THE LAND NORTH OF SUPERIOR<o:p></o:p>

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I have been to many unique spots over the years as I traveled both the outside world and the back roads of my world.  Here is one of the most memorable places I have ever visited and it just happens to be in the land north of Superior, welcome.

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The first time I was there, was on the old bridge I think, what with it being 45 years ago and memories fading coupled to the fact that I was very young could forgive the uncertainty.  I dimly recall this huge river which didn’t seem to flow until you dropped a stick boat in.  Even then those bits of wood sailed in slow majesty around the downriver bend on their way into the lake itself.  I could have spent the rest of the day exploring the riverbanks and bushes.  I stared wistfully out the back window of the car as we headed north to a fishing weekend at some lake.<o:p></o:p>

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Many years would pass before I came back to that river.  That day, even though I was in my late teens, I had to sail several make believe ships to the lake.  The two guys I was with laughed at the picture of a guy about to graduate from grade 12 playing with broken branches.  The day was beautiful, high lazy billows of clouds would break up the diamonds reflecting on the river’s dappled surface.  Two of us were on the bridge and our pal was down on the riverbank with a net.  He was busy netting pickeral as we dropped minnow tipped jig heads into the downstream side of the bridge.<o:p></o:p>

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The bridge waited a couple of years before I came back.  Now it was fall.  Dirty dark clouds boiled in the sky as driving winds whipped the river and the visible lake into white foam.  Flakes of snow whirled about.  I sat in my truck on the bridge having coffee and a sandwich at midday. The truck rocked with the wild winds, November at her worst.  Three weeks later on the last day of moose season I sat in my truck again having lunch.  Not a breath of air moved.  The river was now a solid sheet of ice, gleaming blackly where the snow had yet to cover her.  The landscape so warm and inviting during summer was now in stark contrast.  The dark greens of the partially snow covered pines provided the only real colour to the leafless skeletons reaching for the sky and the brownish grey of some grasses still visible on the river bank.  I had picked out a Christmas tree on a previous trip, once I had that in my truck; it was time to head home for another winter.<o:p></o:p>

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Several young boys raced about, every rock and fallen tree had something to hide.  The temperature, still only in the single digits, was falling rapidly as the sun set in wild slashes of purple, orange and red.  The morning would bring the opening day of pickeral.  Our tents were set up on the old road, by the burned bridge, coloured tarps were stretched over our cooking and relaxing area.  The fire, that would consume the boy’s attention until bed, was already burning.  I took one more look at the sun, now a tiny bright semi circle behind the hills, and headed toward camp.<o:p></o:p>

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Over these many years the two scenes from that bridge of sunset and sunrise have left memories burned into my mind.  How many pictures I have of the many faces of nature from that wooden construction I have, I have no idea.  On that bridge I have kissed my wife, cleaned scrapped knees, caught and scaled fish.  Many an emergency equipment repair was done there while the road on either side was a quagmaire of mud.  Many times it was the only place you could get some relief from the swarms of flies as you tied your equipment down for the trip home.  The stories, whether they be of hunting or fishing, told on that bridge among friends and strangers must number in the thousands for me.  Maps have been marked to show her place on the river and directions given to other bridges and places, a place of starting and a destination.<o:p></o:p>

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I will make one more drive there this fall, and I’ll leave with a heavy heart knowing I will not see those familiar sights until spring.  In the spring my heart will start to race on that last long straight before the bridge, how high will the water be, how many campers are here already, has anyone gotten to our spot?  I will get out my truck on the bridge.  The quiet of the moment, as I look east and west will reassure me that I am once more back in the land north of Superior.<o:p></o:p>

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