Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

De Havilland Otter Leaving Elsie Lake, Ontario

The trip started off inauspiciously. I was charged by my eighty-five year old father to arrive at the Country Inn Suites in Hermantown, pick up former Vice President Walter “Fritz” Mondale and his traveling companion, George Millard, by 6:00am. Wednesday morning of last week I tumbled out of bed, into the shower, brushed my hair and teeth (not with the same brush), loaded the Pacifica with my fishing gear, and headed south on Lavaque Road. I arrived at the Country Inn Suites on time, fully expecting Fritz and George to be waiting in the lobby with their gear. But the lobby was empty so I approached a young man manning the front desk. There was an aura of the Himalayas about the lad and an inflection of the Ganges in his speech.

“Could you ring Mr. Mondale’s room?”

The desk clerk checked his computer.

“No one here by that name.”

“Mr. Walter Mondale,” I insisted, putting emphasis on the surname of one of the most famous politicians in Minnesota history.

“Don’t see it.”

“How about George Millard?”

A quick scan.

“Nope.”

I knew instantly that Harry, my father, had “Mungerized, i.e., given me only part of the story on the expectation I’d figure out what was going on. It’s a common trait of Munger males to impart a portion of the story on the belief that the Munger male receiving the information will fill in the missing pieces.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? They’re at the Country Inn Suites down on Canal Park. Come pick me up first,” Dad said after I reached him on my cell phone and explained the former vice president and his aide de camp were missing.

When I arrived at the familial homestead, Harry was standing outside, a pile of gear the size of Mt. Denali stacked in front of him.

“How do you expect to put all that in the Pacifica and still have room for George’s and Fritz’s stuff?”

Dad smiled.

“Relax. This is for all three of us.”

I managed to stuff everything into the cargo area of the Pacifica, including Dad’s rod holder, a seven foot long steel tube the size of a small culvert. We picked up the two wayward octogenarians on time, shared handshakes, shoved their ditty bags into the car, and headed north, up Highway 61, towards the border.We met my dad’s pal, Bruce Meyers, Sammy Perella (of Sammy’s Pizza fame) and Sam’s son Tony for breakfast in Grand Marais.

Our destination was Ignace, Ontario, where we would board one of Ignace Airway’s ancient but well-maintained De Havilland float planes (made in Canada, of course) for a twenty-minute flight into Elsie Lake. We were to be guests of Ross and Jay Litman, two of the late Jack and Helen Litman’s kids, at a fishing camp that has been in the Litman family since the late 1960s. The old guys in my car have been at the Litman place dozens of times over the years. This is only my third trip. Given the ages of my passengers, when Ross Litman (who also happens to be our local sheriff) asked me to tag along, I had little choice. While there may be some ninety-year-old walleye fishermen out there, tossing jigs on rock piles into the evening dusk, they’re about as rare as a Minnesota Twins sweep. So I cancelled all my other summer plans to make the trip.

A little history. My first visit to Elsie Lake was as a newlywed. My wife Rene’ and I were invited by the Litmans (both Jack and Helen were alive and in robust health back in 1978) to spend our honeymoon with the Litman, Mondale, and Munger families. I was in law school and we didn’t have much money so my new bride and I readily agreed. Sleeping on separate lawn chairs in a canvas tent under starry Ontario skies while surrounded by Secret Service agents, Mounties, and OPP (Ontario Provincial Police) because we were vacationing with the Vice President of the United States is a tale that we’ve recounted hundreds of times over the years. My other trip to the Litman place was five or so years ago. That fishing trip, similar to the one I was on, is not quite as memorable as my honeymoon but my recollections of that trip are filled with laughter, good fishing, politics, and great stories none-the-less.

It’s always unnerving, even if you are law abiding and have nothing to hide, to cross an international border. For me, its more harrowing coming back to the States than leaving. I think this is because, over the years, I’ve noticed that Canadian border agents tend to be more friendly, more willing to show their human side, than their American counterparts.This trip supplied further support for that perception.

