Ghosts of the Forest

Wandering through the woods enroute to the secret fishing spot, strange sights and sounds

often appear. Some sights are easily explained, others remain a mystery for years. Each trip

becomes a learning experience offering worthwhile additions to our collective memory. Strange experiences can happen on any given trip. They are often puzzling, and sometimes frightening. Many of these incidents trigger visions of ghosts from the past.

One particular outing comes to mind. The sky was clear and the air was crisp. The pebbles of

limestone, sandstone, and granite, rippled under the fast moving tannin stained water. This stretch of water always seemed to hold a wide variety of cast offs: broken plates, silverware, bricks, pots, and other rubbish. Today, it gave up a tall heavy quart size brown bottle. Upon closer inspection, the raised label was still intact. It read, “Upper Peninsula Brewing Company. Marquette, Michigan.” What a fine brew indeed, and plenty of it to ease your mind. Who knows when it was made? What did it taste like? The bottle looked quite old. Who knows? It may have been from the previous century. Online, no records were found, no answers were given. The mystery remains.

On another journey, about a mile further downstream, a secret spot awaits. The far side of the river holds a deep undercut sandstone bank, shaded by overhanging white spruce, hard maple, and towering white pine. The opposite bank is full of thick tag alders, tangled woodbine, scattered sand cherry, and swamp hay. The vegetation is over your head. Making a careful approach from downstream is often critical to success. Once the shore is reached, a short wait will help settle things down. Time to watch and listen. No fish are rising, nor are any visible. You listen closely to a distant repeating running noise, quickly coming your way. The noise is unlike the sharp hoofbeats of a deer. You strain to hear a padding, heavy, footfall, rapidly approaching along the game trail descending from the nearby ridge. As the footfalls draw nearer and louder, heavy panting is heard. It must be a large animal running hard and almost out of breath. Judging from the panting sound, it has stopped no more than ten yards away, completely hidden in the tall grass. Time to ease off the bank and into the river, ever so quietly- but deliberate.

Then, turn around and watch the opposite shore for any sign of movement. Slowly, the panting dies down. Everything becomes very still and quiet. The animal is nowhere to be seen or heard. Moose or Bear? Who knows? Why was it on the run? Again, who knows? After several minutes passed, you had decided to take a different path home, moving quickly and quietly, powered by a rush of energy. Plan on fishing here some other time. Let this ghost of the forest be alone. Each subsequent visit triggers a memory.

Another memory concerns a wilderness canoe

trip from the distant past. Here, you recall an

intriguing mystery. Despite frequent rain showers, you had paddled steadily for ten hours or more each day. Freeze -dried food never satisfies your hunger. You wanted fish for dinner, again. The other night your party caught four huge pike, each well over thirty inches long.

Lacking a net, you had grabbed them by their eye sockets and hoisted the limp fish into the

boat. A quick thrust of the knife finished the job. The fish were neatly gutted, cut into steaks, (bones and all), then grilled over an open fire. The ensuing feast fed twelve people, until they were fully satisfied. You had burned the fish offal in the fire. Now, on the next day, you were hungry again.

Finally, you came around a huge bend in the river framed on either side by low hills of stunted black spruce, spindly aspen, and shrubby willow. Beyond the hills, majestic snow capped mountains rose up. Just below the bend, a small river entered. A circle of rundown log cabins sat on the far side. The crude hand drawn map called this place the “ Little Salmon River Trading Post.” A campsite was found for the night. Each group member had chosen a cabin.

You quickly ate a dinner of freeze dried food and finished cleaning up. Your hunger remained.

The sun continued to follow the horizon as it had for the past four hours. It was still a strange glowing red daylight at 10:30 pm. Once the sun hit the tree tops, the first pool in the small river became covered in circles made by feeding fish. It was time to hook into a real meal. Casting spinners and spoons quickly brought in a strange long silvery fish with large scales and a big mouth. It measures about two feet long. You were too tired to build a fire. So you opted to cook on the pack-stove. Once filleted, the fish was easily fried in the pan, the flesh oozed copious amounts of oil. Regardless of the oil, the fish tasted delicious. At this point, any fish would have tasted delicious. Later you learn that you have caught an “artic tarpon” locally known as a “shee fish,” or “inconnu.” This fish was highly prized by the natives.

After your second dinner, the sun has finally gone down. A huge full moon glows in its place. Your surroundings were bathed in bright silvery light and deep shadows. You howled with the wolves: you called and they answered. The wolves seemed to enjoy the howling session, even when you howled along with them. But they never showed themselves, they preferred to remain hidden in the forest. Their harmonic music was absolutely beautiful, even though it made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Then you retired to your cabin, thankful to be inside a stout building. After two weeks of sleeping on the ground, this night had promised to be a luxurious slumber.

You had lain on the bedsprings of the iron bed, stared at the wooden ceiling, and listened to the ticking fire in the woodstove. The local mice had commenced their nightly foraging. Sleep came slowly. The cabin remained almost entirely serviceable: featuring iron framed beds, glass paned windows, wooden cupboards, and a functioning woodstove. Down the shore, there was a small native cemetery of mini- houses. Each house was four feet by four feet by one foot, with small windows, and a peaked roof. What kind of people lived here? What event caused the demise of this remote settlement? Nobody present was able to answer this question. You had slept soundly to the sounds of rippling waters and strange whispering voices. Perhaps the ghosts of previous residents may have had a story to tell.

The next morning, you had blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Your party shoved off from the

Little Salmon Trading Post into the strong current of the Yukon River. The river trip will soon end. Pictures and words will never fully describe all you have seen. Over forty years later, the memories still remain vivid. The demise of the trading post was left as a mystery to all of us. Or was it?

Recently, while reading a guide book featuring “Canoeing the Yukon River”, mention was made of the old “Salmon River Trading Post”. The book stated that the post had thrived during the Alaskan Gold Rush and remained viable for several years afterward. Then in 1918, the entire settlement was wiped out by the influenza pandemic. The post was abandoned soon thereafter.

All that remains today are the scattered cabins, the cemetery, and the ghosts of the forest.

Just as in the Influenza Pandemic of 1918, the aftershocks of the Covid Pandemic are still with us today. Collectively and individually, everyone lost something during the recent plague. How were we changed? Today, many of us still avoid crowds. Some habitually wear masks in public.

The latest vaccines are sought out by most, yet avoided by others. Many seek solace in the

most remote forests and waters. Have we seen all of this before? When will our fears end?

When will we become ghosts of the forest?