The family lives on Copper City Road. It was so named because its people had their own stills to make their own beer during prohibition.
It’s about a half mile from the family home to the main road on the West. And only a couple of blocks from there to where I turn off left to head toward String o’ lakes [Chain O’ Lakes].
The road is sandy and about 24 feet wide. As I look down it, the trees already start to crowd the sides. It’s a little wash-boardy.
I travel past stands of Norway Pine and houses about every three acres. Two thirds of these weren’t here last time I went through a couple of years ago. This stretch is intersected by a right of way which has wooden poles with electric lines draped over them, running through it.
After I travel another quarter mile, I reach the gravel pit which once was a dump ground before they cleaned it up. My brother and I used to plink pop cans and glass bottles every once in a while here.
The road divides into three at this point. One straight ahead, one to the left and one to the right. I pick the one straight ahead. There are no more houses and just like that, it is like the last 75 years have never happened.
Just beyond the gravel pit the middle road narrows to about 12 feet wide. A few tufts of grass appear in the middle of it. Now it is better described as two well used tire lanes, and the trees–Poplars mostly–make it appear even more narrow.
A few yards in, and the trees overhead shade the road. It’s lost its wash board quality but has a lot of dips and hillocks. It’s curvy and I’m definitely “in the woods”.
The trees are so thick that I can’t see further than fifty feet on each side. I see an occasional rotted, aged stump where this was logged a while ago. I encounter a couple of dried mud holes along the way.
When I come to the next fork, the road changes again. Now there are two distinct paths separated by about three feet of grass that while sparse, is solid. 25 More years have been erased.
I’m driving about 5 miles per hour to take it easy on Chuck’s suspension. I drive past a stretch where the trees have mostly been cut, but a few have been left to -seed the area. The truck is creaking, rocking up and down and left and right, and a rare branch hits the antenna.
I go past the long hill down to, and over the little creek for which we have been named (Jacob Littlecreek, Granpa’s Granpa, was “The Man who lives by a Little Creek that dries up after the spring”. That name was shortened to “Littlecreek”) and have gone past a couple of mud holes which were so big, I had to drive up on the side of the road to get past. I then have to drive up a long hill which is on the other side of the creek.
On the other side of this hill, I come to another clearing where there is active logging going on . They are harvesting Norway Pine for fence posts.
A small cardboard box sits in the middle of the road next to a pile of logs. As if warning me that I must be careful if I go beyond.
One hundred feet beyond this, the road branches again, and another hundred years drops away. I take the road that goes to String O’ Lakes to the left. The road straight ahead will become impassible due to a number of huge mud holes that have existed there for generations.
The wheel ruts transform to about a foot wide each with about 4 feet of grass in between. Small birch trees appear. I encounter mud holes that have been here for 50 years, and after these I can only see patches of ground with the road grass with tall weeds springing up in the middle. Trees and bushes encroach enough so that they occasionally brush along the side of the pickup.
I’m traveling one or two miles an hour now. About the speed the teams of horses and drays moved when men cut the timber with hand saws and loaded it by hand as well.
More ruts, just impressions in the earth covered by cabbage weed and grass, painted by alternating bands of shadow and dappled sunlight.
We’ve reached the part where my dad and I were probably the last people to log in here. There is a hill which is easy to go down but upon returning we must race up it in order to go over it again. Trees regularly scrape against the sides, top and bottom of the truck, whistling and screeching. I have to close the driver’s side window so I don’t get whipped in the face.
I scare up a partridge which had been walking on the road.
I round the last corner to the landing. Just a space to turn around, really. A path to portage a canoe down the hill to the first lake, and the overgrown remains of a road on which we used to drive up a hill to get to the place where dad wanted to build a house overlooking the lakes.
I turn off the truck and get out.
I can see the clearing where the beaver dam is. No more evidence of people.
This lake is pristine.
It has Lilly pads, rushes, and cat-tails on its sides.
Even In the distance I see the bare trunks of Tamaracks standing sentinel between this first lake and the second, witnessing the fact that they wanted to be close to the water but drowned in it when the water levels got too high one year.
The only thing I can hear is the “tock tock tock” of a partridge nearby, and the barely discernible small distant sound of the wind. I have been transported to a timeless place.
I am truly home.
Beautiful journey to this “timeless place”, Russ!
🙂
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I wish you were all here to enjoy it with me Marina! 🙂
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Pops, my son Clancy, and I went here the last time I was in Red Lake. even tho I wasn’t raised around there. I still miss it ‘cuz it truly is home. Thanks Unk for the journey.
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Glad we could share it Matt!
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Ahhh Russ! This is beautiful! The last time I was there (at the lakes), your Dad took me (alone) to see something special. I was a bit leary of doing so but went anyway. What Hollis had to show me was an Osprey that had returned to nest out by either the first or second lake. She was beautiful! Hollis told me the elders saw this as a good sign that the people will return to Red Lake and not abandon their homeland. It was a lovely day and I saw a very different side of your father. I cherish that memory!
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thank you for this Russ and for the beautiful photos! I posted a comment on your writers page.
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Thank you for your comment Patti!
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Beautiful, Russ. Precious time. Thank you for the hearty support. No need to respond, but your post brings this to mind. It was our historical first family camping this summer. My husband couldn’t believe I toughed it out. We enjoyed the lake nearby, too:
http://aholisticjourney.wordpress.com/2013/07/15/star-wars-campside/
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