Episode One
Gord
wanted to stop for a smoke but he didn't dare. The cold was moving up
his legs and if it reached his arms and chest, walking would be that much
more difficult. He continued, worried that stopping might mean he wouldn't be
able to get going again.
The day
was not supposed to end up like this. It had started out the same as the others
since he and Lee had come up here, except that this cold late December morning
had powdered fresh snow over the spruce trees. He had been eager to get up.
Today was the day he would gather traps and close down the trapline. The two
brothers were one step closer to collecting their fortune.
Gord, now
23, and Lee, 19, had come up to Puckasaw over three months ago. They had a lot
of experience in bush work but had found little to do in the city of Sault Ste
Marie. The Depression had worsened. It was 1934, and ’34 was as bad a year as
’33 or ’32. As it became more and more obvious that any work opportunities were
pretty well non–existent, Gord had the idea to try their luck at trapping. So,
in mid-September, with $50 in their pockets, the two of them took the ACR train
to Michipicoten Harbour. There, they spent most of their money on grub from
Dave Summer’s store before hitching a ride up the shore towards Puckasaw on the
Lapointe Fisheries boat. Charlie’s 18 ft canoe, tethered to the fish boat,
bobbed in the water behind them. The Lapointes took them to Ganley Harbour,
about 10 miles east of Puckasaw, where Gord and Lee disembarked, loaded their gear
into the canoe and headed to the Depot. Since the canoe had oarlocks, Gord
rowed and Lee paddled.
The
brothers returned to their cabin at the Puckasaw Depot, the only home they
remembered with any fondness. The first thing they did was clean house and catch
some fish for supper. The place was full of memories and ghosts, but it was
warm and dry and for that they were thankful. Never mind the isolation, or the
lack of outside contact. Even though they would have to do without supplies
from the steamship, the Reliance, would have to live without the
mail runs from White River, would have to find amusement without the jokes and
poker games with their Chicago uncles, would have to be strong without the
company of their mother and stepfather, Puckasaw was the best place for them
right now – or so they thought.
Today
they were shutting down the trapline and decided that Gord would pick up the
last of the traps and Lee had would stay back in the cabin. Animal activity had
slowed down so the load should be ok for one man. They both had snowshoes to
finish, just in case they had to make the 75 mile walk to White River and Lee
was anxious to get them done. He’d keep the stove going, make a partridge stew,
work on his snowshoes and hold the fort. They shared a breakfast of bannock
topped with the last of their mother’s raspberry jam. Their conversation
bounced back and forth with talk of what they would do with their earnings from
the pile of fox and beaver pelts waiting in the corner.
8:00 am
Gord took
a last swallow of sugary tea, grabbed his canvas pack and threw in his tin cup.
He wrapped up a piece of last night’s moose meat in brown paper and tossed it
into his pack. It would provide him with all energy he’d need. Just before
leaving, he told Lee to put lots of spuds in the stew. He knew he’d be hungry
when he got back.
He set
off into the grey morning with a slight northeast tugging at his jacket and
last night’s chess problem whirling in his head. A little skiff of snow dusted
the ground. For early winter, there was a strange mildness in the air.
Lee
watched his brother lope up the shore trial to the river. It was always an
anxious moment, this parting. With just the two of them here, they had
developed a strong dependency. The days were spent in an odd unison. The
routine of mornings, the sharing of chores, long miles on the trap line, hours
of crib challenges and hours of silences had wrapped them together.
Lee
turned from the window and looked around the cabin. The logs held voices in the
eaves, held whispers in the corners. And now there were lots of empty spaces,
especially the big one where their mother’s piano had been. Chilliness had
entered the cabin, so Lee moved to get a load of firewood. He stepped outside
to the shrinking woodpile. They had been burning some of the logs they had
pulled off Kelly’s old barn, and they’d soon need to wrestle down a few more.
