Week 3

Sun., 8/15
I'm writing this early today. It's about 5:00 in the afternoon. Today has been the day I asked for--sunny, dry and restful. I'm sitting at a picnic table in the rest area. I've just had a cup of coffee. I'm camped where I was last night, and I've spent the day getting myself and my things clean and dry.

I'm still tired. I don't think I've been getting enough sleep. It's too cold, and I'm tossing all night trying to stay warm. I heard a weather forecast yesterday for rain come Monday. If it brings a warm front through, I'll be thankful for it.

Beside cleaning, I haven't done much. I sat reading Auden as my clothes were drying. I understand little, but I like the way the words go by, and, at times, I almost catch significance. It's a little like this trip.

It's the beginning of week 3.

Mon., 8/16 (written on Tuesday)
Well, the rain started during the night, but it was light, and, for the most part, I slept through it. By dawn it started in earnest, and I spent the first hours of the day in huddle trying to keep dry. When it finally let up a bit, I made for the rest area and the shelter of the canopy over the drinking fountain. It wasn't a thundershower. It was one of those sullen days when there is no pitch of blue, and you never see the sun. It was still a summer rain, not cold, but continuous. It's the kind of day that will soak you through.

Eventually, hunger and the possibility of food in Hawkins got me moving, and I took off east on Hwy 8 in a light shower. It's maybe a three mile walk. I do two of them and who stops but the same young woman I liked so who gave me the ride to Jump River. Her boyfriend is now driving a second car behind her. It turns out she has been visiting family in the area and is now on her way back to Rhinelander and her job.

She drives me the last mile, offers me a pack of cigarettes, which I accept, and another beer, which I decline, and parts. I don't know who she is, but she is bright.

So, I'm in Hawkins and discover that I have $12 still in my account, more than I expected. I call the bank, and they are able to forgive $22.50 of the $45 in late fees. I'm a wealthy man. The BP station has bulk goods, and the local grocery store has cheese, bread, garlic, tomato and pepper. I have all the food I can carry, and a $10 bill. Nothing in the bank. I avoid the worst of a heavier rain drinking coffee and munching on M&M chocolate chip cookies inside the gas station. When it lets up a little, I go out to pack up my purchases. I'm just about finished, and it's still raining steadily, when a young man, about 30, comes up, and we begin talking. He invites me over to his home for coffee. I accept.

Mike and his wife are both from Wisconsin, but have been living out in Las Vegas for some 12 years. They have returned to Wisconsin and set up a home in Hawkins a little over a year ago. He makes neon signs and is self employed, although there's not allot of work here. His wife weaves and paints on fabric, but is off working at a job she hates in some sort of clothing factory not far away. We spend the rest of the morning and early afternoon talking about a wide range of things while drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and eating waffles. He has DSL, and I am able to check my email (nothing) and show Mike my paintings, which he likes. All and all, I don't think I could have imagined a more pleasant way to pass the rain.

It's about 3:00. The rain has stopped, though it's still overcast. Mike shows me his garage studio which is impressive--heat arcs for bending glass, vacuum pumps and vials of inert gasses. He shows me some of the things he's working on, and they burn brighter than other signs I've seen. Mike says that he's able to get a high degree of vacuum and take out many of the impurities that dim a neon light. I suspect he's good at what he does. I ask him to send me an email (he wants to show his wife my work) and that maybe, some time, we could do some sort of collaboration. We part. This has been the second great blessing of the day.

I start up County Road M toward the Flambeau State Forest, and before I walk a 1/4 mile, a Mexican/American man asks if I want a ride. He's just getting off work at the window factory in Hawkins and has begun his 50 mile commute homeward. He drives me 20 miles and lets me off at the Conner's Lake campgrounds. It's about 5:00. I start walking, but none of this is on the map I carry, and I can't find any other. I leave the Conner's Lake grounds and find a road that takes me past some beautiful, and expensive, homes that surround the lake. Eventually, I come to an intersection with a sign saying "Lake of the Pines Campground" pointing. I take it.

It's a good walk, but I reach the campgrounds. The road I've taken ends here. It's a State Campground and completely empty. I arrive at one of the sites, and as the light begins to fade, I gather the driest wood I can find. With the help of a "fire starter" sold here, I'm able to get it to burn and will have a nice fire for the evening.

