To celebrate the tenth anniversary
of writing for the newspaper,
the following is a reprint
of a column written about my
adventures on Tucker Lake.
In September 1969, Dick and
I began our year on Tucker Lake.
Our cabin had neither road
access nor amenities. This is one
of many stories about our lives
during that special year.
“Oh no,” I groaned, walking into the small building that I would call home for the next 13 months. “Look at the inside of this cabin!” Splintered glass covered the plywood floor.
“What?” Dick asked in a weary voice, the result of sleep deprivation, nine hours of driving and five hours of canoeing and portaging.
My voice also quavered with exhaustion. “Look at the floor. It’s covered with glass. “And… the window’s broken!” Cool autumn air flowed in through the shattered windowpane behind the Coleman cooking stove.
We looked around the tiny 10’ by 12’ room. The built-in bunk beds were intact. The square plywood shelf was in place. But the east window was shattered. Nothing stood between the Superior National Forest and us.
We’d been up since 2 AM making the big move from Minneapolis to our cabin in the woods. My stomach growled with hunger and my head yearned for a nice soft pillow.
But a broken window stared blankly at me and behind that, a forest filled with wild animals and who knew what else. We were the only humans within three miles—three lonely, roadless miles. There would be no sleep until we solved the mystery of the broken window and repaired it.
“Look at this!” Dick called from behind the cabin. His tone sent chills down my spine. I ran to see his flashlight beam spotlighting the cabin’s back wall.
Long deep scratches gouged the plywood. Dick moved the flashlight beam higher to reveal large paw prints imprinted with blood—bear paws.
“What the heck attracted a bear?” I was perplexed. We never left a crumb of food in the cabin, and I distinctly remembered scouring every kitchen utensil spotless on our last visit.
Grumpy and exhausted, we trudged back inside and thoroughly searched every inch of the little cabin, trying to see what had attracted a bear. We found nothing, not a forgotten Ritz cracker, not a packet of dried Lipton’s Noodle Soup.
Then Dick solved the mystery. He held up a yellow plastic scouring pad with tiny remnants of grease embedded deep in its plastic strands.
“That teensy bit of grease can attract a bear?” I was dumbfounded. I had a lot to learn about wilderness living.
With the mystery solved, we settled in. I swept up the broken glass while Dick covered the open window with clear plastic. Wearily, we spooned down a cup of split pea soup, unrolled sleeping bags and went outside to brush our teeth.
I was too busy gargling to hear the noise. But Dick did.
“Shhh…” he whispered.
I listened. An eerie wailing noise, punctuated by huffing, echoed down the lake from the east.
“Bear?” I whispered.
Dick nodded.
I admit I panicked and ran back into the cabin. What was I doing here, in the middle of nowhere, in the dark with a wild creature making noises nearby?
But once inside, I felt a twinge of curiosity and opened a window to listen. Bear sounds were new to me and I noticed the bear wasn’t wailing, but seemed to be singing, almost humming.
Unfortunately, the sound was moving closer.
“I’ll fire the shotgun in the air,” Dick said. “That should scare away our friend.”
I hated to end the bear song, but also hated for the bear to get too close
Suddenly, the bear noise stopped. We strained to hear. A small animal rustled underbrush. A tiny splash came from the lake.
No bear noises. Nothing. We listened for a long time, but the bear was gone.
We slept soundly that night thanks to excitement, exhaustion and heavy doses of fresh air. My last thoughts before falling asleep were, “Thisis going to be a very interesting year.”
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