Shambling North
Saturday, April 10Ð
8:25 a.m.-
"What time we gonna' go?"
"When we leave."
So started the overnight to The Woods. Packing and bundling and arranging all into the back of the truck--make sure EZ's in first. Three pillows in front for Chelsea, two to sit on so she can see out, and one to nap with, a blanket, a tote full of activities (and left over Easter Candy), and a bag full of goody-groceries. A stop for her to pick up footwear other than sandals, a church songbook, and we're on the road by 10:30. A stop for "World Famous" jerky in Lake Tomahawk. (Have citizens in Sri Lanka and Siberia tried it and said they concure?) Aim west and settle into a four-hour trip.
By the third hour we'd sunk into the boredom. Chelsea stretched out, legs across my lap and dropped into a forty-five minute snooze. Arrived at the cabin about 3:30 after a stop at the Store for homemade wild blueberry pie ala-mode, which Chelsea insisted we do.
Set about the business of homemaking. I puttered with a new countertop; Chelsea cleaned and washed and organized the mouse-stained kitchen, orchestrating the living space to make it ours. She scrubbed mouse-soiled dishes, tables and counters, desk (hadn't been washed for years), swept the floors. We teased and laughed giddily at our togetherness in this playful place.
Decided around 5:30 to hike through the forty acres north of the cabin and re-blaze the trail. Numerous trees had fallen through the years, paint had busted wide where bark was split. (I lost the blaze last summer after entering the forty acres from the north side, visibility greatly reduced in the summer. Finally exited along the east boundary after a meandering half hour.)
We bundled against the mid-thirty degree temperature. Sweatshirts and jackets, hats and headbands. And gloves. Stepped outside to a light pittering of rain. It surely won't last. Shambled north through a thick carpet of last year's leaves and submerged sticks and insistent drizzle. Brisk fickle winds made spray-painting the blaze tricky. Chelsea was the sprayer. Wind kicked up just as she began her mark; paint blew sideways in the breeze. Suggested she hold the nozzle point-blank to the trunk. Worked much better.
Halfway out I noticed Chelsea was still wearing sandals. And soaked socks. "Why didn't you put on your shoes? Why didn't you tell me you had sandals on ... in this rain!?"
"It's okay, Dad. I don't even feel wet, or cold."
Instant sparkles of delighted tenderness, wildly diverse, but filled with admiration for this young person my daughter. Knowing full well she could feel the cold and the wet, but deciding to be a good sport, caring more for her sense of adventure than proper footwear. So, we pressed on deeper north.
Drizzle grew colder and more vigorous.
"Hey, look in there Dad!" A sudden cracking burst released in the hollowed tree trunk. A snatching backward tug at Chelsea. A look up at the enormous dead trunk now leaning 70 degrees toward us. Trembling chin, close to tears, Chelsea said, "you scared me." I told her I was scared too, "At the sound, and what it could've done."
Quickly forgotten. Chelsea, red-handed from paint and cold, asked if I could take over. Birch, being white, showed the paint brilliantly. But, being relatively unstable and short-lived trees, we had to be sure we were marking those with budding tops. Trunks had become drenched with rain, making the paint weep.
Arrived at the north boundary, said "hooray" and quickly turned toward beckoning cabin warmth.
Jackets shiny wet, heads still not under hoods and hats. EZ had become a soggy dog. She loves nothing more than sweet exploring, up to her jawbone in wet adversity. Calling her near for a schmooze, she comes eagerly. I pound her sides and talk fun about how much glee she's obviously having, give her an enthusiastic, "OK!", and away she bolts.
Decided to use up the paint with tighter trail markings. Chels collected birch bark. "Oh Dad! Look at this one! And this one!" Each new discovery was more thrilling, more perfect and flawlessly smooth than earlier ones. She whooped and hollered with each matchless prize. Hurrying to get back ... "just one more." Trundling the final distance, shedding overflow treasures clutched to her chest, a dripping triumph.
Cabin warm and dry. Shelter from the cold and wet. Bare the feet, change clothes, hang the jackets to dry above the fire. Settle into a warm-soaking sense of having endured hardship and won! Grim fun that becomes keener, more fond as it fades into memory.
7:15--
Warm and recovered I suggested, "how about we go driving?"
"Sure." Chelsea's always eager for anything.
EZ, still soggy, is better off in the cabin, so we regretfully leave her staring sad-eyed through the door. Down to the Store for candy bars, apple cider mix and beer. Headed north through bleary drenching rain and frost-weakened mud roads. Raining seriously, the hour before dark.
Several miles north we came upon a "Minimum Maintenance" road. "Should we go in?"