“Weren’t you Vice President of the States?” a young, burly border officer asked as he studied Fritz’s passport.

“I was.”

“Under Jimmy Carter, right?”

“That’s right.”

“I loved that man. You did good work. You folks have a great trip.”

We drove away from the crossing, discussing how unlikely it would be for an American border guard to know who the premier of Canada was.

Litman Camp, Elsie Lake, Ontario

During the drive from the border to Ignace and the flight from Ignace to the lake, we counted eight moose of all sizes and genders browsing the boreal landscape. Seeing that many moose on a single trip was a first for me and gave me hope that, despite the dire condition of Minnesota’s moose population, these strangely configured relatives of deer will remain an iconic fixture north of the border. From the plane, Sammy and I spotted a big animal, likely a bull, browsing a clear cut just a few miles from our destination. We were still talking about the moose when we exited the plane to shake hands with Jay and Ross Litman on the dock of the Litman fishing camp.

Ross and his dogs see the Otter off.

Our group immediately lost Jay.With news that his first grandchild was about to be born back in Duluth, Jay left on the Otter that flew us in. He stayed with us long enough to help unload our gear, go over the menu with Sammy (Jay is an excellent cook and usually commands the Elsie Lake kitchen), take a quick dip in the lake, and head back for the emergent birth of a new generation of Litmans. (As of the writing of this blog, the baby hasn’t yet made his or her appearance: Jay’s hurried trip back to Duluth was based upon a false alarm.) After staking our claims to bunks in the bunkhouse, Ross assigned us to boats and, with full expectations of slaughtering the walleyes, we headed out. I was second mate on the pontoon boat with the sheriff, assisting with untangling snarls and snags involving the old guys and trying not to step on the dogs, all three of which insisted on being on the boat with us. The walleyes were biting but it took this author, a modest fisherman at best, some time to get in the groove. I watched everyone on the boat: The sheriff, George, Frtiz, and my old man land fish before I finally felt the tight, steady pull of  a cold water walleye on my line. Despite my mediocre success, the night was grand, with calm waters, a light breeze, few bugs, and the slowly setting sun reminding us that it was time to head in.

The next day, I fished with Sammy and Tony and we hit the “honey” hole with the others. All of us did well. At times, all three boats had fish on, sometimes doubles within a boat.

Sammy Perella and an Elsie walleye.

Whenever we weren’t on the water, catching walleyes, whitefish, lake trout, small mouth bass, and the very occasional northern pike, Ross was a whirling dervish. He was constantly organizing, lifting, toting, repairing; all at light speed. My wife and kids complain that I move too fast, that I don’t relax, that I’m constantly on the go. I don’t hold a candle to the sheriff in the mobility department. He’s a man, as best as I can describe it, in perpetual motion from dawn to dusk.

The author reading Maugham during a break from fishing.

It wasn’t all time spent on the water enticing fish with jigs and spinners tipped with worms and leeches. (My dad insisted on using strips of sucker belly on his lures. Our universal derision at his choice turned to envy when he started pulling in fish. Minnows, on the other hand, didn’t seem to tempt the very selective walleye of Elsie Lake.) When we weren’t fishing, Ross had us mowing, raking, organizing, cleaning, cooking, doing dishes, and toting. There’s a lot to do when a camp isn’t accessible by road and everything from gasoline for the outboards to toilet paper has to be planned for, accounted for, and flown in. But the good sheriff gave us time to read (I finished three books including two from Helen’s personal library that I will be reviewing on this site), sauna, discuss politics (imagine being seventeen year old Tony in the presence of four octogenarians, one of whom lived in Peru, another who was a US Senator, Ambassador to Japan, and Vice President, and two others who were trial attorneys with nearly a century of practice between them), play cribbage, and simply leave the world’s troubles behind.