Lee gathered up an armload of the old cut and split spruce logs and hummed as
he opened the unlatched door with one hip. He bristled from the cold and threw
another piece of wood into the stove. Later he’d go for a walk and check out
the Depot for one last time. He wished the wireless operator was still around.
His cabin, used for forest fire watch, was always buzzing with some interesting
tidbit from the outside world. Better quit day dreaming and get back at the
snowshoes, Lee thought as he sat down at the kitchen table.
Gord
adjusted the pack on his shoulders. The closer he got to the Puckasaw River,
the more the breezes began to pick up. Earlier he had started to sweat from
keeping up a quick pace, but now there was a bit of a bite to the wind. Gord
buttoned his jacket again. He was glad the snow was holding off. He always
liked this part of the trail. He could hear the roar of the river a mile before
he reached it and memories of the busy days of the drive always made him smile.
Gord had become accustomed to being alone. He had spent many hours by himself
and had ways of dealing with the nag of loneliness. Two years ago, in the fall
of 1932, Gord, Jack and Einer had come up to trap. Jack and Einer went
overnight to check the north end of the line. Gord was alone at the Depot when
an aggressive bear showed up, bared his teeth, huffed, growled and forced Gord
onto the roof of the cabin. He stayed there all night while the bruin circled
and claimed the territory below. In the morning Gord came down, Jack and Einer
returned and a bad experience became a good story.
Gord kept
up his steady lope on the trail and turned his thoughts from bear encounters to
his chess game instead. He’d been playing both sides. Black already has two of
White’s rooks and a bishop. And now here’s a chance to take another bishop! The
game kept his mind buzzing as he approached the familiar terrain of the
Puckasaw River. Gord whistled, stepped over a deadfall, removed a trap and put
it in his pack. The metal clanked as it hit his cup. Almost time to stop for a
smoke. The dam would be a good spot for that, a good spot for a break.
Episode Two
10:00 am
The dam
was a familiar place. Gord had crossed the roadwork of hammered pulp logs
hundreds of times. But it had fallen into disrepair over the past five years.
On one side was the smooth river. On the other side of the dam was a rush of
white water beginning its descent to the lake. He rested by the river bank for
a few minutes. The hike to here was just a warm-up to his long day’s trek. Gord
rolled a cigarette and lit a wooden match with his left thumbnail. The flame
crackled the dry tobacco as he inhaled a long, deep breath of the sweet smoke.
Lee
decided to put the partridge stew together before cutting the babiche for the
shoes. He had two of the tasty birds left from the dozen he had shot with his
22 pistol. And all on one day's hunt too. He could have shot more, but 12 were
all he could carry. The partridge meat and bones would make a tasty
bouillon along with a few added roots. Lee tossed potatoes, turnips and the
last onion into the pot. They'd have a good hot meal tonight. With the
stew pot full, lidded and simmering on the back of the woodstove, Lee laid out
his chore for the day. It was an important job. If the lake didn’t let
them, the snowshoes might prove to be their only way out.
They had
prepared the frames, soon after their arrival, at the beginning of October.
They cut off the outside edge from birch saplings and soaked them until they
could be bent and formed into a teardrop shape. Scrounging through the
blacksmith shop, Gord and Lee salvaged oak boards from an old apple barrel. The
oak made for strong toe pieces so all they needed to do now was weave in the
moose rawhide.
The
brothers wouldn't have taken on the chore of making snowshoes if
Gord hadn't shot the moose. It was luck really. They had
been returning from the north end of the trapline, up by Lafleur’s, when Gord
noticed the tracks leading into a tag alder thicket. He got close enough to bag
it with the Luger, Jack's WWI treasure and a constant companion on the
trapline.
With his
mind's eye, Gord measured up the dam. The water was higher than the last
time he was here. The heavy rain that had turned to snow two days ago
added more to the height of the river. The dam was less and less
resembling a dam and more and more nothing but a log jam.