"Yeah!" We exit the cab like a team finely practiced and lock the hubs. Put it in 4-wheel and set off at an idle. The road is heavy clay. Unstable when wet, and very slick, it becomes capricious in spring when the frost oozes out. It's a condition I've learned watching a panicked father cursing and sweating, trying to free a car from it's mucky grasp. Front lawn of the cabin is mostly grass. But, lurking half an inch below is the enemy, when it rains. So, Chelsea and I set off tentatively, 10 miles from rescue. The road stretches straight into eternity ... misty and alluring, retreating infinitely. Chelsea says it looks like a "Barbie road."
Hunting trailers and cabins. Road deteriorating, tires sinking deeper. Crowning a hill and down the other side we enter a clearing where the road ends. A cluster of tidy buildings: outhouse, wood shed, garage, cabin. Nice lawn, well kept. No signs inviting us to, "keep out."
Turning and backing to head out, earth very spongy, truck fighting back. Head up the hill, tires spin effortlessly and lose their grip. Siege of terror. "I've got an idea--" begins Chels.
A hand held up to her in instant "hush!" Bless her heart, she's learned discretion. Fighting the greasy road uphill. Pointing the truck where to go makes no matter. The muck knows where we'll go ... slogging sideways. Body English does not help. I have visions of walking for hours through darkening desolation and rainy woods. One's joy for life dwindles and flames out. Horror at the stupidity of, "I got us here."
Truck continued forward inch by mud-slinging inch. Crown of the hill seemed miles high ... tense seconds. Suddenly we were there and skidding down the other side. Hearts pounding loud, breaths released. Chelsea fearful, having heard my alarm. Mutually deciding it's time to get out of here. Keep the speed up, fun is fun for only so far.
Chelsea's idea had been to move onto the sides where grass would've given us better traction. Good idea. One I'd hoped to try if the tires had complied.
Back to the main road. Unlock the hubs and continue east through deepening gloom. Talking and teasing and commiserating about life. Turned south at Hazelton. Another right onto a State Forest road. Decent condition. One mile to a "T." Right or left "private roads." Turn around. Occasional lights winking far off. Widely remote homes. Privacy extreme.
Missed our turn and entered Glenville, a hamlet with no commercial interests. Houses, an out-of-business church or two, memories fading of Ralph and Hattie who retired here. Ralph long gone, Hattie a few years later. Who we knew as children we'll never get to really know. Remembrance of affection and amiable tenderness.
Head west. Rain easing. Hungry and ready to be done. Missing EZ ... wondering how she's doing, alone with the pattering roof. Full darkness now. Fifteen minutes of fast driving and we're home.
Joyful EZ! Bouncy and mostly dry.
Chelsea announced that she'd be making supper tonight. Bugs Bunny macaroni and cheese. (There are so many varieties it's difficult to lay one's hands on good old traditional Macaroni and Cheese) She set up meal duties and told me to go relax. So, I brought Scary Stories into the kitchen and read while she prepared. She even made me a bagel hors 'd oeuvre smeared with butter and placed directly on top of the woodstove to fry. Nothing in this world can ever compare. The flavor, the crunch, the kindness.
"Dinner is served!" Real plates, candles (one red, two white), paper cup of milk. Pretty amazing how good Macaroni and cheese can be (even looking like Bugs Bunny) when prepared and served by someone else, especially one's ten-year-old daughter.
Get ready for bed. Stoke the fire. Mattress is a full-size inflatable. We brought along sheets to make a real bed, rather than use sleeping bags. Piled high with a comforter and two sleeping bags pinned together to secure them atop the bed.
Despite four night stokings neither of us was warm enough. Despite shared body warmth. Toward morning I realized we needed a heavy blanket underneath. The airbed itself was the source of the trouble, tunneling cold air onto our backsides. Learned it well.
Sunday--
Got up around 8. Coffeed and Cidered. Had hoped to make a walk to the North Pool but the woods are wet. Grasses and brush would soak us. Played Yahtzee and Mancala until 10:30, then began the eternal task of breaking camp. Seems overwhelming and endless; how the cabin becomes so lived in in less than 24 hours is always a curiosity. But, suddenly we're done, wrapping it up.
Off to the Store
for a promised lunch of burgers and Herb's Chili. Chelsea had wanted to meet
Herb. Introductions. He helped Chels with one of the steel blacksmith puzzles
each table has for amusement while meals are
awaited--the sort where you remove a ring or separate the parts. Talked with
Meg about her interest in selling the store. Showed me around, facilities
needing improvement, bar room for seasonal hunting/snowmobile use. No igniting
of interest.
Into the truck shortly after 1:00 ... onward home.