Читать книгу The Magic Aquifer: Treating the Political Stress Syndrome A Novel - John R. Krismer - Страница 12

Chapter 4

After breakfast, Bill, Dave and Ed hurriedly packed for their hike to the mouth of this amazing stream that was fed by this remarkable aquifer. After walking less than a half mile, Dave stopped and pointed to a clearing.

“This is where the Indians threatened me and destroyed my camp site,” Dave explained, his eyes studying the area. As Bill and Ed looked at Dave, it quickly became apparent his body recaptured some of the fear he’d experienced a year ago when they chased him out of here.

Nervously they all looked at each other, not knowing what they’d really do if they were again confronted by this same tribe of Indians.

“What are we going to do, if they do find us?” Ed asked.

“Well, we’ll just tell them we’re fishing, and if they don’t like it, that’s their problem,” Dave scoffed. “But this time, I’m at least going to find out if these Indians are Chippewwa or Sioux. If they’re Chippewwa, I’ll tell them I’m a good friend of Chief White Cloud from the Arrowhead Country. And if that doesn’t work, I’ve got my Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 Magnum persuader right here on my waist,” he said, patting his gun case. “But let’s hope that never happens, and I think it will be the best of all worlds if we can just keep a low profile. Remember, I spent ninety days in this forest before they kicked my butt out of here last year.”

“Do you think they know there’s gold in this stream?” Bill asked.

“I’m not sure they even suspected that, they just wanted me out of here for some damned reason.”

“Well, if we’re going to tell them we’re fishing,” Bill said thoughtfully rubbing at his rough chin, “I think it would be wise if we set up camp near the lake. That way they’ll have a tough time questioning our presence, and we can sneak up stream whenever we want to look for gold.”

“I agree. And if we camp near the lake, they’ll have a tough time chasing us out,” Dave said. “They don’t dare start chasing U.S. fishermen off the lake, or the Game Wardens will be all over them.”

Ed nodded. “Yes, but before we even start searching for any gold, we still have to move our boat and campsite to the mouth of this stream, so maybe we should get busy.”

“Hey,” Dave shouted. “You’ve got to let me at least find one nugget, before we do that,” he grinned. “I still have to prove to you guys that I know what I’m talking about - don’t I?”

With that, Dave walked leather boots and all into the stream while staring at the bottom as if he expected to see that same sparkle he saw when he was bathing in this cold water a year ago. Several times he reached down, grabbing at a suspicious rock, only to turn and quickly throw it away in disgust. He even tried panning with his hands, in the shallow water, but to no avail.

Damn, this might be harder than I thought, he mumbled. But I know gold’s here somewhere, he whispered to himself.

“I think Ed’s right.” Bill finally interrupted Dave. “Let’s find the mouth of this stream and move our camp site first, and then we can search for gold as long as we’d like. I never expected it to be like picking cherries off a tree anyway. Come on Dave, you look silly as hell the way you’re going at it now, we need to get our equipment and do this thing right.”

“Yah, I guess you’re right,” Dave laughed, slipping in the mud several times as he climbed out of the water. “Let’s go find the mouth of this river and then get back to camp before its dark,” he snickered as he squeezed water from his wet pants legs.

As they walked along this stream it was a much easier hike than the previous Split Rock fiasco, and it only took about an hour before they were looking out over an expansive view of the lake, which Bill quickly identified as the Sabaskong Bay.

“This huge Sabaskong Bay is just to the north of the very large open body of water to our south,” Bill explained. “And to the west of the Sabaskong there are hundreds of islands that one can easily get lost in. Even though the Sabaskong looks peaceful today, I’ve always been very cautious of this section of the lake, because those sudden winds can whip around the islands and kick up some dangerous waves in an instant - and those waves can sometimes reach five to ten feet high in this peaceful water we’re looking at right now. Several times I’ve been forced to find refuge on one of those islands to the west, so it’s very easy for me to remember this crazy part of the lake.”

As Bill studied Dave’s map, it took him only moments to determine that they were at the eastern end of a very small bay between the great open water of Lake of the Woods and the Sabaskong, a place called Hay’s Bay, where Bill had once fished with an Indian guide. They were also surprised that a dense growth of tall reeds completely hid the entire mouth of their magic river. Actually, the stream had become much wider at the mouth, and had they tried to find it from the lake, they would never have even suspected their magic river was here.