How many
times had he traversed it? Ten years ago this was a strong span of fresh
cut logs, wide enough for a horse and wagon. It held back the push of the river
and herded logs through its sluices. Built in summer when water was low,
it had withstood more than a dozen years of floods and log runs. But today it
was a crumbling facade of what its former self. With no work crews to
tend its broken bones, the dam was getting ready to succumb to the forces
of the river.
But not
yet.
Crossing
over was a test of dexterity. Gord realized that the two remaining logs
barely supported the weight of a man. Step lightly, step quickly.
Don't look off to either side. Keep feet straight. Watch for
slippery spots. Gord made his way to the other side of the river.
Once there he turned and looked back at the pile of logs that had just accepted
his stride. He was glad this was his last trip to get the traps, glad
he wouldn't have to use it again. He thought to himself.
"Wonder how many more times anyone will be able to make that trip."
12:00 pm
Lee
got up from the kitchen table, which filled the middle of the room, and went
outside to gather some more firewood. It was almost noon and the low
December sun was a grey ball just above the tree line. A dark line of cloud
over the lake looked heavy with snow. He looked around at the rest of the
buildings, each one familiar from past days and strange now in their
emptiness. The office next door was no longer a stimulating network of
activity. The scaler's shack to the other side, the walking boss' home
directly across, the doctor's house on the hill, they all looked at him with
windowless windows. Not a pane of glass left; his slingshot had done its
work three years previous. Behind his cabin he could hear the rushing and
singing of the Imogene, the creek where they were guaranteed trout in the
spring and skating in the late fall. The creek sounded louder
today. There must be a lot of water in it. Rains from two days ago
had found their way to the lake. A strong nor-easter blew high overhead
pushing the Lake Superior waters off shore. Leafless trees scraped
branches against each other, their creaking and tapping a secret code to the
wind. Winter was coming.
Lee
shivered as he approached the woodpile. He loaded up his bent left arm
till the pieces reached his chin. He decided to get two loads while he
was at it. Keep a good supply on hand for the evening. If one of
them didn't get up during the evening to feed the stove, it always went
out before morning. Building up a good daytime bed of coals made the heat
last longer. With an armload full, he pushed the door open with his right
foot. The heavy thud, as he set down the firewood, broke the silence in the
cabin. His left foot slammed the door shut. He was lonesome and
hungry.
Lee
remembered his mom’s cooking. Lemon pie, rice pudding and blueberry pancakes
teased his memory. For the nth time he read the curling ACME name on the
oven door. He recalled the smells of strong tea, moose ribs braising in the
oven and slabs of bacon sizzling in the cast iron fry pan. To quell the spell,
Lee opened the top warming oven for a piece of this morning's left over
bannock. He took a bite, and then looked at the babiche he and Gord had
prepared. The thin strips of moose hide lay curling on the wooden floor of the
cabin. Lee picked up a strip and began to weave.
2:00 pm
Gord was
getting hungry. He knew it was past noon; the sun was slanting through
the trees. He felt his energy lagging, but he wasn't going to stop
until he got to the Julia. After crossing the dam, he followed the
river south to the Canyon, where Schist Falls tumbled the water to the
lake. Here the trail left the Puckasaw River, veering east into thick bush and blow
downs. Anxious for his break at the Julia River, Gord hurried his pace between
the stops to pick up traps. He handled each one with care. A cut from the
rusted metal jaws could mean a nasty infection. Gord was used to this taking of
animal life. From pan sized specs to monolithic moose, he had seen and
partaken in the killing since he had come here from Liverpool. But he
still twinged at the sight of a fox paw crushed in the jaws of a trap.
Sometimes, the animal had tried to work itself free. Other times, it
would escape, either by losing a body part or dragging away the trap. The
Luger made for quick dispatch of such a struggling captive, an end to the pain
and the suffering. That was a chore Gord did not enjoy.
