THE LAND NORTH OF SUPERIOR

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My memories of the world outside go back to the very earliest I have.  These include day trips to local trout streams, with our family, and the picnic lunches that were part of them.  As I grew older some of the days spent with my peers between the time I left home and the time I got married were among the best days in the land north of Superior I can remember.

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Those days were a transition period in my life.  The days were full of new thoughts, newspaper ads promised wages  and relocation expenses, the radio talked of the golden days of the west coast, huge money could be made in the Arctic, there were even paper mills hiring on the east coast.  Those days of $0.39 per gallon gas, small cokes for a nickel and a large paper bag of groceries for a ten spot were indeed good days for a single man making $2.19 an hour, a man’s wage.  Wants were simpler as I was the only one I had to consider. 

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The car served as transport and motel.  A single sleeping bag, a duffel bag with another pair of socks, shorts, shirt and jeans took care of the wardrobe for a week.  The truck held my fishing rod, tackle box and the worms, covered in mosses lay in the cool under the car.  A ring of like sized stones became an cook stove when covered with a cast off grill from a range in the local recycling depot, the dump.  A melamine dish, coffee mug and miss matched forks, knives and spoons were the order of the day.  A ten-inch cast iron frying pan was the corner stone of all culinary efforts, and was jealously guarded.  A tin coffee pot, showing the miles it had travelled, with it’s jam fit lid was the last of the requirements.  The two folding gym chairs supplemented the stump seating around the fire if visitors dropped in.  In short order I found that several coffee mugs and extra plates were also needed for company by the riverbank.

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With no camp to set up it was simply a matter of driving up to your location of choice parking.  The world under the water always seemed to co-operate with me as I ate a lot of fish in those days.  Fishing from shore with the old black open faced spinning reel and two piece rod would put pickeral, pike, perch or specs on my simple rope stringer tied to a willow at waters edge.  The world was so relaxing as the campfire was built, the potatoes put to boil and the coffee added on top the oven grill.  It was then time to clean the fish, which were salted and peppered as I cleaned them and piled them onto a plate.  In the time remaining before cooking the fish would absorb them and be ready for the egg dip and flour before being put into the butter of the cast iron pan.  If the timing was right, the potatoes and the fish were done at the same time.  The open car door, with the eight track playing Elvis quietly, the setting sun, and the golden slabs of fish with buttered potatoes were a fitting end to many a day.

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Of course there were those days when a bunch of guys went out.  There was a certain mystique to camping under the stars, sitting about the campfire with ice cube beers and cigarillos.  Those campfires heard many story, some were stretched a little, but nobody took exception in the fellowship we enjoyed.  A few tons of paper were made every night, along with the usual topics of fishing, girls, cars, girls, the future, girls, hunting and still more girls.  The fires would last long into the night and often the wood gatherers would have to go into the bush and get more wood, that was their job, if they had been lax during the daylight hours.  The music was switched from car to car, nobody wanted to run their battery down. And the nights would slowly wind down as guys found their sleeping places, if anyone had a tent they were the envy of the crowd.

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The morning, usually with the sun high, would be announced by someone needing relief and then deciding to put the coffee on.  They may even get lucky and find embers in the fire pit.  I’ve seen mornings where an unwilling wood gatherer had river water dumped on them because there was no wood for the coffee pot.  The resultant cursing would bring life to the rest of the guys.  By the time the coffee started perking some of the more dedicated fishermen would have fish on their stringers.  After the second cup it was time for food.  A pot of potatoes, boiled after super the night before, would be sliced into a cast iron pan where onions and mushrooms were already browning.  The fish would arrive at the fire already cleaned, and the smell of grilling food would fill the campsite.  Eggs, a must have for breakfast, would be fried in a second cast pan.  My equipment box was sure growing!

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So many days spent in heaven could only do damage to plans I had of leaving this north Superior shore.  The days passed in snoozing, exploring, fishing and eating.  Late nights and early mornings and the fresh air made for intense living, a world of colour and sounds that lifted the bleakness and sameness of our daily working lives.  But the money was good.

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