While water is heating for some noodles, I take a look at the lake. It's beautiful. I can't remember any other lake in Wisconsin I've seen that isn't surrounded by homes and cottages. This one is empty, serene and fine.

I set up camp in the woods about 100 yards from the official site, return to the fire ring for dinner and after, before the fire in a pitch black night, I sit with my guitar and wonder.

Tues., 8/17
I've just finished yesterday's entry. The day is still overcast with the look of rain at any moment. I've lit another fire for coffee, prepared wood for tonight's fire and learned that to continue my journey, I'll need to backtrack to the intersection I came across yesterday and turn in the other direction than I figured to reach the Flambeau River and a Ranger Station where I hope to find some directions.

Everything is damp again, but I like it here. We'll see what the day brings.

On Freedom (art)

I have long thought that each of the professions, when done well, have their own special virtue and that people pursuing their different jobs can become exemplars of particular qualities. For example, the profession of medicine has the virtue of healing; carpentry that of the solid foundation and being four-square; law, justice; arms, courage, duty and sacrifice. I would say the virtue of the profession of art, in this time, is freedom, but although I practice this profession, I do not know what freedom is.

Human life is constrained in so many directions that it is difficult to imagine how the concept of freedom even came to be. We must eat, sleep, breath, be born, die--we have no choice in these matters. We can see the stars, but we cannot go there. We can imagine great things, but we are limited to what is.

It is possible that our word, freedom, only exists as a trick of language. It needs to be placed in opposition to another word to attain any sort of meaning. So, freedom is the absence of necessity, just as darkness is the absence of light. If this is so, then there is no such thing as pure freedom. You can't kick it like a stone and say, "This is it"; rather, it always exists in relation. You cannot say, "This is free", you can only say, "This is more free". In this sense, out of all the jobs that people do, the profession of art is the job with the fewest restraints. People say, "You can't do that", and the artist does it anyway. He is free.

On the other hand, it is the restraints that we place on a thing that give it definition. Necessity defines. Art, as the profession with the least restraint, is also the least defined; so that, many think that anyone can proclaim themselves an artist and anything can become a work of art by the mere saying that it is so. But, this is not true.

A work of art is a saying out loud, it expresses something. It only has power when another can come to it and say, "Yes, I recognize what this says. It expresses for me something that I think or feel." The artist, as artist, is not a person; rather, he or she is the voice of a society or culture. People outside of the maker of an object must say, "This is art" for it to be so. An individual must receive the title, artist, from others. It may be that this happens only after the individual is dead, and when alive that individual may say, "I am an artist", but this is only the expression of his faith that, while few may do so now, at some time people will say this of him.

It is a matter of level then. A painting, for example, is made by an individual, and is appreciated or not by individuals, but it requires the affirmation of others before it becomes art. Art is communication. A work of art is analogous to a word. I can make up a sound and repeat it to myself as many times as I wish, but it has no meaning until another hears the sound I make, finds meaning in it and uses it. When enough people are able to find meaning in my sound, it can become a word. People can differ in their judgment about when general usage changes a sound into a word, and there's nothing that requires the meaning I ascribe to the sound I make be the same as others find. What is analogous to a work of art is that there exists some point of translation that lifts a work to the status of art. Art is defined by a society, a culture or, in the case of the greatest works, by the species. An individual can make a painting, but cannot make a work of art.

The artist then, while more free than any other profession to ignore all rules and customs, must take on the necessity to produce something that will allow another to find meaning. This can be done in two ways. Either the artist can pick up the restraints placed upon the work by one of the many established traditions or schools within his field of endeavor and, working within those restraints, produce something readily recognizable by the viewer and so is art by predefinition, or the artist needs to dig deep within and find the style that can carry the weight of his own expression. I believe this is the longer journey, and the one with the greater promise of reward. It produces a work which the viewer will not immediately recognize. In fact, its first appearance may seem jarring, or meaningless. But, with time, the viewer may begin to see themselves within this vision and come to find meaning. This meaning may be more profound than that found in the traditionalist's work because we live in time and the means of expression developed in one historical period may be unable to carry the nuances of another.

The artist working in this manner walks by faith and not by sight. His basic creed is that what is significant to his innermost self can strike chords in the self of the other, as if our selves were facades over a deeper unity. This is a spiritual discipline, and there are rules to which the diver must adhere to remain alive.