Yes, a
rest at the Julia would give him a lift. The Julia River was a much
smaller, gentler river than the Puckasaw. It tumbled from the headland
and met the lake at a long wide stony beach. Half a mile up from the river
mouth there would be a cabin, a reminder of busier years, when the logging
operation was in full tilt.
Gord
hiked hard until he came to the open lake and the Julia River beach. The
promise of a smoke and a bite of food urged him on. He strode across the
small pebbles of the beach up to the narrow river mouth. Fresh Superior air
filled his lungs. The morning's nor-easter had changed direction and a south
west blow was charging white capped waves onto the shore. Clouds on the
horizon seemed to be carrying a load of snow. He pulled the moose meat from out
of his pack and ate it all with a few quick bites. With a more contented
stomach, he allowed himself to be mesmerized for a few moments by the cresting
water. He dipped his cup into the lake and had a few cold, bracing
swallows. A residue of sugar from his morning tea even sweetened the taste.
Then he turned his back to the wind, lit a freshly rolled smoke and prepared
for the journey inland and up river to the forks. As Gord picked up his
pack, he thought of the chess problem back home. It was endgame now. Down
a bishop and a couple of rooks, is it time for white to sacrifice the queen?
He turned
his back on the lake and took the trail upriver to the cabin. Once there he
laid down his pack. The rough cabin logs seemed to have sunk further into the
ground. Gord pushed open the door and ducked to enter the darkness of the
shelter. Light from the one window filled a square space on the dirt floor and
gave outline to a small hand hewn table, chair and single cot against an
unpeeled log wall. The old Make- Sure-Fire–Is-Out sign, that fire ranger Jack
Fuller had posted on the front of the cabin, lay on the floor. A hole in
the tar paper and pole roof had allowed rain to collect on the boards
of the cot. And the steady leak had done other damage. Red rusted pock
marks covered the top of a small wood stove. At one time, this shack offered
warmth from a day on the trapline, but now even the moss and dirt chinking was
giving up on the place. Gord could see that the cabin’s days were numbered.
Episode Three
4:00
pm
Lee
stirred the soup. Steam laden with onions and partridge, watered his
taste glands. It soon would be time for supper and the late December sun
was nearing the horizon. He checked his pocket watch – almost 4:00. Gord
should be home soon.
Home.
Funny word for the place when mom and Jack weren't even here. Now
that everyone had left for good, the decay of time had set in over the
whole Depot. But how do you say goodbye to the only place that gives you
clear remembrance of childhood? There can be no goodbyes, only repeated
hellos for the rest of your life.
Lee
wondered where Gord might be. He knew the trapline route well. Leave the cabin,
walk the shore trail to the dam, cross the dam and follow the bush trail to the
mouth of the Julia. Follow the Julia back upriver to meet the
Puckasaw. Cross the Puckasaw by poling their raft to the other side, then
a couple more miles of trail to home. They alternated the route on the trail so
the raft would always be available to cross the river.
The
snowshoes were looking quite professional he thought. No amateur work
here, he laughed to himself. With toe board and back frame in place, he
had woven the sinew into tight webbing at the back end. That had taken
the thinner pieces of babiche. He was ready now for the wider
webbing. It was less intricate work, but more strength would be needed to
pull and stretch the damp strips over the edges of the frame.
But first
he’d brew himself a strong cup of tea – with sugar – and make some extra for
Gord too.
Gord
picked up the last trap before the Puckasaw River. The light was low and
he was looking forward to being on the final leg home. All he had to do
was hike to where the east branch of the Puckasaw met the north branch. There
he could push the raft into the river and pole across to the spot where the
river met the tote road. Then it was just four more miles to home.
