Soaked in Sadness

by Jeff Segal

If you cross the border at International Falls and head north for about 120 miles, you’ll reach the northwestern fringes of giant Lac Seul; a few miles west you’ll find a smaller lake called Waubaskang. Like most of the northern lakes, it’s not so much one body of water as a linked system of random blobs, like the organs of some alien creature flung across a map of Ontario. On one of the smallest blobs there’s a fishing camp, with sturdy red cabins and RVs from seven states, plus Manitoba.

Go ahead, rent a boat for a moseying, 20-horsepower tour. Quiet coves give onto vast expanses. An S-shaped strait winds through wild rice that sways in the boat’s wake. The white-painted window frames of tidy green houses peek out from forested slopes. One wooded island rises gradually from the water to a sheer drop of at least a hundred feet, the ochre cliff face dwarfing your boat like a savage monolith. You understand why locals call it The Fortress. You may see other boats on the lake. You may not.

If you skirt the shoreline, you might come across a rusted, misshapen fishing net standing on the water’s edge, propped vertical by carefully piled rocks. Look across the water—there’s a treeless outcropping jutting out of the water about three hundred yards away. Guide your boat to a point halfway between the fishing net and the outcropping, and look straight down into the water.

Even on a cloudless day with the water crystal clear, you won’t be able to see to the bottom. The glaciers gouged these lakes deep. But if you could see to the bottom, you’d spy some unexpected objects among the stonewort and muskgrass:

The tall laced boots Uncle Carl wore, rain or shine, hot or cold, on every outing for thirty years.

The book-sized transistor radio that, if you tuned it just right and pointed the antenna due south, would allow you on a clear night to listen to Twins games with Aunt Olivia.

The steel tackle box Cousin Dale painted like an American flag, except instead of stars he painted peace signs, and every year he and Cousin Mitch got into a fight about it.

A hardcover copy of Pride and Prejudice, Aunt Suzie’s favorite book. She went out every day for a week, every summer for forty-five years, and never touched a pole. Everyone knew not to start the motor if she was near the end of a chapter.

And, deepest of all, Grandpa Henry’s vest, though it’s probably rotted to shreds by now. It was Henry who first brought the Robertsons to Waubaskang in 1946, and his sons who decided that, even if he had to be buried in Iowa, something of his ought to be part of the lake forever. Now they call it the fishing funeral. A few words, a soft splash, and ripples that fade away in the time it takes to bait a hook.