Emerson at Hellgate

Emerson at Hellgate Keith Taylor The canoe trip described here starts in the village of Biscotasing some 350 kilometers —by road—northeast ofSault Sainte Marie, Ontario. The routefollows a zigzag path through the headwater lakes of the Spanish River, then crosses over a series of portages to the Mississagi River system. The take-out point is near the crossroads at Aubrey Falls, about 1 75 kilometers northeast of the Soo. The Group Judith and Pete: Our leaders. They've been canoeing the rivers in Michigan and northern Ontariofor almostfifty years. They are both professors who have spent much of their professional lives in SoutheastAsia. Meg andJohn: Meg, who is the youngest child ofJudith and Pete, grew up with canoe trips. She andJohn were recently married, and this is John's second long trip with his in-laws. Jan: She's been canoeing with Pete andJudithfor a decade. She is a passionate student of the history and lore of the oldfur trade. Me:Although I've spent a good deal of time in the north, this is only my second long canoe trip through the Shield country. July 15. Ann Arbor. Saturday night. Midnight's getting very close. The air conditioner's running full blast. We've had several days of extreme heat: temperature in the high 90s; the humidity somewhere close to that. I've been packing. We head north tomorrow morning. I suppose I'm ready for the trip, although I've probably forgotten something essential. And I'm tired—from work, tonight; from endless worries at the book shop; from money worries at home. There have been months ofbusyness, endless distractions . I cling to the idea of the next two weeks, canoeing, looking. For some reason I've convinced myself that I have to keep a log. It won't be in great detail; maybe I won't be able to get something down everyday. 101 102Fourth Genre The only book I'm taking is a vest pocket edition of Emerson. Pete is proudly Emersonian, but I've always felt suspicious of the old sage. Maybe something will click this trip. But part of me hopes that I won't have time to write or read. This will be a canoe trip, after all. Most ofmy time will be taken up with getting from here to there, doing the things that need doing along the way, carrying my share of the weight. To go into solitude, a man needs to retire as muchfrom his chamber asfrom society . I am not solitary whilst I read and write though nobody is with me. But ifa man would be alone, let him look at the stars. ("Nature") Tomorrow I'll be in the real north again, out of the heat, smelling pine and spruce, swatting mosquitoes. Maybe I'll feel my mind and my vision wake up again. I hope I have not become so worn down with care, with ordinariness, that I can't see. I have one general feeling of regret about this trip, wrapped up, of course, in the excitement. I feel bad about leaving my family, Christine and Faith.This will be as long as I've ever been away from Faith in her lifetime. I wonder what she'll think. I wonder how many decades it will be—two or three?—before she understands the need that makes me or anyone eke head into the bush. And will she even call it "the bush?" My daughter is growing up with people who talk about "the wilderness." There is an admirable awe in that word, but I also detect a certain mustiness in it, as if it described a museum where we enter and look at things placed at a delicate remove. I admit to myself a chauvinistic pleasure in the Canadian word—" the bush." July 16. Aubrey Falls, Ontario. Pete found us an almost abandoned building to sleep in, a kind ofdormitory. It's smelly, and the beds are all suspiciously stained, as ifa few too many boy scout troops had stayed here. We unroll our sleeping bags carefully. But we're all in our own rooms. We get a privacy we won't have for...