I ended up functioning as a guide for my old man (didn’t really do the title justice) and Bruce (we found walleyes during intermittent rain in prodigious numbers despite my lack of guiding prowess), George’s perpetual dish washing partner, and mop and broom boy for the trip’s final cleanup. Late night runs down the dock and into the cold waters of a legacy carved into the Canadian shield, my skin prickly from the 195 degree heat of the camp’s wood-fired sauna, smooth, clear water closing over me as I descended to the pebbly bottom of the lake, capped off a wonderful time with four old men, a great backup cook. a wide-eyed teen, and one hell of a host.

Ross Litman, Sammy Perella, Tony Perella, and George Millard. The sheriff cleans our catch.

Maybe, if I promise to pick up the pace, Sheriff Litman will invite me back again.

Peace.

Mark

Yellow swallowtails at Elsie Lake.

Fritz Mondale, Bruce Meyers, George Millard, and Harry Munger.

PS On our way back through U.S. Customs, I teased the former Vice President that the American manning the booth wouldn’t recognize him. Turned out to be the case. The agent didn’t evince a hint of recognition, much less engage Mr. Mondale as his Canadian counterpart had. Fame, it seems, is a transient thing.

Whiteface Lake, May 11, 2013

I told you I’d tell you a story about fishing in a snow squall. Well, here it is.

For 46 years, the Mungers, the Scotts, and the Nelsons have assembled at the Scott family cabin off Cabin Circle on the shores of Whiteface Lake, a Minnesota Power reservoir lake located between Duluth and the Mesabi Iron Range. The tradition began with six families: the Scotts, the Mungers, the Lundeens, the Listons, the Nelsons, and the Tessiers. Over time, and due to the aging of the six patriarchs of the event, only the Mungers, Scotts, and the Nelsons have continued the tradition. This year, the sole founder of this tradition was my dad, Harry, who, at 86 years old, was intent upon continuing his streak of having missed very few Openers at the Scotts. The other five dads are all gone, having battled old age and a variety of maladies until they could fight no more. But Harry is still with us, ready, willing and able to barbeque chicken Friday night. His buddies, Bob Scott, Leonard “Red” Lundeen, Jim Liston, Ed “Bun” Nelson, and Larry “Lunga” Tessier have all passed on to that great fishing hole in the sky. But they were with us in the stories, both real and imagined, about past Openers. And this year, a fourth generation became part of our ritual: Johnny Scott (named for his grandpa John, Bob and Pat Scott’s eldest son) ventured into the world of cussing, cheap beer, saunas, card games, and yelling at the Twins on the television for the first time. And young Johnny, being that he is, after all, a Scott, fit right in.

Ice covered Whiteface, May 11, 2013

Now, I’ll be honest. I wasn’t looking forward to John Scott’s annual telephone call. I knew, because my sons Matt and Chris had bumped into John and Joe Scott (John’s son and Johnny’s dad) a few months back, that the invitation to the Opener, despite the loss of most of our mentors, was still “on”. And, in the ordinary course, since I am fan of tradition and personal history, I love keeping memories alive. But this year, I was swamped. I was teaching two night classes at UWS, trying to be a dad to Jack (my fifteen year old still at home), do my job for the folks of Minnesota as a district court judge, and every once in awhile, behave like the husband my wife wants me to be. Despite all the great times we’ve had over decades spent at the Scott place, I was just not in an “Opener” state-of-mind as the second weekend in May approached. Adding to my funk was the weather: It was May and it was still snowing, lakes of NE Minnesota were still ice covered, and the Minno-ette, our local convenience store and bait shop, had declared a “shiner” emergency: The very minnows we’d need for a successful Opener were nowhere to be found. We’d be reduced to fishing with chubs, crappie minnows, or worse, dew worms. Taking it all into account, I was leery of John’s call. I needn’t have worried: John never did call me. His youngest brother, Patrick, known affectionately to all as “Poncho” did.