The only freedom then to which the artist can lay claim is the freedom to choose his own regulations. All are under the law, even if it be the law of grace.

There does exist, however, another kind of freedom, and to this art may lay claim. It is the freedom to do what one loves, a rare and precious thing. In this sense, art is no special occupation. It is rather a state of being in love with one's doing. We can then speak of the art of medicine, the art of war, of love, or, the highest art, that of life. To the extent that one loves what one does, "The artist is not a special kind of person; rather, every person is a special kind of artist." (Coomaraswamy).

Tues., 8/17 (afternoon)
It's later in what has been a restful day. The clouds broke earlier without any more rain. There's still a wind and haze to the sky that suggests the possibility of a storm, but for now, it's clear.

I'm cooking up what I hope will be an especial feast tonight with rice and beans, Ramen noodles and cheese, pepper and garlic. We'll see. I've one small pot to do it in.

So, although unplanned, today has been a rest day. I've done some writing, sat and just taken it easy.

This morning more cars arrived, including one with a boat. They've been roaring over here and there all day, first attempting to fish and then skiing. Personally I don't see the appeal to this--run this way, wait 5, run that way--sort of thing. But, who's to say. They probably see little of interest in the way I spend my time. Is one way correct, the other some sort of aberration? At least my way doesn't disturb, or disturbs very little, but the entire lake knew when they arrived and when they left. Bears growl, wolves howl and man starts his engines--king of the forest. Good? Bad? You tell the spirit by the fruits.

Now that the boat has landed, the loon has begun its strange, strange cry.

Wed., 8/18
The sun is almost gone. I'm sitting on a hill overlooking the Flambeau. It's cool tonight with a wind. I'm sheltered by a large white pine someone has cut down. Sitting, only the top of my head is higher than the trunk. I've laid out my blankets beside it and put on everything I have in the pack hoping to stay warm tonight. It feels like there could be a frost.

There is no moon these days and last night staying up late with a camp fire, I learned that the batteries were gone on my flashlight, and I couldn't find the path to my campsite; so, I spent the night on top of the picnic table and didn't sleep well.

The day started sunny, and I began walking. It was a little disconcerting because after being on the highway that led to the park headquarters, I soon started a forest trail heading north to Oxbow and immediately found myself walking in a completely different environment for the rest of the day. It's been the first time on this journey that I have walked a significant distance through a forest.

Throughout this trip, I've been seeing eagles, and I've taken them to be the symbol and augury of this journey, but today while walking through deep woods, I became aware of how few times I have risen to a vista. By far, the majority of my time has been an immersion in green.

The Flambeau River is beautiful. It isn't spectacular, at least not here. It runs slow and wide, but it runs through undeveloped forest. It looks like rivers must have looked before the American settlement. It's nice to see.

The land is still relatively flat with trees everywhere, mostly maple, birch and different evergreens. This forest doesn't seem to be as harvested as the Southern Chequamegon. It's surprising to see that forest trees seem etiolated--they reach tall and have few lower limbs. They look much different than the front yard maples you see further south. A great number have fallen, presumably from wind storms, and some have left skeletons in bizarre shapes.

I've been finding particularly beautiful the different fungi, surprised by the varieties of shapes and color.

The wind had died now that the sun has set. It's calm here. I don't know whether it was because of my difficult night last night, or the strong wind moving through all those trees, but I have had a sense of something afoot today, as if some big change has occurred, and I've yet to know what it is.

You can sense autumn in the air here, and already an occasional branch of some tree will be brilliant color. This area must be incredible in a few weeks' time.

One other thing, After I got on the hiking trail, about a mile in, it began again to rain.

I see it now, low in the sky through the trees, a new moon.

Thur., 8/19
Again, it's late. The sun has set. And again, I'm tired. It has been a hard day. It's difficult to tell, but perhaps one of the hardest.

It was cold last night. I don't think I'm sleeping enough. The day began clear with a strong, cool west wind that didn't let up. I had only a short distance to go to reach Oxford on Hwy 70. It is a resort with cabins, canoes etc.. I didn't stop. Instead, I turned due West for Loretta.