Gord’s
pack was heavy now. The weight of the steel traps was pulling on the
leather straps, digging into his shoulders, aching the bump where his
collarbones overlapped. The traps clanked when he jumped over the blow downs
across the path. Not much further now. At last he could hear the
river, but it seemed to be louder than it should. A few minutes of his long
strides and he was at the top of the bank. A quick gaze at the river told
him something was wrong. There was more water than he had counted on. Two days
ago, when he heard the downpour thundering on the roof of the cabin, he worried
that the water might come up. But this was even higher than he expected,
higher than when he had seen it earlier in the day. And---the raft was nowhere
in sight! They hadn't pulled it up far enough the last time they used
it to cross the river. The raft was gone! What were his choices? Wade
across? He had done it before but in low water. After all, this was the best
spot to cross. Or should he backtrack down river all the way to the
dam? It was getting late. Go back and spend the night in the cabin at the
Julia? Not really. The thoughts spun around Gord’s head. Have a smoke and
decide? No, just get going. It will be dark soon. Lee will be
worrying. Home is just a couple of miles away. The pack isn't that
heavy. Get going and wade across.
Lee
stirred the stew then covered the steamy rich mixture. The bones meat had
fallen away from the flesh and he had burnt them in the stove. Light in the
cabin was reduced to soft shadow. He could 'see' because he already knew
where everything was. But, to finish the snowshoes, he would need the
support of a kerosene lantern. He pulled one off the shelf, cranked the
glass mantle up and lit the wick. It needed trimming but it was good
enough for tonight. Besides they'd be leaving soon anyway. Lee
lowered the mantle before the wick could flare up and blacken the glass.
He did not feel like cleaning it right now. He wanted to get this job
done.
He
settled once more at the table with the strands of babiche. As he worked the
strips into the holes along the side, a frown creased his brow. Not a
frown of working intensity, a frown of worry. He sure would be glad when
Gord got back.
Gord
pulled his shoulder straps tight to raise his pack as high as possible. He
didn't need wet canvas to add to the weight. Two careful steps down the
sand and cobble bank and he was into the river. The shock of cold was
immediate. His rubber bottomed leather boots were keeping his feet dry
for the first plunge. He could stand a little cold water and he'd hike it back
really fast. And Lee would have the fire lit anyway.
But the
next few steps weren't that easy. Gord planted one foot onto the river
bottom and water swirled around his calf. The boulders on the river bottom were
slipperier and bigger than he remembered. Another step and the water was
mid-thigh. He secured his foot and moved again. Another step and he gasped as
the icy cold surged to his waist. The fingers of current picked at the bottom
of his pack and tried to pull him under. The other side of the river was too
many steps away.
Episode Three
5:00 pm
Lee yanked on the babiche. His index finger was beginning to ache
from all the tightening of hide. His imagination was growing into a
maelstrom of anxiety. Where was Gordon? Maybe he decided to spend
the night at the Julia cabin?
Darkness was settling in for the night. Gord was late. The
tea was cold/sour. His troubled stomach balked at the thought of
food. The smell of the stew seemed stale; something was wrong; Lee could
feel it in his bones. Lee wondered if he should go looking for his brother.
Was Gord hurt? Certainly not lost, they both knew the way since they were
young boys. Should he stay in the cabin and keep the lamps lit and the
fire going or head out? Panic began to weave its way into the snowshoes.
Fear was reaching out to grip Gord. He knew he had made a mistake
trying to cross the river. This was a bad situation and he had only
himself to blame. The river had the bottom of his heavy pack and swung
him to face upriver. All he could do was lean forward into the current and inch
sideways back to shore. He knew he had to turn around or die. The many
miles back to their cabin would be welcome compared to this mid river madness.
He turned and almost slipped, his pack wanting to heave him into the
water. With tree outlines and a snowy bank to guide him he headed back to
the shore where he had stepped in. It was rocky, cold, uneven, yet the
best friend he had at this moment. When he reached the bank, he took a
deep gulp of air, unaware that he had been holding his breath. A step up
onto the land and he bent over in exasperation, relieving the heaviness of the
pack on his shoulders. Gord wanted to stop for a smoke but
he didn't dare. The cold was moving up his legs and if it
reached his arms and chest, walking would be that much more difficult. He
continued, worried that stopping might mean he wouldn't be able to
get going again.
