You Can't Go Home
As I neared Lake Superior I came upon a creek headed south. I was so tired of walking and dragging the travois that I made camp for the night. In the morning, I set about cutting logs from the burned evergreen stubble of about 6 inches in diameter and 8 feet long with my hatchet and portable handsaw consisting of a lightweight bow of aluminum and a chain of blades. The dead wood was thoroughly dry and easy to cut. I chanced cutting some of my cliff rope to lash the logs together and made a raft to carry me and my gear.
It was a mighty relief to follow that creek until it became a river taking me all the way to Superior without much effort except gentle steering and occasionally paddling with the paddle I retained after giving up the inflatable. At a bridge crossing, I saw a sign calling it, Cross River. Finally, up ahead, I heard a roar and knew I was coming to a waterfall. I steered the raft to the bank and removed my gear. And then, I let the raft go over the waterfall because I had arrived. It was July 4. I felt like fireworks.
Ahead from the high ground I was on, I saw the expanse of Lake Superior below. I wanted to take it and all the other Great Lakes, all the way out to the Atlantic, but I couldn't do that without a boat. And I had to see if I could find Julie and Frank alive first. Working my way down the steep bluff, Highway 61 appeared. That would take me to Duluth, quite unsure what I would find there. I found walking on the road, now covered with dust and a healthy growth of weeds, made it quite easy pulling the travois and I made good time, about 30 miles a day. It was strange following Superior because the banks and high bluffs overlooking were nearly barren of timber because of the fires, but the water was still pure and I was able to drink directly from the lake. My second day walking, a massive dust storm came up. I had to take shelter under an overhanging bluff. It was another day before I could leave that place or even see anything.
The next morning, I came upon the little town of Two Harbors. The docks were empty except for two larger lake boats that didn't suit my need and I was close to Duluth, anyway, so I stopped for the night to make an early run there and looked into burned-out houses, finding nothing but evidence of people leaving and some bones that may have been human or not. Rats, raccoons and mice had taken over wherever there was former human habitat.
By the next day, near nightfall, on July 8, I reached Duluth. What hadn't been burned in the city was abandoned. The whole place had a ghastly look about It. Emaciated, mangy coyotes roamed the streets. Probably had survived on human carcasses, cats and dogs. I had to scare them off with my walking stick because I didn't want to waste any ammunition from my 357 Magnum. That was saved for bears and unfriendly humans. But there were no humans around, just evidence of their destruction and long rotted and dried up bodies. Most in the open just bones from scavengers picking away at them. Grateful they no longer stunk.
I made camp in a warehouse by the docks. I didn't want to stay, but I didn't want to be out in that town at night. it was just too spooky. When bats begin to fly out of the building as it got dark and owls begin to hoot that had holed up in the dock buildings during the day to sleep. The eeriness got even greater. Still, after being worried for a few minutes, my exhaustion overtook my fright and I woke up to the sun peeking through the cracks in the metal building with laserlike slivers of light boring through the great expanses.
It was a long uphill walk out of town on paved roads beginning to crack and sprout weeds, but after that it was downhill to the headwaters of the St. Croix. I built another raft from materials I gathered--plastic water bottles and plywood--and dropped it in precious little water for the run down river to Indianhead country. The scope of the devastation was immense from the heights looking down river. The little towns along the way were all abandoned and burned down. Still, with the relentless heat and the occasional violent storms and heavy rain, there was new growth everywhere, and eagles could be seen fishing along the river and nesting in the high bluffs above it. After each rain, the water rose quickly and was very murky. But soon the floodwaters receded and the water became clear. I could see fish swimming in it and caught some—mostly catfish, but some northern and walleye.
Just as the raft was becoming inadequate and coming apart in rapids and floodwaters, I spotted an aluminum canoe high up on the bank upside down and stopped to investigate. The canoe was in good shape and I had a good paddle. From there on the trip took a good turn. I moved through the rapids confident that I wouldn't swamp or otherwise endanger my gear.