Joe Scott, Chris Munger, Marc Mullen: Portaging, Poncho-style

“Mark,” Poncho said when he called,”we’re on. You need to call John and tell him how many Mungers are coming up for The Opener.”

By this point, the Monday before Opener, I’d done my homework. I’d chatted with a janitor at the courthouse who has a cabin on Whiteface. My worst fears were confirmed. Even if we could pull it all together: the food, the minnows, the boats, the logistics, Whiteface was iced over and there was no way, with dismal cold and continued snow in the forecast, the lake would be boatable by the weekend.

“How are we going to fish?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

“What’s your plan, Poncho?”

“I’ll tell you when you get to the lake. Call John.”

Truth be told, my concerns were more selfish, more about having to scramble to get my boat and motor ready (when Poncho called, it was still buried in a fold of crusted snow) than about whether we’d catch fish. I mean, in all the years we’ve plied the waters of the Whiteface, there have been only a handful of years where we collectively caught walleye in sufficient numbers to deem the weekend a fishing success. But as you can tell from this essay, fishing has little to do with our annual gathering. The Opener is about friendship, family, and memories. Whether we catch walleyes has very little to do with our motivation to gather at the Scott place. But in all our years of attempting to behave like fishermen, we’d never encountered, to my recollection, an ice covered lake on The Opener. I was interested to hear Poncho’s plan but, before I could press him, he was off the line and I was calling John.

From the photo above, you can see what Poncho’s plan was. Actually, to be fair, the plan was a joint effort between Poncho and his older brother, Tim. Tim is about to retire as the Activities Director of Hibbing High School after a long career of teaching and coaching so I’m guessing he has plenty of time, now that he’s contemplating his golden years, to figure out puzzles: Like how do you fish on a lake covered with ice?

Tim Scott, May 11, 2013

Saturday morning. The Opener. That’s Tim, in the photo below, standing on an island, trying to stay warm as it snows. Four of us: Marc Mullen, Tim, Pete Nelson, and I were dropped off on the island. We had two boats in play: John’s 14′ Lund with a 9hp outboard was under Poncho’s dubious command (many stories, not enough space) and TJ Nelson’s big old tub with a 15hp Merc were in service. Problem was, TJ put the motor on his boat, loaded the gas can, but forgot the gas line. So there we were, a crew of a dozen or so, with one operating motor, two boats, and eight life jackets. Poncho’s plan had to be modified. He towed TJ’s inoperable boat to the island before heading up river, to the rapids, our ultimate fishing destination, to drop off three other fishermen. Big white flakes fell around us as Marc, Tim, Pete, and I clambered out of TJ’s boat and tossed chubs to invisible walleyes. Poncho motored away, with the understanding he’d head back to the landing to pick up my son Chris and, eventually when TJ got back from his adventure, haul TJ’s boat back to pick up TJ and the gas line. There were no guarantees TJ’s motor would work. But it was the best we could do. Complicated? You bet. And all that energy was being put into a very dubious proposition: That we’d actually catch fish on The Opener.

Joe and Johnny Scott and the big one.

But guess what? We did catch fish. Nice fish. With Poncho and Marc anchored in the middle of the river in John’s Lund and the rest of us fishing from shore (except Dad who decided the weather sucked and stayed back to watch golf on TV), we caught and landed well over twenty of the nicest walleyes I’ve ever seen come out of the tannin stained waters of the Whiteface. For a while, I was personally stymied. I couldn’t feel the meager bites of the black backed fish nibbling at the minnows on the bare hook I’d tossed out into the river’s swirling current. But then Chris rigged me up with a slip bobber and my luck changed for the better.

Chris and a nice Whiteface walleye

For the rest of the day, I was part of the party. And for the first time, I caught nice fish on The Opener. Included in that experience was one beauty, the likes of which I’d never seen landed by anyone in our crew over four decades of disappointment.