Through the semi-darkness, with only a brightness of snow to outline an
old path and the rushing Puckasaw beside him, he headed for the dam.
6:00 pm
Lee rose from weaving the snowshoes and paced by the woodstove. He
gripped a chunk of wood, clanked open the lid of the stove and threw the log
onto the coals. Hearing a noise, he moved to the door and stepped outside
to see if Gord was coming. Lee listened to hear his familiar whistle but there
was only the swooshing of trees in the wind. They knew where Gord was,
but Lee could not decipher their code.
The moon was not yet up and the darkness was deep. Lee turned back
to the warmth of the cabin and the making of the shoes, the only sanity his
mind would allow.
Gord could hear his heartbeat in his ears. His legs were numb and
water had run down into his boots. He was keeping the numbness away by
increasing the speed of his stride. The scant light from the snow made
soft shadows. Numbness came to him, the kind that precedes fear. Keep
going, keep going, keep going. Just get to the dam.
Lee checked his pocket watch once more – 6 o'clock. How much more
time should he give Gord? It was now too late, too dark to go
searching. Should he go get Gus? Back to the snowshoes. One was
done already. The simplicity mocked his confusion.
Gord stumbled as he finished the big loop just before the
dam. The stiffness in his frozen wool pants made taking long steps almost
impossible. His ice coated boots slipped on the snowy trail. His
pack with rattling traps was a frozen lump growing on his back. Thunder
from the river filled his ears.
Twist, hold snowshoe tight, weave, cut, tie. Sore fingers, tired
eyes, dry mouth. Breathe in slow. Don't think bad thoughts.
Remember Mom, her lemon pie. Remember Mom, her voice. Hear her
singing at the piano – Hear her parting words. Remember Lee take care of
each other. Twist, weave, cut, tie.
Back here again. Back at the dam. Too damn dark. Find the logs over the
river.
There they are. Two logs to walk on, two logs over the raging
river. Here comes snow. Slippery, get balance, don't move pack.
Stay stuck to my back. Boot one, boot two, log spinning, log sinking,
boot one, boot two. Logs stay steady. Remember their width, their
feel. Don't look down. Don't look down. Voices? Voices?
Mom? No. Jack? No. Who, wind and trees? No, no. Laughter, children?
A boy, John? A man,.. John. Leading the way. Long powerful
familiar strides, a child on his shoulders, making it look easy. Over
there, on the far bank, four women, young, old calling Dad! Dad? Who?
Me...Dad?! Beside them another woman, young, smiling, waiting. Oh
trees and wind playing tricks.
Almost there – move stiff body, move, move.
When Gord got to the other side of the dam, he was almost too exhausted
to continue. Adrenaline had surged and waned, leaving his body desperate
for rest. The last two miles along the tote road were delirious. He
tried to think of his chess problem but all he saw were suspended chess pieces
dancing across an invisible board. Nothing made sense. Nothing except the clank
of cold steel on his back. Nothing mattered except seeing the light from his
mother’s house.
Lee was pacing, a completed pair of snowshoes lying on the table,
when Gord unlatched the door. For a second, neither of the two brothers
could speak. Their eyes, locked in a paralyzed gaze, said it all.
They knew that something beyond their reach had brushed their cheek. For a
moment, Puckasaw had held them in its grip, and then with a shrug, had let them
go. Lee helped Gord out of his frozen clothing. Once his shivering
brother had warmed up, Lee thickened their partridge stew while Gord told his
story.
A few days later, close to the winter solstice, on the day the lake let
them, the two left the depot, hoping to make Michipicoten Harbour for
Christmas. They rowed and paddled east in sub zero weather, their
snowshoes and their fortune in furs lying on the bottom of their 18 foot
canoe.
For photos and information about the Depot , read Fletcher's
"The Puckasaw Diaries."
