The burned country stopped off at the left with the range of hills. On ahead islands of dark pine trees rose out of the plain. Ernest Hemingway
You remember the smoke pouring upwards from the earth. It felt primitive. The lakes were calm and you were making good progress on the water. The planes dumping water and chemicals on the fire would begin an hour or so before you reached your camp spot. There were no train tracks around, and when you returned the following year you would not see any black grasshoppers, just a long line of charred trees. It would seem strange to be able to see the mouth of the other lake while still on the water.
As you set up your tent the planes were still dumping onto the fire. It was probably sometime near this point when he portaged through the fire. A story that would become almost legendary, timing was everything, portaging in between planes dumping water and chemicals. Luckily it was a short portage.
At your camp there was no need to ax out any roots for a spot to sleep. You had stayed in the same place last year minus the smoke and fire and planes and knew of a good spot to set things up.
Shortly after the tents were up and the canoes out of the water you rewarded yourself with a swim. You had accomplished a good amount and looked forward to dinner and some coffee later. You still smoked cigarettes at the time and enjoyed having a smoke with a cup of coffee as you watched the night engulf the water.
Later that night you felt happy and fortunate having been taught things about living outdoors. The water had been boiling for the required three minutes and you removed your green bandana from your head. Folding it once making a potholder out of it you grabbed the pot by the side and carefully poured water into the four cups. You could smell the matches in your left pocket and looked forward to that cigarette.
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