My Friend I Never Met - Part 1/2

After three years of intermittent contact via the jam jar secreted in his woodpile, I was finally going to meet my friend.

Anticipation gave impetus to my paddle strokes.

The water mirrored the shore so perfectly it was difficult to distinguish the transition line.

I enjoyed canoeing near the bank where branches encouraged me with their nearness, sometimes scratching the thwarts.

To pass the time, I played little games such as avoiding a pond flower with the blade, or sliding under a huge leaning tree, or guessing whether the loon ahead would submerge or disdainfully swim out of the way.

I watched masses of erratic whirligigs dissipate at the bow and then reappear astern, while water striders nimbly scampered aside.

It was impossible to determine exactly where one beaver family's territory ended and the next began, but the spacing of their lodges indicated they had delineated the lake into almost equal sections. Freshly skinned branches attested to the health of the inhabitants.

I hadn't spotted any large animals, but warned by the red squirrel's relay system they were probably watching me from some secluded spot.

Periodically Arctic Terns threatened to skewer me if I came much closer to their island sanctuaries where quite often an osprey nest was piled up in a solitary pine.

The hysterical laugh of loons announced my entry into their spaces where, once in a while, a duck and her flotilla of babies shuffled out of the way.

I was looking forward to hearing the White-Crowned Sparrow's 'too-wee-twee-twee-twee-twee' announcing the end of the day.

That was the great thing about canoeing: one merged with nature.

The angle of the sun told me it was about one o'clock and my watch verified it. My smile vanished when I realized that I had better pick up the tempo if I was to reach Tom's by five. I knew the west end of the lake was at least four hours away, but I was heartened knowing his place was about a half-hour this side.

I really couldn't blame him for being cautious at first; after all, I could have been one of the people looking for him.

Hurrying to renew my claims before their expiration date was how I had stumbled upon Tom.

Cutting across that open stretch without first reading the clouds had not been one of my brightest moments. The three-foot whitecaps produced by the sudden headwind made me kneel in the canoe, equalize the supplies, and aim for a tiny spit about a mile away.

An eternity later, as I entered the lee of the land's influence, the waves began abating.

I angled toward a grove of cedars.

My arms and back begged for relief. I certainly was not eager for the usual penetrating scramble so I aimed for a dark area that often indicated a rare break in the wall.

Summoning up a last bit of energy I powered into the trees.

The anticipated crunch never materialized. I was both surprised and thrilled when I sailed into a secluded lagoon.

There was no time to savour the moment. Although I was not looking forward to tenting in a windstorm, I shoved the packsacks under the overturned canoe. It was not a time to be choosy. I grabbed the bungee-bag and looked for a fairly flat area for the tent.

Just as I was about to lay out the tent I noticed a faint path leading up the hill. Since one can imagine all sorts of things in the bush when the light fades, I looked more closely. It was definitely a trail.

A skyward glance indicated the storm was at least a half an hour off, so I figured there would be enough time to see where it went.

I headed uphill.

Over the rise and blending into the forest was a log cabin. The area around it was untouched, which added to the seclusion of the place. From the height of the undergrowth, I estimated the cabin must have been there for at least ten years.

I could tell a great deal of time and effort had gone into building it. A stovepipe with its dispersal cap protruded through a debris-cleared roof.

The door had been wired shut from the outside.

I peeked though the window, but only the counter under the window was discernable.

A strong gust roared through the trees. Down the hill I heard a sheekoe -- a dead tree - crash and another one crunched down off to my left.

It was certainly no night to be in a tent.

In the bush there is an unwritten rule: In an emergency, you may use a stranger's cabin. The corollary to this is: you must not damage anything; in fact, you must leave it the same or better than you found it.

I ran down the hill, stuffed the fly and tent under the canoe, and grabbed the packsack and the nap-sack. By the time I was back up the hill the lightning and thunder were almost simultaneous. The rain-wall chased me into the cabin where I slammed the door and leaned back against it.

The lightning flashes showed a kerosene lamp suspended over a small table. I soon had its warm glow illuminating the room.

I retrieved and lit my own naphtha-gas lantern and then turned off the other one.

'No point using up my friend's fuel,' I muttered, and then I wondered why I had used the term 'friend'.

I surveyed my refuge. It was basic but what else would one need out here. Red and white checked oilcloth covered the table and the counter under the window.

Opposite the window a small bed nestled between the adjacent wall and a woodpile by the door. Huddled in its heat shield a neat cast iron stove promised a warmer future.

A fire soon had the cabin feeling cozy. The limited wood supply indicated there was a larger supply elsewhere. When I brought some sticks in from the covered stack by the door outside, I made a mental note to replace the pieces and the kindling in the morning.

After putting a couple of substantial pieces into the firebox, I adjusted the damper and draft.

From a stream of water pouring off the roof I filled a wide enamelled pot and put it on the stove. One can always use hot water.

A stomach twinge made me realize I hadn't eaten for hours. I set up my camp stove and started a pot of water for the Kraft Dinner.

