(continued)
The Headwaters
By Richard A. Suleski, Jr.

My feet felt free, arching loosely down the side of the highway. At least I was going somewhere now. I had spent too much time debating what to do. I was walking towards Lake Itasca, because I knew there were phones there, and I was hitch-hiking towards Bemidji, Minnesota. So, I was actually heading in two directions at once. I would get to Itasca within about four hours or so, to make a call and tell Heather, or my folks, or my steamboat friends Lee and Kathy to come get me. But if I found a car on this dead highway, and if they were heading specifically to Bemidji, then I would go that direction and perhaps to a motel.

I had walked perhaps 200 hundred yards. My backpack felt quite heavy. My paddle would not make a good walking stick. A vehicle appeared on the crest of the hill, about a half-mile down the highway. I moved my paddle to my left hand, prepared my right thumb for its important task, and made the hitch-hiker's stance. An orange pickup, perhaps a 1970 Chevy, made its bumpy way down the highway with its singular occupant. This quiet road of the northland was leading somewhere, perhaps. My thumb moved out to hover over the white line on the side of the highway, the only sound was of the hum of the pickup, the audible silence of wondering whether a slight tone difference would mean a ride out of this, nowhere to somewhere. VVVRRRrrrroooommmmm... "He's downshifting! All right!"

I peered through the window, the man was actually a kid, perhaps 18 or 19. He had slicked back hair, like from the fifties, and he was driving a vintage Chevy with a homemade wooden box. It was funny and interesting. He didn't look like a nutcase, and instead looked like he had just driven through a slice of time travel. I felt like a hippie, guitar in hand, "Hey man, I need a ride to Bemidji. Specifically Bemidji. Headin' that way?" I blinked, wondering whether Slick had just run a hand through his hair like a '50s movie clip, as he replied, "Hey, yeah. I'm heading there right now. You want a ride?"

Hot damn! I had my thumb out for 10 seconds, and I got a ride going all the way to Bemidji! 30 miles in one shot. Trail magic, the mysterious helper of the wandering road, had kicked in again. I was making time!

The kid shifted up, looking at me, and looking back towards the box. I kept my paddle in my hands, not wanting its 15 ounces to fly out of the box. My paddle was my holy grail. He gandered at me. "Where ya headed? You canoein'?" I spose it was kind of odd, how many people have a paddle in their hand hitch-hiking? I thought he was a unique character, and I guess he thought the same of me. So, I gave him the whole story, and he was stoked up. "Oh, yea. That's really neat. The whole way, huh? Cool man." Now it was my turn to learn of Slick, the kid.

Ray hailed from some little house in the sticks out this way somewhere. His truck was from North Dakota, and that's why, as a '70, it had no rust. He was 17 and worked at the grocery store in Bemidji. He seemed like a smart independent kid who knew his way around the block. And, he knew how to fix cars. And he stocked shelves at the grocery store. He seemed like a kid who would disappear from Bemidji during the sunset of his graduation day. Coming back for mom's cooking perhaps once every couple of years. That's the way Bob Dylan left Hibbing. As fast as he could. It's hard, living in the northland, wondering what it's like elsewhere. Never knowing what "elsewhere" is. Silence is a bit of a tormentor to some. When Dylan participated in a talent show in high school, they booed him off the stage. He thumbed it out of the northland as fast as he could. Some said he would never return.

I told Ray that it wasn't all bad I had to thumb it to Bemidji. "If I paddled through, I would have missed Paul Bunyun and the Blue Ox... what's the ox called... Babe?" Ray laughed, and looked at me, then the highway, then the mirror, then the highway, ran a hand through his hair and said, "Yep. That's right." He chuckled again. "Yeah, they're there. Thirty feet tall, man. Pretty funny." He downshifted for a crossroads which intersected the other nowhere. "Yeah, I'll take ya there." I looked at him incredulously. I was just happy as hell to get a ride to where I was going. Now, I was getting a tour guide. For free.

Twenty minutes later, I was grinning like a good tourist, with two fiberglass monstrosities behind me. Ray told me to smile as he held my camera. Mr. Bunyun stood handsomely, like a good Minnesotan, black mustache properly trimmed, gripping his axe firmly. Babe the Blue Ox reminded me of a fiberglass Holstein milk cow in my hometown. But Babe was about twice as big. It was kind of hokie, but it was genuine Americana and I had to document that I was here. After all, Heather was proud that Kansas had the biggest ball of string, and Minnesota had Paul and Babe, and Wisconsin had cheese, and Milwaukee had beer. I admit I am hokie proud.

I switched with Ray and took a picture of my benefactor standing by the mascot of his town. Then we climbed back into the '70 orange Chevy with the wood flatbed box and ambled up the street to the Motel 8. Ray pointed to the grocery store where he stocked shelves. It was a nice-looking grocery store. Everything seemed nice. Ray slicked his hair back a final time, a habit I guess, and nodded me good-bye. "Good luck, man. I hope ya git better soon. It's neat what yer doin'. Sure is." And I shook Ray's hand, grabbed my daypack from the flatbed (which had two-by-fours around the perimeter) and watched Ray, my 25-minute friend, pull away. I think he slicked his hair back before he got to the grocery store. I think.

And before me lay a bed to sleep on, and soap, and hot water, and fast-food joints all over, and I felt I had been in the woods for weeks. My spoonful was empty, and I could spoon up civilization again. I called Heather, to let her know I still existed, that I was in civilization three or four weeks sooner than expected, and that I looked forward to speaking with her instead of the voicemail.

I went over to the greasy spoon, next to the motel, and had a genuine fatboy feast. It was a little too fancy for me, and not really a greasy spoon, but I got the cheeseburger and fries, and thus made it a greasy spoon. The guy who ran the motel was very helpful when I checked in, he even offered to have the motel shuttle drive me all the way back to Coffee Pot Landing to get my gear, or dump me off to restart. I learned he was a lover of the Boundary Waters, and canoeing. And trail magic was working magnificently even if my body was not cooperating.

I called up my steamboat friends. Kathy was a nurse and Physicians Assistant. She could give me some medical thoughts. The Julia Belle was underway when I called the cellular. I felt my soul travel across the copper wires and radio waves onto the deck of the Julia Belle. My old wandering grounds way down the river. My old life that I hadn't quite escaped from. A place I would return to occasionally. But felt that I had to separate from in order to paddle my own canoe. "Good God, you're still sick? You better get some real drugs. I mean, you could be getting pneumonia or could have something else. You better get to the doctor again." I later learned she was theorizing I might have meningitis.

That was it, I was heading south to get well. The next morning, I met Jim the maintenance man. He was also the shuttle driver and, together, we drove out into the wilderness towards Coffee Pot Landing. I gathered up my gear, and looked towards the thicket of woods and thorn bushes that cradled my canoe. I would be back to paddle it, or back to pick it up sometime soon. I would hope. I was returning to the concrete jungle.