On Flying In

Roaring along at three thousand feet, it seemed to me that until then I had travelled like a mole, burrowing through the timber and brush of portages, creeping slowly down the rivers and over wind-roughened lakes, my vision a mole's vision limited by trees and rocks and rushes with never a vista of more than a mile or two. But now for the first time I saw it as a whole, the wilderness lake country I had explored in the past. From this height I saw it as a hawk might see it, the blue and green lacework of sprawling lakes and their connecting rivers, the level green lawns of muskeg and the tufted roughness of spruce and pine on the uplands. This was new and exciting, different from the close, intimate years when I had known the intricate maze of canoe trails as a mole in its near blindness might know the turnings of its own runways in the turf.

To the east lay Gabemichigami, my destination, to the south, the white, brawling Kawishowa, to the north, the dark virgin timber of the Quetico, behind me, twenty hurtling, noise-packed minutes, the pavements of the town I had left. The entire country seemed to be in flood, the network of interminable waterways running one into the other, filling all the valleys with their blue and green, every sunken spot between the hills.

I glanced at the map and saw that just ahead was Gabemichigami, a tremendous gash between two steep ridges. The plane banked, circled, and then like the hawk it was dropped to its kill, spiralling downward until it swooped close over the reaching tops of the pine trees. It side-slipped between the towering shores and in a moment the pontoons were slapping the water and the plane nosed gently toward shore.

The pilot threw out my pack and I scrambled along the pontoon and jumped for the landing. A farewell push and the wings turned toward the open lake once more. The engine roared and the plane moved out in a cloud of spray. A minute later and it was in the air over the ridges, heading back toward town. I glanced at my watch. Thirty minutes since we had left and here I was alone, deep in the heart of the wilderness, at a point that normally would have taken five days of hard travel by portage and canoe.

After the quiet had come again, I looked around me, found my old campsite, just as I had left it a year ago. The balsam boughs were dry and withered over my bed and the pothooks still in place over the fire. There was the same little creek tumbling down from the rocks in its escape from Little Saganaga to the east, there the same swirling pool with its trout. I had dreamed of this spot, of being here all alone for just a day, of taking one of the beautiful brown trout below the riffles, of enjoying the old wilderness I had known, and here, to my utter amazement, the dream had come true.

At first I couldn't realize the change, so violent had it been. Formerly, with days of travel behind me, by the time I had reached this spot on the map the country had had a chance to soak in and become a part of me, but as I stood there listening to the far drone of the plane I knew I was still a part of the environment I had left and that it would take time for the old feeling of wilderness to come.

I strolled back over the portage to the dead water above the rapids, sat there a long time trying to recapture the feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment I had known the last time in, but all that came to me was the violent, throbbing reaction to my flight and a jumble made up of the many things I had done in the last hour of preparation.

When the tent was up, fresh boughs cut for my bed, I busied myself with my rod and began to cast for trout. Before long, I had a fine three pounder, one of the golden brown trout that grow to their best in Gabemichigami. I caught three all told and for an hour knew at least the excitement of good fishing.

But that night in front of the fire, listening to the loons and their echoing calls from Little Saganaga, Kakequabic, Ogishgemuncie and a hundred other lakes around, I knew the answer. This was what I had dreamed of doing for months, but for the first time in my life I had failed to work for the joy of knowing the wilderness. For the first time, I had not given it a chance to soak into my consciousness and become a part of me. Last time, like the mole I had been, it had taken almost a week of travel, days of portaging over rocks and windfalls and muskeg, a hundred miles of bending to the paddle and fighting the wind, four campsites in the wild behind me, but always the great goal before, the most beautiful campsite in the border country. That vision alone had been enough to make packs light and to take the sting from tired muscles. The thought of that camp with its trout, the creek singing its way beside it and the feeling that was there was the very heart of the wilderness, was compensation enough. When at last, after those days of travel, my tent was actually pitched on Gabemichigami, I knew real joy and happiness.

The next afternoon the plane roared back over the horizon, and in half an hour I was back to the automobiles, the pavements and my friends. Yes, I had been on a flight, had been far in the wilderness, had taken some good trout, and had enjoyed myself, but I was still somewhat out of breath and baffled by what I had done. It had been worthwhile seeing the country from the air, had given me a birds-eye view and perspective that I could have gotten in no other way, and the beauty was not lost to me, but next time, I knew I would have to go in the old way with pack and canoe, work myself to the bone for the happiness and peace of mind which I knew could be had there. I would have to be a mole again and learn the feel of rocks under my feet, breathe the scent of balsam and spruce under the sun, feel the wetness of spray and muskeg, be a part of the wilderness itself.