“Know wonder nobody has found this remarkable stream from the lake,” Bill smirked, glancing over Dave’s shoulder at his map. “If you look at where we’re standing, they’ve only marked a small line on the map, which would have never even suggested there was a river here.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Dave whistled. “Those damned map makers sure missed this one. I just can’t believe it,” he scowled, marking a compass direction on his map. “I’d guess we can get back to our camp by walking at about 110 degrees,” he explained, pointing out the direction they’d need to take. Folding his map he tucked it safely back in his vest pocket. “I’d estimate we have about five miles to go, and if we can stay out of that dense underbrush, it’s probably about an hours walk as the Crow flies.”

“Well let’s not fly,” Ed chuckled, walking toward their first camp site at Split Rock Falls.

As they walked at a rather fast pace, every so often they’d chase up a deer or some other animal, and the frightened animals would all run about fifty yards and then suddenly stop and turn to see who these strangers were that had invaded their peaceful surroundings.

“It looks like we can have fresh venison if we want,” Dave grinned, still hiking at a rather fast pace through this primitive and untouched forest, stopping only to confirm his compass direction from time to time. As they came closer to the campsite, the brush once again became much thicker, which was a sure sign that they were getting near the Split Rock River. Finally Dave spotted their tent, which they’d only missed by about a hundred yards, which was a big relief. After a short rest, and lunch, they started the horrible ordeal of repacking and reloading the boat for their short trip to Hay’s Bay. Since the wind had picked up and was from the southwest, they would be protected by land almost all the way, so their overloaded boat wasn’t in any great danger of capsizing in those larger waves they could see off in the distance in the open waters of the Sabaskong Bay.

As they motored along the shoreline, Dave said. “I think we should do some serious fishing tomorrow.”

“Fishing,” Ed choked. “What are you talking about?”

“Yes fishing,” Dave repeated, once again looking at his map. “Just a few miles to the southwest is a small Indian reservation, right on the eastern shore of the open water, and I think we should check that out before we start making any noise looking for gold. I suspect these are the same Indians that chased my fanny out of here last year, and I’d like to see just what’s going on at that reservation anyway. Maybe we can see if they really make their living fishing or not, and just how busy they are this time of the year. Once we’re aware of their daily routine, we’ll stand a far better chance of not being chased by them. If we can prevent any contact with them, it certainly would be to our advantage. Don’t you agree?”

Both Ed and Bill stared straight ahead as they thought about what Dave had just said.

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Bill finally agreed. “But just what is it you’ll be trying to find out?”

“Well, if their tribe is netting fish every day, they sure aren’t mining gold, and chances are they won’t be chasing us off their plantation if they’re fishing. If we know when they clean and deliver their fish, or when their cooking, or drying their nets, or whatever they do on weekends and windy or rainy days, we can change our schedule accordingly, can’t we?”

“I see what you’re saying,” Ed smiled. “You know, I love to fish anyway, and I didn’t bring these binoculars along for nothing.”

Bill was pleased by how well the Islands were protecting them from the wind, as they wove their way from channel to channel, finally reaching the small entrance to Hay’s Bay. And after a great deal of searching they eventually found a perfect landing spot behind a natural rock cove that completely hid the boat from anyone that might be motoring along that shoreline. Then just above this boat landing, less than a hundred yards from the shore, they found a perfect campsite that was surrounded by tall pines, where they’d be well hidden from view as well as the wind, and it was also very close to their magic stream.

“I believe this is only about a quarter of a mile from where we’ll probably start our search for gold,” Dave explained.

Just to the southeast of their camp, was a high cliff where they could overlook the entire area and the large peninsula that separated this bay from the much larger open waters to the south. The open water area was so large they could not even see the other side of the lake, and that was where the majority of the Indian netting took place. Although Bill had watched the Indians fish in the Sabaskong many times, the winds were far more dangerous there than the steady rolling waves of the larger open water to the south.

After a brief rest, it took much of the remaining day for them to unload and set up their new campsite.

“We’ll need to chop some dry fire wood,” Dave explained. “And if we use dry wood sparingly, and cook over hot coals, we shouldn’t be sending up too many smoke signals. I also suggest we keep our campfires small, so they won’t be spotting our fire at night.”