Mark’s big fish

Unlike some of the bigger walleyes I’ve caught in the past, this fish fought like a frenzied pike. When Chris finally dipped the net under it, we were all amazed: None of us knew that such fish existed in the Whiteface. John Scott took a quick measurement of my fish and then, with as much gentleness as I could muster, I stroked water over the walleye’s gills until it revived and vanished into the depths.

Chris Munger and the crew: Lunch time on the river

Loading the boats

Cleaning the fish

 

 

 

As we drank cold beer and ate bacon wrapped steaks on Saturday night (John, our quartermaster, outdid himself this year!), my fish continued to grow in size. I guessed the walleye I released was 24″, a nice five-six pound male. John insisted it was a 28″ legacy. It’s the first time I’ve ever had someone else embellish my fish story for me! But regardless of the fish’s actual dimensions, I can tell you this: as I fought the walleye, feeling its steady tug, bringing it up with each turn of the reel from the rocky bottom of the river, all my dread, all my angst about not being able to get my boat ready, about feeling rushed into The Opener evaporated. Catching that fish was indeed the therapy, the healing my soul sorely needed.

Sunday morning. The great debate raged. Should we go back to the river, which, given logistics, would be an hour and half excursion before we were able to fish, what with the need to ferry an additional three people (my sons Matt and Jack arrived Saturday in time for steaks and were anxious to catch fish and Dad, after hearing our tall tales, was motivated to rig up his 9′ Sage and have a go at it). In the end, we returned to the river only to find another boat sitting in the pool where we’d been catching fish. Understand: There’s no right of ownership to a good fishing spot. It’s first come, first serve. We were late and we paid the price. In the end, Poncho landed a red horse sucker and one walleye, the only fish we caught on Sunday. But I learned, once again, that the Opener is much more than catching fish. All you have to do is take one look at my 86 year old dad, sitting in his lawn chair, waiting for the tug at the end of his fly rod and know that, whatever the weather, come hell or high water (or, as happened this year, ice and snow) so long as the Scotts ask, I’ll be at Whiteface for The Opener.

Harry the fisherman

John Scott, Marc Mullen, and Poncho

Peace.

Mark

May 5, 2013

That’s me on the first day of Spring, 2013. The big smile was because after six months of winter, the snow had finally decided to recede and the sun had finally decided to shine.

Now we Minnesotans are a hearty lot. Mostly, I think, due to an infusion of Finnish sisu, Norwegian heltemot, and Swedish fasthet from the Scandinavians who collected here two or three generations ago. Not without coincidence, each of those ethnic groups also came from places of gray, cold, perpetual gloom, and frozen water. So they were right at home here, in northeastern Minnesota. But I digress. As I said, we are, even those of us from Slovenian, German, English, Irish, French, Dutch, Scotch, and Welsh ancestry, a non-complaining bunch. But this winter, I think, tested most Minnesotans beyond their native fortitude. Cabin fever? Ha! I don’t know about you, but I came down with a full blown, seasonal affective disorder-based depression.

Rene’, Chris, and Matt Munger 05/04/2013

Griggs Field at Malosky Stadium 5/4/2013

How bad did did it get? Well, Jack, my youngest boy had his first outdoor soccer matches of the season on May 4th, the day before the above picture was snapped. Check out the two pictures from those games. Yes, that’s Griggs Field and Malosky Stadium at UMD. Looks like perfect weather for international football, right? Lord. Think of the poor young boys and girls sliding around in little shorts on snow-covered, still-frozen artificial turf a full month after the official onset of Spring. What gives? Is this a sign, a symptom of global warming? I have no idea. But I do know this: the past winter was a rare bird, harkening back to the days of my youth. True, the big snows I remember filling the streets of Duluth, blanketing Park Point, and clogging downtown with drifts the size of elephants usually came earlier in the season. One memorable March storm hit when I was a student at UMD. My buddy Larry was stuck at his parents’ house in West Duluth and I was stuck with Mom and Dad in Piedmont Heights. Borrowing some of that sisu from my pals Tynjala, Rikala, Sikio, and Peltoma, I bundled up, pulled on my downhill ski boots, threw my Rossignols over my shoulder, and trudged through thigh deep snow to the top of Piedmont Avenue. Cars were buried to their windshields. The neighborhood was as still as a tomb. I stepped into my bindings, slid the straps of my ski poles over my wrists, and proceeded to ski down 24th Avenue West to Grand, doing graceful turns around stalled Fords and Chevys until I hit the flats. Fueled only with the promise of beer, I slid one ski ahead of the other all the way out to 47th Avenue West and spent the next two days in Larry’s basement, drinking Buckhorn and listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.

