By Karl (Trout Whisperer) Seckinger
The cabin sits on a hilltop with a benched elevation of 1665 ft above sea level, north of Lake Superior. Depending on what map I look at shows an ordinary high water level of between 550 and 610 ft. We have assembled on high.From this amazing vantage point we can gaze on a clear day and see the Wisconsin shoreline, and, if were lucky the ore boats in season headed up or down lake, depending.
It’s from this cabin of highest heights we have gathered to throw a wake, for one of our own. He lived a long life. He died and we’re going to miss him. His funeral left five of us with more to say.
When you have a shirt with a tie at your buddy’s funeral, and all you really remember him wearing was black and red plaid vests, we needed to put him to rest, and us at ease, with his parting.
He would flick his cigar ashes off this deck. We all lit one in his honor. We mixed his favorite cocktail and let it sit on the table in the chair he held sway from most often. We cooked him deep fried chicken wings and beef tips. We served where he sat, and we all ate, laughed, and poured some strong ones down our respective throats.
Telling the old stories got him back out of the casket if only for the afternoon and He drug us around more deer trails, grouse woods or soggy bottomed brookie creeks than we can count so if he’s late for the pearly gates it’s almost like we were getting even with him. Just talking him up for the day, made us all feel abit better besides.
None of us were, in what the church would consider our Sunday best. But we couldn’t have been more properly attired for an old cabin in the woods wake. Boots that thumped, and showed wear, Red vests with black chromer hats and faces fully whiskered with stogies sending him smoke signals just made for a more fitting dress code.
When he was lying long in the box, he just wasn’t dressed right. So today with the fryer spitting hot oil and some of the boys reminiscing about not only his good but bad days, seems to fit.
At the real funeral, everyone gave glowing reports about a curmudgeon we dealt with, less the mortal, now today, ah, instant immortality and more as a mere human. He seems to be sitting up again as the guys go over his realness, but that just may be the cocktails influence on the boys in the room.
Well like any fine Irish wake, it’s got to end. So while we can still stand, we pour his partin glass, one sip at a time into us. You don’t waste good whiskey. His plate full of vittles gets fed one bite at a time to the dogs here lying warming the floor. Striplings of mid life bid a parting to the old master.
We snuff the cigars and damper the stove. Dogs actually rouse and wonder why we’re not staying the night. He’s gone and we have to go. But this time, he’s gone with a forested salute. I think he’s resting easier now.
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About the Author
I’m a church going brother, father of one amazing daughter. I guide in the BWCA and the Superior National Forest. I chase trout, i live in a log home that I built. Every time my fingers grow back I start a new project. I live in northeastern Minnesota, back in the boreal forest. I write for many outdoor publications in the USA and Canada. I write a weekly outdoor column for two different newspapers. I have a cd of oral stories available on Amazon.com With respect to art work, I cant even finger paint…