Fencerows: Thirty-Mile Portage (part 2)
By John Luthens
Morning mist rose from the valley and swirled around my tent. I’d slept the honest sleep of the outdoors. If there were creatures in the night, they’d passed unaware. I chewed granola bars for breakfast, washing them down with more water than I cared to drink, filling my bottle from the bubbling stream below the trail before hefting my pack. Twenty-three miles of North Country Trail lay between me and my final destination. I knew they would push me to the limit.
Aftermath of the storm.
The sun tried to rise, and the towering pines and hardwood ridges tried their best to stop it. I wound down switchbacks and puffed up the banks on the other side. Gold dusted on the pine tops as I crested the hills. Dropping down the other side, the sunlight disappeared into mist and shadow. I climbed the highest ridge of the morning and drew a deep breath. Stretching before me in the rising mist was the raw devastation of nature.
A morning view from the North Country Trail.
I walked a mile amidst fallen giants. White pines that were a century old had crashed to the ground. Oaken and birch towers that I couldn’t reach my arms around were tossed down the valleys like matchsticks. Branches twisted, limbs torn; fallen trunks sloped into the morning like a graveyard of battleships. I’ve never been in war and I’ve never seen the aftermath of a bombing run. Nothing could have lived upon those ridges in a storm like that.
The broken land ended as quickly as it has started. There was a final pile of cut trees alongside the trail. It was nearly 20 feet high and it felt like walking through a lumber yard. Forestry Service chainsaws must have run nonstop for a week to clear the trail. I left the ridges behind and crossed into the warmth of a red pine plantation, quickening my stride over a carpet of needles. Nature’s destruction was a fading dream.
Hiking through the open stretches of the sand barrens.
One by one the miles fell, every bend of the trail offering a new view. Swamp bottoms turned into endless stands of birch and aspen, leaves hinting the first gold of autumn around their edges. I trekked across wide vistas of sand barrens where horizon met the sky. A pileated woodpecker perched on a scrub oak and curiously watched me pass. When I stopped at noon, I’d been on the trail for 20 miles and 30 hours. I hadn’t seen another human being.
Two black noses edged from the brush of a logging road as I lunched on a cold can of chili. The bear cubs looked at me curiously. I might have invited them to dinner, but I didn’t think there was enough to go around. Besides, I was fairly certain they weren’t travelling alone. They disappeared across the trail. Mom followed after. She rose on hind legs, eyeing me up. Time stood still in a wild land. I finished my chili in a hurry and packed it off in the opposite direction. I may have even eaten the can. I don’t remember.
It began to rain and the trail became a blur. I didn’t bother with a jacket. The rain dripped down on my head from the forest canopy. Every time I stopped to take my pack off, it became harder to put it back on my shoulders. I drank the last of my water and sucked handfuls of blackberries after that. It was a race to the finish; Mile after mile. Old age was gaining and I was only holding on by the narrowest of margins.
A lunchtime visitor keeps her distance.
A dog barked. It was the first hint that I was returning to civilization. He wagged around a bend in the trail and growled at me. The lady walking the dog heeled him in and was apologetic. “He’s a friendly dog, just curious,” she said. I didn’t blame the dog. Staggering dirty and wet down the trail, I would have barked at myself.
I made it to the cabin before nightfall. My back creaked and snapped in an ugly variety of noises. I stretched on the floor, stuffing down handfuls of junk food and trying to review in my mind the past 2 days and a thirty-mile portage. There are places in this world that can inspire a person to their knees. I’d been somewhere. I fell asleep on the floor and I don’t remember dreaming.
John Luthens is a freelance writer from Grafton, Wisconsin. His first novel, Taconite Creek, is available on Amazon or atwww.cablepublishing.com or by contacting the author at Luthens@hotmail.com