There was abundant wildlife of all kinds, including bear. By July 12, I reached the point where I had to leave the river and cut across country to reach Turtle Lake where Uncle Frank's cabin had been. Since all the landmarks, except roads, hills and waterways were gone, I set a course east and stuck to it. I was back using the travois again and regretting that I had only used that canoe for a short distance when it was so easy to traverse the land by the waterways. But my mission was clear, and I had to walk to get there.
Occasionally, I found buildings protected from the fires that burned crops and woodlands, houses and buildings indiscriminately and devastatingly chosen by fate. I entered some of the still intact houses and found out why they were abandoned. Sometimes, I found them in bed. Skeletons wrapped tightly in heavy covers, trying to fend off the cold. Sometimes, I found them in easy chairs, doing the same. Sometimes, I found their skeletons in kitchens or in closets, clearly the victims of trauma—guns still in hand, or lying nearby. Sometimes I saw them outside, in the street or in the yard, their bones scattered by wild animals or their own dogs. And, I found them in cars riddled with bullet holes, or stuck on the roads without gasoline, food or water. I sensed their suffering and moved on. It was so disheartening to see so many dead. And I knew it just wasn't all those that were burned in the fires alive or dead already. I know that many of them starved or froze to death in the long winters after.
It was doubly strange for me to find so much fresh water and abundant food from the regrowing forests all around. Nature replenishes itself quickly. When I came upon an unburned metal shed with a dust covered late-model pickup in it, I decided to change my mode of travel. The battery was long dead but not burst from the cold. The key was easy to find under the floor mat. There was a full tank of gas that the owner had planned to use in an emergency that never came. I pushed the truck out of the garage and down a slight grade and jumped in the cab until I reached about 15 miles an hour and dropped it in gear with the key on. After a couple of lurches, the truck roared into life like it had never been stored and not serviced for three years. I now had a real means of transportation, one of many I would commandeer in the future. A sigh of relief came over me. No more walking… At least for now.
I found myself scavenging at every unburned building and made myself a bed in the pickup truck bed that was quite comfortable. I also gathered canned food and whatever else I could find to put in the truck bed for my comfort and use. I knew that most farms had a source of gasoline or fuel oil for powering their farm equipment. Finding one that wasn't burned or empty was no small task, but I wasn't beneath siphoning gasoline from other vehicles. One thing I did need, and found right away, was a chainsaw.
I only had about 50 miles to Turtle Lake, but my biggest obstacles were vehicles, trash, and fallen burned trees in the road. I pushed the first two away with my front bumper, and often had to cut my way through on narrow roads with a lot of fallen trees. In spite of the lack of landmarks as result of all the burning, I arrived at Uncle Frank Wilson's place by nightfall the day after I found the truck, July 14.
I found nothing except the burned-out remains of the cabin, Julie's car, Frank's pickup and boathouse. No mud hut. No graves. I spent the night there and spent the morning digging around and fortunately, finding some of their underground caches, still intact. There was smoked meat, flour, potatoes, preserves, can goods, and so on. Enough to keep me in food for three months. I found an unburned tarp they used for covering up their stored stuff covered by sod and moss that made a very nice tonneau cover for the pickup bed. I found some guns and ammunition in good order. I now had a fairly good arsenal of rifles and pistols with ammunition in case I ran into trouble or needed to shoot an animal for food.
While there, I saw a bear off in the distance grubbing out an existence in the three-year-old forest. It would have been only a matter of time before he found the caches. Before I left that morning, I said a few words for my sister and uncle, hoping that they had somehow survived, but doubtfully so. I had to move on with a sad, empty feeling in my heart. I thought it best to head south so I could avoid the brunt of the coming winter. But it was hot. Almost unbearably hot, so the truck's air-conditioning was very pleasant until I ran low on gas and had to turn it off. My phone told me the temperature. Anything above 105º, I didn’t want to see. Fortunately, the high humidity kept the temperature from soaring.
