Shelter Read Free

malapropisms, piped up, “You know that saying, you can’t see the forest for the timber? It’s the truest thing; you can’t see a place proper ‘til you’re far enough away from it. And I don’t mean just from a height.” He shook his head. “After I saw what I did of the world, I realized it don’t get any better than this right here.” Mel winked. “Hell, I’d be happy to die in this plane right now with my cap on.”
    I inhaled most of the air in the small compartment. Surely he hadn’t intended to use the words
die
and
plane
in the same sentence?
    As we skirted the no-fly zone, I could make out the pattern of the terrain and the gouges left by great glaciers: clawed wounds that wept to their brims to form countless lakes and ponds; silky scars of creeks wedged diagonally between ledges of granite, pale tamarack bogs and pine. The Boundary Waters Canoe Area was so named in 1958, an improvement over its dull designation as a National Roadless Primitive Area. In 1978, the Wilderness Act established regulations much as they are today, making the Boundary Waters almost completely free of motorized boats, land vehicles, and man-made structures. The recent addition of a second
W
makes it BWCAW—
W
for “wilderness,” in case it’s not obvious. Most just call it “the Boundary Waters.” From the vantage point of over a thousand feet, it comprises a piney, million-acre forest spreading in all directions, atone glance primeval, awe-inspiring, and a little terrifying. As we flew, I recalled another instance of awe from a great height. Years ago, on the windy observation deck of a Manhattan skyscraper I clung to the railing while being lashed by my own hair and took in the endless stain of urban America, the best and worst of civilization: man and machine, commerce and power, all churning in the grids of chockablock architecture on streets of unceasing movement. To a midwesterner, the density was choking. Noise pummeled from every direction, constant enough to seem part of the air. Suddenly I was merely a dot of humanity, just one of hundreds of thousands like those below in the streets, just another nano-particle with arms and legs suddenly needing to vomit.
    Looking out from Mel’s little plane, struggling to get my bearings in a corresponding remoteness, I questioned my significance again and once again came up short. I concentrated on the view: more water than land, lakes connected by rills and rivers, many originating in Minnesota but narrowing to a close in Ontario, glittering threads that baste the two countries together, American waters flowing north above the Laurentian Divide to feed over five hundred lakes of Quetico Provincial Park. The Boundary Waters has two thousand lakes, and Mel pointed to some, ticking off the names of a few, which left me puzzling over how they ended up being called Ash Dick, Swollen Ankle, Squirm, Calamity, or Meat. Earlier, Mel had tapped over a map, showing me Sarah Lake, crowing, “There, there’s your own. If that one don’t suit you, there’s another somewhere west of here but without the
h.”
    I imagine the thrill my father would have had to see this from the air. In the thirties, he’d canoed and portaged these lakes as awilderness guide. While guiding is no easy job now with Kevlar canoes and freeze-dried meals, back then it had to have been a back-breaking hump. The canoes were wood and canvas and dreaded for their weight. Dad was five foot seven and a hundred fifty pounds soaking wet, yet he would have toted heavy canvas tents, food preserved in steel cans, and oak folding cots. He and his mates would have dragged it all overland on rough paths that make current-day portages seem like light rail. Somewhere in the family archives is a photo of him posing next to waist-high tonnage of camp gear, tan faced and bright eyed, with khakis tucked into knee-high, Mountie-style boots. He is smiling at something beyond the camera, looking happy, at home, and utterly