But an entire season of snow in the month of April? Unheard of, even for those of us who have lived all of our lives in this neck of the woods. Fortitude can only last so long, my friends. And with the advent of the snow that fell on May 4th, I was pretty much at the end of my endurance for wintery things. I’d sunk to the lowest of the lows, the bluest of the blues on the heels of the wet flakes that disrupted the Gitchi Gammi Soccer Jamboree. And then, redemption. The sun came out, the snow began to melt, and with the snap of God’s finger, spring arrived.

The last of it.

The photo above does indeed show the last trace of snow along the southern treeline bordering our pasture in Fredenberg Township. The last vestige of the storms that kept me from work, bogged our plow guy down in our driveway, and broke the back of my father’s wooden deck at the old family homestead in Piedmont is now but a hint of April’s plot line. It’s time for the Spring rains to fully and finally scour away recently unveiled dog crap, green things up, and make us forget the April of the forever snows.

Peace.

Mark

PS Stayed tuned for the next blog when I take you fishing in a blizzard!

Sunset on the Cloquet River, May 5, 2013.

The Trail

I’ve only had the one day this winter. What with shoulder surgery keeping me off my skis until just before President’s Day and the winter rains that fell in January, I didn’t get out on our family trail until we came back from Montana. By then it was March. March, mind you, when I finally put on my cross country boots, waxed up my skis, and headed out the door. I could tell from the energy of our three dogs: Daisy, a stocky black lab/sled dog mix rescued by our eldest son Matt from a group home; Kramer, a chocolate lab of thin withers and bad hips, rescued by our third son, Chris from  certain euthanasia at a vet’s office in River Falls; and Jimi, my wife’s obnoxiously colored and tempered dachshund; that the four of us were overdue for a ski. It was sunny spring day a few weeks back when we set out on a quick hour jaunt on the trails that loop through our 135 acres of God’s country, Daisy in the lead, Jimi here and there and everywhere in search of rabbits, and Kramer content to saunter behind me over fresh snow.

That’s Kramer, looking into the lens of my iPhone. You can tell from the narrowness of his hind end that he’s got some issues in the joint department. He’s also pretty shy, except when our pair of resident brush wolves deign to confront him out in the open country surrounding our house. Then Kramer is all bark and growl and bluster. Like I said, he never breaks trail, he always follows behind me when I ski. I don’t mind. At least he doesn’t walk on my skis like Copper, our long departed yellow Labrador, used to. I’d be skiing along just fine and wham, I’d stop dead in my tracks because an eighty pound juvenile delinquent retriever thought it was smart to step on the backs of my skis. Maybe Copper was the smart one, eh? After all, standing on my skis kept him out of the deep stuff…