My watch indicated it was also time to start thinking about turning in.

I laid the ground sheet on the bed and unrolled the sleeping bag over it. My sweater would have to do for a pillow.

Mosquitoes, energized by the cabin's warmth, began to make their presence known. I lit a mosquito repellent coil and put it on a tin plate by the stove.

I poured some boiling water over my tea bag, stirred in the pasta, and set it to cook over a reduced flame.

It was while relaxing with my tea I finally had the opportunity to look around the cabin.

The pots and pans hung on the walls where a variety of clothing on nails. A little cupboard sported dishes and utensils.

Everything appeared quite normal.

And yet something was missing.

The answer eluded me.

The window frame was lined with newspaper clippings. I'd look at them in the morning while I did the dishes.

Rather than finish the Kraft Dinner, I ate a few cookies.

I dissuaded myself from having a second cup of tea knowing I would not feel like getting up in the middle of the night.

The flashing and crashing had subsided indicating the storm front had passed leaving the dull drumming of the rain.

The sleeping bag was looking better all the time.

I put two logs on the bed of coals, topped up the water pot and then closed the draft and damper.

A visit to Mother Nature was last.

With the cabin nice and toasty, I shucked off my heavy shirt and pants, switched on the flashlight and turned off lantern.

After crawling in I put the flashlight within easy reach before turning it off.

The intensity of the darkness was disconcerting, but gradually the outline of the window became distinguishable.

To tell how far away the storm was, I began to count the seconds between the lightning flashes and the thunder: One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand, five thou....

A tiny clink-plink woke me.

In its white vest and grey 'dinner jacket' a delicate deer mouse was enjoying the Kraft dinner remnants.

It did not scamper away when I put two more pieces of wood into the stove.

"That should hold things until morning," I told the mouse as I lit another mosquito coil.

I crawled back in and dozed off again knowing there would be one stuffed furry friend sleeping in his bed tonight.

The sharp repetitive cry of a Piliated Woodpecker penetrated my senses. The amount of daylight streaming through the window indicated it was a beautiful day. Since there was no hurry, I laid back and surveyed the now well-lit room.

What kind of person was my unknown host? Perhaps he was a trapper. This idea was dismissed because the number and variety of traps plus drying racks should be much larger. Maybe he was a prospector. This notion did not stand up either. From what I tell the rocks along the windowsill seemed to have been collected more for interest than for value. The tourmaline crystals were interesting.

I crawled out into the cool cabin. The few residual coals ignited the wood chips I threw in. After revisiting Mother Nature, I smiled at the table for it was obvious the mouse had called his friends because all the scraps were gone.

A shave was going to feel refreshing. From the large pot I poured some warm water into filled a blue enamelled wash basin.

The mirror beside the window reflected a scruffy but well-rested face. I lathered up. During the mindless chore of shaving, my eyes perused the few old newspaper clippings.

I forgot about shaving as a chill ran up my spine.

With a bit of mental effort I put them into a sequential order. They spoke of informants, governmental corruption, the mafia, a bungled witness protection programme, a murdered family, hung juries and a case dismissed due to lack of evidence, mainly the mysterious disappearance of the star witness, rumoured to have been 'eliminated'.

On top of the tiny cupboard was a photo of a two young boys standing in front of an attractive lady. The paper mentioned a woman and two children.

Back at the window an article insinuated a compromised witness protection program.

The witness vanished shortly afterward.

Had I stumbled upon someone attempting to disappear?

The more I thought about the location: the impenetrable cedar shoreline, the secluded lagoon, the invisible trail, the cabin blending into the forest, the more nervous I became.

It was obvious my host did not want to be found.

A last few swipes finished off the whiskers.

I scrubbed the plate, pot and utensils, dried them and returned them to their original places. I used my face cloth to wipe down the table and counter. I dribbled enough wash-water to put out the coals without soaking the stove.

The word 'packsack' took on a whole new meaning as I threw my belongings into it. After a cursory glance around the room, I rewired the door, and hurried towards the canoe.

I stopped.

"I can't leave like this!" I announced to the trees. "He'll know I've been here!"

On a page ripped out of my prospector's notebook, I described my accidental discovery of his cabin. I thanked him for the use and safety of his cabin; that I had burned about ten pieces of wood; and that I would really like to pop in on my back.

I signed my name, hesitated, and then added: "Your secret is safe with me."

I wrapped a twenty-dollar bill around the note, put it in an empty jar I took from the pantry shelf, put the jar under one of the top logs in the woodpile, and then rewired the door.

A few hours of paddling did little to suppress the many questions swirling around in my mind. What have I got myself into? Should I stay out of it? Should I meet him? Was he dangerous? Who was this man? How did he arrive here? How does he obtain supplies? I knew this system of lakes intersected the Canadian Pacific Railway line. Had he made special arrangements to meet the C.P.R. Budd Car on specific days?

I did not sleep well at the intermediate campsite.