
and let the fresh air and light of beauty come back in where it ultimately, inevitably belongs…everywhere.

Their wondrous ways of seeing and sensing 
the world are a gift they’ve helped us 
to open, to delight in, to use every day.

Our normal, natural emotions conspire to weigh those windows shut. As we struggle to reclaim our spirits, we must remember that there is only one way to open those windows. Anger, fear, sorrow and despair won't do it; they’re all stuck with us inside that dark room.

The gradual relief of our pain is awfully hard to grasp at a time like this, because the lesson lies in exactly the same place where our grief is focused: in the sweet, innocent eyes of those young children.

THE EYES OF A CHILD
One is never too old to see the world like a five- or six-year-old. But it is hard for us because, as adults, we bear the burdens of knowledge, experience and responsibility.

Nonetheless, wouldn’t the greatest honor we could possibly bring to the memory of those beautiful children be to understand that their wondrous ways of seeing and sensing the world are a gift that they’ve helped us to open, to delight in, to use every day?

We must not forget that we all still have those eyes, those eyes of a child. For it is that gift that will not only give us comfort, but ultimately lend us the clarity, the wisdom, the loving spirit and the resolve to make our country a safer, happier, more humane place.

IN THE GUTTER – Lessons From My Grandchildren

My daughter sent me this photo this morning. She said, “Hey dad, the kids were delighted that raindrops falling into a puddle could create bubbles.”

                

This delights me too—at so many levels: that my daughter thinks of me at such moments of discovery and wonder; that she and her husband show my grandchildren not just the joys of being outdoors—in any kind of weather, I should add—but encourage them to look carefully, inquisitively, creatively; that the kids have learned to not just welcome wonder, but expect it;

WONDER OF WONDERS
Wonder exists at many levels, and they’re not always the most obvious. To get beyond the commonplace and see the real miracle, one often has to invest an extra measure of curiosity, creativity or just plain old patience.

And that’s what I find most interesting about my grandchildren’s experience with the puddle. They could have been drawn in by those golden, glowing leaves. It could have been the water and its unique properties—the reflections, the clarity, and certainly those amazing ripples.

Perhaps they did notice all that, but what they were especially drawn to were the bubbles, a wonder even more ephemeral.

I so appreciate my daughter today for those lessons she so thoughtfully mediates between generations.

Kids are naturally good at wonder; they’re hard-wired for it. Getting them outdoors, letting them stop, look and play, allows those circuits to fire, powering their health and happiness in many ways.

They learn the most basic—and some would say most sophisticated—lessons about themselves and their relationship with the spaces around them, about beauty, about humility and a concern for things beyond themselves.

WHAT GOES AROUND
Sometimes, as I get carried away with my writing and the work entailed in bringing it to a growing readership, I lose track of that inevitable question about teachers and students: who’s teaching whom?

I forget that, as much as I may have taught my children and grandchildren about curiosity and wonder, they continue to teach me at least as much—about perspective, spontaneity, joy and, ultimately, love.

I so appreciate my daughter today for those lessons she so thoughtfully mediates between generations. And this, perhaps, is what those fleeting bubbles have to say to those who stop and listen: life and love, like wonder, are fragile. No matter what the distractions, we must keep our ears open or we may not hear it.

AFTER I'M GONE – Leaving a Legacy

Many of us Baby Boomers are feeling things we've never felt before. But I'll leave confusion, forgetfulness and pain for future posts.

It's the concern that I might move on from this place without anyone knowing who I really was.

Seriously, what I'm talking about is the way I and many of my friends are starting to reflect on our lives and their meaning. Have I created anything of value? Have I done anything to make the world a better place? Have I loved well and been loved?

One undeniable aspect of this reflection—at least for me–is the concern that I might move on from this place without anyone knowing who I really was. I don't mean who someone else thinks I am, but who I think I am.

REPS AND RAPS
We all acquire certain "reps" and "raps" throughout life as we find our places in our families, communities and circles of friends. Some of these characterizations are misplaced, and they can be harder to shake than a dog on your leg. In fact, they can be so persistent that we come to believe them ourselves.

I suppose you could say I want my legacy to refute all those charges. It's not that I couldn't understand a spreadsheet or a contract; I just didn't care about them. I wasn't undisciplined, just spontaneous. Insecure? Well maybe unassuming.

It feels like I need to start, if not remodeling, at least tidying up that space I call legacy for those who may visit after I'm gone.

But the fact is, there's nothing we can do about those bum raps; they're often less about our true identity, than the need others have to categorize us—usually to the benefit of their own image. Ultimately, all we can do is be true to our own moral compass and responsible for our own choices.

WHEN I GROW UP
Perhaps the greatest, most meaningful legacy one can leave is manifest in one's children. If they grow up to be decent, caring, contributing citizens of this world and, in turn, pass their best genes and values on to future generations, that's a pretty amazing gift, isn't it? Given a few setbacks and strokes of pure luck along the way, I feel I've done that.

But there's clearly a more selfish angle to my growing preoccupation with legacy. What I'm realizing is that more important to me than my grandchildren looking, thinking or acting like me is that they be proud of me.

Could that be why I'm feeling this sense of urgency, this inkling that, after a lifetime as the perpetual liberal arts undergraduate dabbling in this and that, it's time to finally choose what I want to be when I grow up? It feels like I need to start, if not remodeling, at least tidying up that space I call legacy for those who may visit after I'm gone.

Maybe this is why I've been able to move so seamlessly from a career as a graphic designer and marketing guy to life as a writer. Of all of the clever concepts and the thousands of little designs and copy blocks I've created for clients, few will ever be seen again after a year or two. All this work, while immensely satisfying most of the time, was professional, not personal. I think this is why my current writing, especially One Man's Wonder and the book I'm working on, feels so important to me.

It's about my occasional conversations with elusive truths about peace, love and happiness.

This work is not just by me, it's of me. It's drawing not just on my knowledge or experience but on my spirit. It's about how I've tried to tread on this earth, taking less than I've given. It's about trying to be fully present with everyone and every thing, always expecting the best, and seeing generously. It's about the curiosity, wonder and gratitude that color everything I see and do. And it's about my occasional conversations with elusive truths about peace, love and happiness.

These, I now understand, are the things for which I want to be remembered.