Latest From Bob White

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Here's this week's edition of the The Thursday Morning Art Review. Part 1 of the latest story.

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THURSDAY MORNING ART REVIEW

Fire-Scarred (part one)

Hope is a waking dream - Aristotle

Ten-year-old Jake preferred to sleep on the back porch, which overlooked the South Branch. From his place there he could hear, but not see the river as it wound it's way around the tight bend below the cabin, through the W.A. Hole, and past the Oxbow Club, where it eventually joined the Main Branch just above Connor's Flats.

He liked to lay in the dark, listen to the water, and remember the fish he'd caught. Each one was a triumph and it's memory a treasure. He was afraid to forget even one of them because it might be lost forever, and hoarded these memories by reliving each catch; where he had stood, and cast a certain fly. He recalled where the fish had come from, and run to, and in the end, how the trout always seemed like a jewel in his hands.

The very first had been a small brook trout, in perfect proportion to the boy, and he knew that he'd never forget how it felt when he let it slip back into the water, or the wonderfully clean and wild scent it left on his hands.

Today's image is a little jewel of an oil painting. "Small Fry - Brookie" show's Jakes first fish just seconds before it's release.

The first time Jake and his father visited his Uncle Dan at the cabin, they had stayed two weeks, and upon returning home, there was a letter waiting for him from his uncle that asked that he spend the next summer. His father laughed, and pointed out the postmark to the boy; it was dated just a few days after they had arrived at the cabin.

By the next August, Jake had fished every day for almost two months, and struggled to recall all of his fish before he drifted away in the twilight. He had counted them all at first, including the chubs, but now felt that only trout should be kept there, in the cigar box of his memory. His decision to disregard chubs allowed him to remember the last of his trout, and he smiled with satisfaction in the moment before sleep. As he drifted off, the sound of the river tumbling over its course sounded like the voices of a distant and secret dialog. He felt sleep coming, curled up under his blankets, and went to it.

Even in August, it could be cold in the morning on the screened porch, and the boy lingered in the warmth of his place until he heard his uncle stir. It was Jake's job to build up the morning fire before the last of the embers died. Finally, at the last moment, he threw the blankets off and tossed a few pine knots on the barely glowing coals before going to the shed for an armload of firewood.

His uncle Dan said that the old stone fireplace was the best weather gauge they had; the flue was ill designed and the slightest bit of low pressure would send smoke back down the chimney. Dan claimed that he could predict the weather by how smoky the cabin was in the morning.

By the time Jake had reached the shed, his bare feet were wet with dew and dusted with the fine Michigan sand. He stood there with an armload of ash, looked out over the South Branch, smelled his uncle's coffee, and smiled at the thin veil of blue smoke rising up from the chimney. It would be a good day.

As Jake built up the fire, Dan stood on the back porch, looking out over the river with a tin cup of coffee cupped between his hands. "You need to see some different country," he said. "Lets do a little tramping."

"I like it here, uncle Dan." Jake said, unsure of what he meant. "What's tramping?"

"We'll go up north," he said, turning around. "Up into country you haven't seen. We'll travel light and we'll catch our dinners."

"Wow."

"We'll take a tent, bed rolls, some cooking gear, and our fishing rods... we should both carry a bit of spare clothes, a knife, ax, match safe, and a favorite book."

"How about, Old Dutch?" The boy said, nodding at the setter that had curled up quite silently in front of the fireplace.

"It's best that we leave him at Five Corners with young Chloe," Dan said. "Don't worry about him... If I know Chloe, he'll be ten pounds over weight and not want to come home with us when we get back."

They spent the day organizing what was needed, sharpened their knives and axes, and adjusted the pack harnesses around the bundles. When they finished, two tightly bound packs, identical except for their size, lay on the floor in the middle of the room. "Sleep in tomorrow," Dan said as he dried the dishes from dinner. "We'll not need a fire in the morning, and we're in no hurry. We'll hop on the late freight to Mackinaw City and sleep in one of the cars."

Dusk seemed to linger longer that evening, and Jake was too excited to drift off quickly; he thought about the new rivers he'd see and the fish he'd catch.

"You'll want to wear these," Dan said the next morning, tossing two pieces of stiff canvas and lacing to the boy. "They're called 'puttees'. I've cut these down to fit you. They'll take some getting used to... but there's nothing better for going across country.

The train to Mackinaw City was in the freight yard, just a few blocks from where Dan's friend, Swede, lived, and they stopped there to leave the wagon and Fred, their old mule, in his care. "So yoor going up to Seney, den, to do some fish'n," he said. "I ain't seen you in yoor puttees since you got back from France, Sarge. And, you shaved a pair down for young Jake."

"They're the best things for going cross country," Jake said. "We'll be back in a couple of weeks." Dan told him. "If we're not, look for us between Seney and the Two-Hearted."

"Ya shoor, Sarge. My uncles used to work the camps up dat vay. Dey said dat Seney vas a real hell."

"Did they fish the Fox?" Jake asked. "We're going to fish the Fox."

"No, but dey floated plenty of saw-logs down it, you betcha!"

Dan and the boy found an empty pulp car and tossed their bags on, just as the engine blew it's whistle and the cars lurched once and stopped. "Up you go," Dan said, lifting Jake from the waist and depositing him next to the packs before swinging up himself. Let's camp over here, out of the wind."

The moon was up as they headed north, into the night, following the Middle Branch and finally crossing it after they passed through Frederic. "Let's see what the Swede left us in that basket," Dan suggested. "I have a feeling it might be something good."

They sat with their backs to the bulkhead, and before rolling out their blankets, ate half the pie. Jake fell asleep next to his uncle, watching coal cinders trail overhead like shooting stars.

The train stopped in Mackinaw City at dawn and Dan and the boy finished the pie as they watched the cars loaded onto a ferry for the hour-long trip across the straits to St. Ignace. A new engine was attached there, and they headed further north. The train stopped often as it steamed through the swamps and cutover country, sometimes at small towns and other times at lonely sidings. Jake read the names aloud as they passed each sign: Allenville, Moran, Ozark, Trout Lake, and Hendrik. At Soo Junction the track split and they turned west, passing through Newberry, Dollarville and McMillian before they finally stopped in Seney.

Thanks for visiting,

Bob White