I believe the map says seven miles, but I found it very hard. I hadn't eaten much. Most of the food I have needs cooking, and the wind was too strong and the plants too close for a campfire. Plus it was a straight walk into the wind with my guitar case flying like a kite.

In any event, it was a long, hard hike.

When I finally made it to Loretta, it was about 4:00. I tried, but was unable to reach B. I was able to find, to my relief, that I have over $500 in my bank account--about $200 more than expected. I was able to use the bank card at the local gas station and pick up some supplies. I then went to the local bar and had a pot of coffee, some chicken strips and fries with my last bit of cash. It was a friendly crew.

That done, I again tried B, without success and headed up GG toward Clam Lake. I was told that there is a campground about three miles up the road with water. I found the site, but not the water.

This is where I am now writing. I have a nice fire going which I hope will help with the evening cold. Water will be a problem, but the only other person here was able to fill 1/2 of my bottle with his supply. The bar had talk of elk up this road, along with bear, timber wolves, badger, wolverine and a member of the mink family called a fisher--supposedly a particularly vicious critter. The bar tender suggested a club, which I have, and the woman who I assume is the wife doesn't like it--going out in the wild.

Here I be.

Fri., 8/20
Once again, I've set up camp late, and it will soon be too dark to write.

I crossed into Ashland County today.

I took it easy this morning, talking with the old man who gave me more water; so, I had plenty for my travels. An interesting codger.

I walked about eight miles when, sitting on the side for a rest, a woman stopped and offered a ride into Clam Lake. In my rush to get my things together, I lost my glasses--a big loss.

I entered Clam Lake around 4:00 and tried again to call B, again no luck. I spent two and a half hours there, sending much too much money.

I was able to get another blanket from a kindly couple who have a sort of junk shop there--$1. Tonight, frost is forecast, and I still haven't been sleeping well. I hope this will help.

I'm at a National Forest campsite just out of Clam Lake. It's full of families on vacation, kids laughing, some guy pounding away for firewood, sounds like another guy is trying a sing-along--it's a regular city. So much different than what I've been accustomed to.

Sat., 8/21 (morning)
I'm sitting beside an ATV trail off County Road GG about a mile north of where I spent the night.

First off, the extra blanket was a true God-send. I woke up a few times during the night feeling cold, but overall I feel like I slept better than I have in weeks.

It's a sunny, warm day, and, from first impressions, I like Ashland County. The trees seem bigger and the earth has begun to show through the covering of dust and green--there are large boulders about and creeks that run through rock. I'm certain that the sun helps my liking. I have the feeling that to get wet and then cold here would be a serious chill.

I wanted to remember the old man with the water at Camp Loretta. He's in his 70's, a retired carpenter with no pension. He lives on his social security check--about $560 a month. He was born in Wisconsin, but lives in Chicago and comes up here Augusts to do nothing. In Chicago he circulates around the flea markets, buying things, fixing them and then selling. He carries two fishing poles to give to kids that don't have one.

He says he has 40 offspring. He had 11 children with his wife of 32 years. She said she was tired, they divorced, and he has battled the IRS and alimony since. He worked for the last 16 years of his working time for the School Board of Chicago--made good money, but has none now.

It's hard to catch him in words. He says he fought the IRS, but wouldn't get a lawyer ("all crooked"). He could have gotten things straight had he gone to some Congressman and asked for it, but he wouldn't go begging to anyone. He says that all large organizations, whether public or private, have incredible amounts of waste. An interesting, solitary man.

This morning, just before leaving the National Forest Campgrounds, I had a conversation with a man that sold his business of 34 years and now has moved to the Dells where he practices the "Course in Miracles". He and his wife are just returning from a miraculous trip in Bayfield.

He says the idea is to clear the mind of ideas of what the day will be and allow the miraculous to happen.

evening
I don't know why it was so hard today, but it was. I know I added a few pounds to the pack with the new blanket and the food I bought. Also, although it was only about 8 miles, I think, it was all uphill. Clam Lake must lie in some huge basin, although I don't recall climbing down to enter it. I'm rising to Lake Superior as if, whatever formed it, sent waves out through the Earth.

Sunny and warm today. I'll probably need to do laundry again before it rains.

I'm at the Mineral Lake National Forest Campground. It's full. Kids, dogs and evening talk as the sun sets.

                                                                                                            Week 4