The wilderness

Coming over the final hill, even after 50 years, still brings an aching sense of amazement and joy as the huge lake stretches to the horizon, ringed by mountains. The beauty of the land almost overpowers the senses.

This is a frontier town, full of crusty characters that either choose not to leave or deliberately chose to come to this end of the road. No one accidentally lives here. “Boon” was born here and his grandmother came as a widow, the first white woman in the region. He’s pushing over the hill to 90 but has a host of projects lined up to keep him busy all winter.

Sunday afternoon finds us at the “new camp” – a mere 50+ years old cabin on the remote pond, but distinguished from the old camp on the island that is closer to 100 years old. With no time to go out to the island, I have to stand and look across the water, traveling the channel in my mind. The woods behind me shimmer gold in the afternoon sun. Elephant mountain is painted with red and yellow on the other side of the lake. Deep woods line the shores.

Crazy, the vintage loon, pops up for a look-see as I step on the dock. “He should have gone by now,” Boon says, “But he’s teaching a young one how to take off and the young one’s a bit slow on the uptake.” Boon knows this loon well, as he does every rock and tree on the lake. Standing there beside him I remember the many times he’s taken me across the water and back. Ten years ago it was stormy and cold, even in August:

The One at the rudder

After 30 years, the trip into the darkness still brings a wave of fear. Some nights it is clear as day with moon or starshine. Once, though, the fog was so thick we dragged our fingers in the water to be sure we were moving.

Tonight it is rain, cold, dark as pitch. The rain that blew up suddenly drives under our borrowed slickers. We huddle together for slim warmth from the overwhelming cold and wet. We set off for land from the island and can barely see the guide notches of the mountains across the lake. The familiar wave of fear comes up. Can we navigate through the huge rocks to shore?

At first the only light is what we have left behind. The comfortable glow of the gas lamps in the island camp tempts us back. To sit by the fire another hour, talking, singing, remembering a hundred similar nights. But go we must.

My mind races ahead, aching for a glimpse of light on the shore, but my heart leans in trust on the man at the rudder. "Boon" his mother called him, dredging a Burmese term from her childhood. "Favorite uncle." Did she know, 75 years ago, she was a prophet? I fear because I know the way, but not the rocks. Boon knows both.

Just when it seems we'll never make it, we round the point of the island and catch the gleam of the lamp on shore.

So now we journey across the wide lake. The rain is still driving and cold. Comfort is far away. The dark surrounds us, the rocks as treacherous as ever. The trip is painfully slow with a little motor and Boon's heavy old handmade boat. Boon is old too, but every rock is etched deep in his mind. If I will just sit back and trust him, I know he will get me there. He's done it before; he'll do it tonight.

Like life. It's not the boat, though it is sturdy. Not the storm, though it's heavy. Not the darkness, though I fear it. And it is not whether or not I am comfortable with the ride. All that matters is knowing there is light at the end and trusting the One at the rudder, who's made the journey more times than memory can count.