“Okay, I’ll be your man,” Ed snickered. “We sure haven’t been getting enough exercise lately,” he groaned, as he grabbed his ax and went to search for a good dry tree trunk to chop at.

“Hey Ed, you can use this canvas to cover the wood when your finished,” Dave laughingly shouted, tossing a tarp in his direction.

Bill had already started gathering rocks to build a large fireplace that would shield the fire from the wind and hide the flames at night.

“I’d guess we have enough water to last us only a few days,” Dave said. “So we’ll probably have to fetch some fresh spring water from our aquifer in a few days.”

“I bet that spring water is as pure as you’ll find anywhere, but just to be on the safe side we should probably use some of our water tablets,” Bill explained, placing one large shelf like rock on top of his fireplace.

Later that night, when they were finished with all their chores, they celebrated with some cold beer, and Ed prepared a large sirloin steak with fried potatoes, which they’d brought with them for this very occasion. Then after dinner, they watched the Northern Lights dance across the sky as they visited about how they’d start by first trying to pan for gold. It was very late when they finally crawled into their sleeping bags, and much later in the morning when they finally awoke to the persistent sounds of a woodpecker rapping away on some distant tree.

As they stretched their tired muscles they could see it was going to be another beautiful day, and as Dave poured his freshly brewed coffee they chatted about the beauty of this new paradise they’d found, and how they’d casually catch fish today while they’d watch the Indian’s work habits from a distance.

“If we catch some Walleye today, we can probably store the filets in plastic bags in that cold water, rather than pull an ice chest up into the tree every night.” Dave explained.

“Oh I forgot to tell you, there’s an outpost lodge near Split Rock, where we can buy ice if we need it,” Bill said. “They cut lake ice all winter long up here, and bury it under sawdust in their ice sheds where it lasts all summer long. But I agree with you, that cold water will do the trick if we can hide them where a bear won’t smell them out.”

It was a big relief for Bill to finally be able to open the throttle to full speed, as he followed the channel lines he’d sketched on the map the previous night, marking their route around the peninsula that had protected them from the winds off the open water area to the south. Finally they reached the open water area and Bill slowed the boat so it would better ride the huge rolling swells that were always present on the east side of the lake’s vast open water area. Although it was a fairly calm day, they had the advantage of a steady breeze as they angled southeast toward a group of islands that were about a half-mile off shore from the Indian’s Canadian Reservation. As they motored around to the inland side of the islands, Ed could easily see across this fairly large bay called Burnt Harbor, and as he scanned the shoreline he said, “The Indian’s buildings all appear to be located on what looks like a small island right at the mouth of that river.”

Once on the more protected inland side of these islands, Bill pulled back on the throttle, while Ed more carefully studied the reservation with his binoculars.

“I can see the mouth of the river,” Ed whispered, “and just south of their buildings, there’s a bridge that crosses over to the mainland. It looks like they have an old truck parked on that point, just north of the bridge.” Pausing a brief moment he continued, “Things look awfully quiet, and I don’t see any boats, so they must be out fishing.” Then as he stood up he turned toward the open water, scanning the horizon. “And I can’t see a single boat out there,” he said squinting through his binoculars. “Would they have netting rigs on their boats?” He asked Bill.

“I’ve seen their boats many times on the Sabaskong, and if I remember correctly, they use several types,” Bill explained. “They have those flat scows they use when they drop what they call a snare net across a channel, and they use the larger boat, when they drag a net behind them in the deeper water. If I remember correctly, those larger boats have rigs that stick out on both sides.”

“Well let’s just seriously fish around these islands for a while,” Dave said, getting a rig ready for trawling, “and we’ll just kind of watch for them to show up somewhere.”

“You guys go ahead and fish,” Ed said, moving to a more comfortable position at the stern of the boat and swinging his feet up on the side so he was more comfortable. “I’ll just study things, until you catch the first fish.”

No sooner had Ed said that than Dave screamed, “My God, I just had a huge strike,” and then his pole suddenly bent deep under the boat, and as his line spun out rapidly he awkwardly tried to get things under control by pressing his thumb hard against the line on the reel.

