Tuesday July 1--
Alone
on the river, except for EZ of course. Past the campsite, the log cabin, a man
fishing redhorse in a dark snaggy curve and a friendly white cottage on the
curve, through the wide shallow straight and past the A-frame cabin, the
farthest point EZ and I have ever explored upriver. It's a fine sunny afternoon
to explore, and with determination, reach Wooden Bridge.
It's where canoers and kayakers and tubers (who should know better
than to undertake such a long journey without means of locomotion, but for
legs and arms with hands attached) put in for the four hour ride. I found
the motor's sweet spot, a high-idle RPM that hums without vibrating the tiller
and slowly turning the boat left, and stood on the middle seat watching for
rocks which, I remember from canoeing years ago, are big and unforgivingly
hard and only barely under water.
After
an hour I found a nice shady knoll to let EZ out for a pee and a drink, hot sun
and all, she surely needed refreshing. I bumped the boat into the bank, said
"okay." She leapt out, stood in the ferns and looked at me like,
"yeah, what?"
So
ahead we went. Foreign landscapes though rearrangements of familiar
ingredients. The motor tip bounced off of softball sized rocks a few times
before I got the motor tilted up.
Wooden
Bridge showed through a tag alder thicket.
Two
young men stood on the far side of the
structure discussing something drifting by under. One of the two stepped
around the rock approach, waded mid-stream and stood to his waist slapping
mosquitoes.
"You
luring bloodsuckers?" I asked.
"Huh?
I'm waiting for the kids to show up so they don't go too far."
Black
inner tubes with white teenaged bodies floated around the bend. The counselor
held up his hands and gestured toward shore.
"How
many are floating?"
"Fifty.
No. Eighty, since Forest Lake showed up."
My
boat seat had become a recliner before I detected something was wrong. Four
screws of six holding the seat back in place had loosened or fallen out and
were leaning me back comfortably, but not as in charge.
7:38 p.m.-
Anchored
in a safe shady bay of the big lake. Dropped EZ off and gave her a percoset
pill. Her tumor is causing her trouble again so I dialed up the Doc and got us
a new quantity of relief.
Put
in at the town landing amidst a frenzy of loading and ejecting. My humble minor
boat slipped down the ramp and bobbed sheepishly as I parked the car. People
are pricks. There are twelve extra long stalls for vehicles with trailers to
park in; six were taken by thoughtless pricks with only cars.
7:37-
Decided
to move. Two pontoons snuck up behind and passed by my bow with ten feet to
spare. The opening to Peggy Slough is a hundred feet wide. Maybe I was parked
over a narrow deep channel.
I
hit the water in a bucking chaos of
waked-up water. Different than wind-blown waves boat wakes come from
every direction, pile up on each other, are unpredictable. An oversized pontoon
barged out of the south and crashed through at forty mph. The lake is a riot of
boating frolic. Children riding dayglo tubes and children driving virginal
white steeds.
The
waterski show, the whole point of coming out here seems to have been canceled
due to high chop. At 7:15 there were a few people in the bleachers and the tow
boat was pulling a three-skier pyramid. It collapsed spontaneously when it
encountered a high wave. Two of the three atheletes waved to indicate they were
okay.
It
is sticking in my craw. A hundred yards away some sort of flotsam has been
bobbing up and down glinting in the sun. Boats have raced past, Party Barges
have slid by it. A child pointed it out then shot at it with a Ruger 9mm.
8:03-
Lipton
BRISK raspberry iced tea. Aluminum. No deposit, no return.
I
am stopped trying to find calm water and quiet beside an island in Bass Bay. A
small fifty-foot diameter clump of land with mature pines and birch and oak
growing. On an oak is a painted white cross made of narrow pine boards. Minor
waterside shrine to a snowmobiling youth who lost his life against that tree
ten years ago while attempting to fly.
Where
are the decent people? Is there anybody out here who thinks? And doesn't shred
water lilies and slows down when they pass? The world is out of control. Maybe
it's always been, but how does it survive? The bow is pointing at a three-story
house fronted by a massive stone wall. My son has been inside that house and
was astounded by the technology and wealth installed there. Five-thousand
square feet and triple car garage for a divorced man to pull his Lexus into.
What's
the point? Is there any hope?
On
my right on the island a wonderful songbird is singing
"tweet-tweet-tweet." Through the opening into the big lake a jetski
is going eighty. No exageration. A loon is tremaloing between me and the quiet
waters in the bog. There is hope, I guess.
The
white cross tree is wrapped with gold and burgundy Christmas garland. AT the
top is a spray of dirty red plastic roses.
"Kevin
Krause, '73 - '94.
8:34-
The
loon I heard earlier is out here in the big lake, crying its mournful call. Two
boys in a small skiff are driving by shouting "shut-up.".
Ever
notice how loons always have their heads cocked one side or the other watching
for jetskis?
8:48-
I
don't know EZ's fate; when she will die or if this new renewal of her tumor is
seasonal or the end. The boat is empty but for me tonight, but that's by
choice, not death. The realization of her missing is a brutal reminder that she
with me is quite temporary.