The day of our first (and so far, only) ski of the winter, my dogs and I pushed off from the garage, coasted down the snowy driveway, clambered over the snowbank created by our plow guy Barney (every Minnesotan needs a Barney to plow their road), and began to find a pace, a rhythm in the quiet woods. The first trail we took brought us through some nice Norways onto an old pasture that was once owned by Minnesota Power. Our former neighbor, Dave Holte, used to hay the field way back when we first moved out to Fredenberg and it was MP property. Then Rene’ and I bought the old pasture and stopped haying it. During a downpour in July of 1999, while our new house was in the process of being built, I wandered out from the apartment we were renting in Hermantown to plant sixty white pine seedlings in the old field. The trees, handed out at the funeral of my uncle, legendary Minnesota State Representative Willard Munger, are now taller than my head, having survived a decade of attempts by deer to grind the seedlings to nubs. As I skied across the snowy field, I marveled that one day, when I am gone, when my sons are old, the trees I planted in my uncle’s memory will be dropping cones of their own, reforesting the land in pine. There are a few 100-year-old whites on the property, survivors of the 1918 fire, along with clusters of Norways of equal age. But much of the land I skied through with the dogs is second growth timber: mature aspen, birch, and maple. Don’t get me wrong. I love a good birch or maple. Aspen? Not so much. But what I wouldn’t give to be able to turn back the calendar and witness this land before the white man tore it apart, when woodland caribou, cougar, black bear, wolves, and moose ruled the forests and marshes, and white tailed deer stayed south of Hinckley.

Jimi let out his bunny yelp. A snowshoe hare, all white fuzz and coated in white snow from hiding, bolted across the trail. Daisy, always interested in tearing into a rabbit, followed the dachshund into alder. The dogs emerged empty mouthed from the thicket.

I poled hard, and regained my pace. Three to four inches of fresh, untracked snow dusted the trail. I was lucky to be the first to ski our trails. Normally, our neighbors, the Kaas’s, beat me to the punch. Jim is retired and Barb works odd nursing shifts so they’re usually the first ones into the woods after a snowstorm. But there’s a positive to the Kaas’s energy: with Jim’s chain saw, 4-wheeler, and snowmobile, he keeps the trails free of deadfall for all of us to use, so I don’t complain when they track the trails ahead of me.

The Trail and the Cloquet River

Daisy and Jimi were out ahead of me as I broke from the maple studded floodplain onto the banks of the Cloquet River. I scanned the dark water for our resident flock of Goldeneyes, ducks that fly in from Manitoba every November and stay through early April. There were no ducks to be seen. Just a big ol’ goofy black dog and her partner in rabbit mayhem standing on the trail, waiting for an old man. I pushed harder, trying to work up a sweat. The dogs turned and trotted ahead. Kramer looked interested in joining the other dogs but stayed behind me, acting as the rearguard as our little contingent meandered towards the house. I avoided the easy route, the old logging road that deadends at a couple of little used cabins on the river. I skied a spur I cut years ago, when I was younger, my back was stronger, and my chain saw was sharper. The dogs and I passed through a cathedral of new white pines, all taller than the ones I’d planted in the field, all natural offspring of the ten or so big whites that still stand above the land. I stopped to give thanks to the oldest and biggest of the trees and I noted that it seemed to be shedding branches at an alarming rate. It would be a shame to lose such a giant, such a link to the old days of lumbering and robber barons. But if it dies, I’ll have someone come out, take it down, and saw it up into white pine boards. There’s a house of lumber tied up in that old tree, lumber that will simply turn to dust if I don’t take advantage of the tree’s grace in dieing on my land. Plus taking the tree will open up more space for little whites to sprout, open up the canopy for light and rain to nurture the fallen emperor’s children. Some might argue against cutting down the magnificent old tree even if it dies. They would assert that the dead tree could be a platform for an eagle’s nest, a haven for squirrels, a legacy to time. They might be right. But they don’t own the land: I do. I’ll decide what happens to the tree if and when it’s time comes.

The dogs skittled ahead, sniffing home. I increased my stride, trying to keep up. Kramer loped behind, wheezing and coughing as if he was about to croak. But we made it back, my three dogs and I, from our first, and perhaps, only ski of the year. The shoulder held up fine. The legs didn’t seem any worse for the time off. And my heart, which pounded in my chest as we climbed the hill to the house, seemed perfectly content.

Home, looking east.

Peace.

Mark