“Oh boy,” he yelled at the top of his voice, “This baby’s a big one!” Awkwardly standing up he tried to change the fish’s direction before it used up any more line. Finally he got the fish to turn, while reeling in as fast as he could to try and keep a tight line.

As Bill watched Dave’s neck widen with each run, he could see the sweat began to run down his forehead, and after almost twenty minutes of intense battling for control, Dave finally began to take charge, slowly reeling the fish toward the side of the boat. But every time the fish came near, the same raging battle would start all over. Eventually the fish broke the surface, and as it rolled toward the depths, Dave shouted, “My God it’s a huge Musky! Get the hook,” he yelled.

Dave quickly raised one arm as he desperately tried to wipe the sweat from his left eye, which was now burning from the salty sweat that was obscuring his vision. Finally, after more than a half hour, Dave sneered. “I can feel him weakening,” and as the fish rolled closer to the boat, Bill hooked him behind the gill plate as the huge Musky made one last desperate attempt to escape. Not until the fish lay on the deck of the boat did Dave drop his arms to his side, flopping back pooped.

“My God, that’s a trophy fish if I’ve ever seen one.” Ed shouted. “It’s gotta be close to forty inches long. And probably forty to fifty pounds,” he yelled.

“Boy, that’s a beauty,” Bill added.

“We should probably run over to Wheeler’s Point and have it weighed and mounted,” Dave whispered, awed by its size. “But you know what? This baby deserves to live after that battle.”

Straining to lift the huge Musky to check its weight, Bill nodded saying, “I agree, just look at those horizontal stripes on its sides, the true sign of a Musky.”

“Well, I prefer eating Walleye. So let’s get this one back in the water, so it can live to battle another day,” Dave cried, wiping his brow with his large checkered handkerchief.

As they carefully placed the huge fish back into the water, Dave held its tail, moving it slowly back and forth until the equally exhausted fish was once again ready to swim on its own. Once it realized its ordeal was over, it slowly disappeared into the depths for what would certainly be a well-deserved rest.

By noon, several other boats had stopped to fish this area, and one even went a short ways up the mouth of what Dave had identified as the Grassy River, taking them only a few yards from the Indian reservation. Ed could tell they were all from the American side of the lake, by the numbers on their boats; and as he checked each one he confirmed that none of their passengers appeared to be of Indian heritage. Then after catching a dozen or more small Walleye, Bill decided to motor closer to the bridge. The Indian’s brown colored truck looked old and unused, but as they got closer they could see that it had a large platform with wooden boxes that most likely were used to transport their fish. There were also several nets hanging behind the two rustic cabins that stood just in front of a rather dilapidated barn, where several horses were casually picking at an unbundled bail of hay.

Since the fishing was very poor near the bridge, Bill decided to motor back across the harbor, so they wouldn’t be seen if the Indians returned early. As Ed once again scanned the horizon, he finally saw two large boats off in the distance, heading directly toward them. As they moved closer, he could see the net rigging, but he could not tell if they had any nets dragging behind them. As they finally entered the channel, Ed counted three men working each boat, and there appeared to be some milk cans and large boxes on each deck, similar to the boxes they’d just seen on the truck. Behind each boat, they were also towing a large flat-scow that was filled with what appeared to be wet gill nets, from the day’s fishing. Since the rigging was empty, they’d obviously been using the gill nets, and as they docked, several of the Indians immediately began to load the boxes of fish on the truck as the others stretched out their wet nets on the drying racks. One Indian then loaded what appeared to be several empty milk cans onto a two wheel cart, while his helper hooked up one of the horses to this unusual contraption. Once this was all ready, they both got on the other horse and road bareback into the forest, pulling the horse with the trailer and the empty milk cans behind them.

“Where the hell do you think they’re going?” Dave asked, raising both eyebrows.

“I bet their hauling water from that aquifer,” Ed whispered, as if it was some kind of secret.

“I bet you’re right,” Bill replied. “That’s about all they could be getting, unless they’re going to fill them with gold.”

“Well they sure as hell don’t have any cows out in the woods and with wolf out there, they aren’t going to fill them with milk,” Dave quickly chimed in.

As Ed refocused his binoculars on the back yard, he continued to talk in a whisper. “I also see a water pump, so just why do you think they’d be going to the woods to get more water?”