Page 11 of God’s Country

I took it and studied it. “White Owl.”

“How do you know that?” Mal asked.

“He was a cop most of his life,” Daniel pointed out.

“And the band is still on it.” I held up the cigar remnant for all to see. “I hate these guys. And I admit, I’m disappointed in Cordell.”

I shoved the garbage into the same pocket where I’d stuffed the Snickers wrapper, and as we headed off on Miskwa Ginebig, I tried to let go of the anger building inside me. I hoped the others, particularly Mal and Luke, weren’t being as negatively affected as I was. For me, it was like walking into a church and seeing that someone had crapped on the altar. I kept going over and over in my mind how a man as experienced in the Boundary Waters and whose love of it rivaled my own could let these yahoos despoil the sanctity of this wilderness.

I’d planned a long day of paddling, probably longer than I should have considering that Mal and Luke weren’t particularly experienced in all the required portaging. But I wanted to reach Shrike Lake, a good-size body of water, before we set up camp for the night. I recalled that there was a lovely campsite on a point that would give us a perfect view of both the sunset and the sunrise. The location had the added advantage of being open to all the breezes that might blow across the water, which would help keep the flying insects from being too prolific. So we continued on until very late in the afternoon—four lakes, three portages, the last nearly eighty rods long. By the time we set our canoes on Shrike, I could tell I’d pushed things too far. Both Mal and Luke were clearly pretty beat. I tried to cheer them with “Only a half mile to our campsite. Then we’ll fish for our supper.” Which bounced Luke back up but didn’t do a lot for Mal.

The sun was low on the horizon when we reached the point. We disembarked and headed up the slope to check out the campsite. What greeted us was disappointing. Garbage had been left behind by the last people who’d camped there—a couple of empty ziplock bags that had probably contained dehydrated food, several granola bar wrappers, and three plastic-tipped cigar butts.

“Not Cordell’s group,” Daniel said. “He would never have allowed this. Somebody else must’ve got here before him.”

“I think those cigar butts tell a different story,” I said.

“Then how do you explain this”—Daniel swept his hand across the scene—“this mess.”

“I don’t have a good explanation. But next time I see Cordell, I’ll get one. Come on,” I said to the others. “We’ve got work to do.”

First thing was to clean the campsite, gather up all the litter left behind by those who’d come before us. Then we unloaded the canoes and set ourselves up. We’d brought three small tents—Eureka Mountain Pass 2s—a father and son to each tent. When the tents were erected, we broke out the fishing rods and tackle box. Daniel, Waaboo, Mal, and Luke headed down to the lake to test their luck. Stephen and I stayed at the campsite to get everything ready to rustle up some supper. That would be fish, if the men and boys were successful. Dehydrated chili mac if they weren’t.

There were still some campsite details to be taken care of, locating a secure place for our BearVaults among them. I gave that chore to Stephen while I went hunting firewood. I never collect wood near a campsite or the shoreline or a portage trail. I don’t want to despoil these areas. So I usually bushwhack several hundred yards into the woods, my folding saw in hand. I found a small area of deadfall, gathered an armful, and returned to camp. Stephen was waiting for me with a perplexed look on his face.

“Something I think you should see, Dad.”

He led me about thirty yards from the campsite to where he’d set one of the BearVault canisters next to the trunk of a tall jack pine. He’d brought along some rope to secure the BV to the tree trunk. The rope sat beside the canister. I looked at the tree, the canister, the rope, then Stephen.

“What?” I asked.

“Check the trunk.”

He knelt and ran his finger along a white line where the bark had been rubbed away, probably by a length of rope.

“Somebody else has used this tree to secure their BearVault,” I said.

“I don’t think it was a BearVault,” Stephen said. He moved to the other side of the tree. “Look here.”

I followed. Then I saw what so concerned him. Below the white line the rope had etched around the trunk, a broad area of bark had been scraped away, exposing the soft white wood beneath. That wood was stained dark red.

“Dried blood,” Stephen said.

It was hard to believe what Stephen was suggesting. “A person?”

“I think so.”

I studied the wounding of that trunk, then walked back around to the front of the tree. The soft ground at the base still bore an indentation that was clearly not from a canister. Someone’s butt had been planted there for quite a while. I knelt and checked the soil. There was a darkened area around the indentation, which could have been from a soaking of blood. I stood up, walked back to the other side of the tree, and once again studied the larger scraping of bark.

“If there was someone bound to this tree, I’m guessing their hands were tied in back,” I said. “Whatever happened to them, they bled a good deal. And they worked hard trying to get themselves free.”

“Why would someone do this?”

“God only knows, Stephen.”

“Do you think whoever was tied there was successful in getting free?”

“I hope so.”