Through
the dining
room windows
of the Douglas
Lodge, Lake
Itasca glows
in the morning
mist, a deep
pool of memory
my brother and
I have come
here to tap.
It’s been
thirty-five
years since
I’ve been
back, but time
here has
frozen. The
breakfast
plates drip
with buttery
hash-browns,
eggs and
bacon,
sausages and
pancakes as if
it were still
1963, not
mid-July,
2001. In
ordering a
bagel I’ve
committed a
faux-pas. It’s
been savaged
in the kitchen
in response to
my sin, basted
with a pastry
brush and now
stares up at
me, sodden
with butter, a
packet of
cream cheese
on the side.
I remember the
story my
brother, Tom,
told me of his
visit here one
year ago, how
on entering
the gift shop
with our
brother,
Steve, the
cashier had
looked up and
said with
conviction,
“You’re the
Coles,” had
looked right
past their
graying hair
and burly
forms and,
peeling back
the years, had
seen before
her two young
boys, the
faculty kids
who would come
from Arizona
to these
Minnesota
woods when the
biology
station opened
in June. And
so it’s been
everywhere we
turn—the
culvert, the
graveyard, the
bathing beach,
the crappie
hole—an eerie
stasis,
memories
surfacing as,
years before,
my father
would haul up
his dredge,
uncovering
from the lake
bottom fairy
shrimp,
daphnia,
copepod.
Now, we’re
here for birds
as well as
memories. We
head back to
our room for
our field
glasses,
butter and
wood smoke
scenting the
air. Inside,
we gather
field guides
and notebooks,
hang
binoculars
from our
necks, and set
out from our
spartan room,
narrow twin
beds, a
dresser, a
fan, and no
TV. Were there
one, I’d be
tuning in CNN,
as I’ve been
doing all
month long,
following the
search for
Chandra Levy
through the
urban wilds of
Washington.
The TV images
fill my head,
policemen
fanning out in
Rock Creek
Park;
corpse-sniffing
dogs searching
boarded-up
buildings;
Chandra,
smiling from
the dining
room table;
Chandra, eyes
closed, curls
entangled on
her mother’s
head; Chandra,
twenty-four
and maybe
alive. Our
search is more
hopeful. Last
year Tom saw
the
chestnut-sided
warbler, a
true
life-lister,
and now wants
me to see it
too. We know
it’s out
there, but
patience and
diligence and
plain dumb
luck will
determine if
it makes my
morning list.
We begin at
our old
haunts, the
faculty cabins
and the long,
straight
walkway past
the student
cabins to the
dining hall.
Here, we spent
hours playing
ping-pong and
listening to
Rubber Soul
back in 1963,
five Cole kids
and our close
companion,
Bill
Underhill, son
of an
ichthyologist
from St. Paul,
a strong,
lanky teen who
moved between
my preteen
brothers—fishing,
boating, and
roaming the
woods—and my
teenaged
sister and me.
Bill
life-guarded
at the bathing
beach, Bill
introduced us
to bog and
fire-tower and
Yeti lore.
Bill gave us
his picture,
bare-chested
in his cabin,
lifting
weights. I
have it still,
the sinewy
boy, face
contorted with
the strain.
His memory
infuses this
place.
There’s a bend
in the park
road that
calls up for
Tom every time
we pass it
Bill’s
encounter
there with
some young
hoods. “I was
sitting right
there,” Tom
recalls. “I
thought there
would be a
fight, that
Bill was so
tough.” But
when the hoods
demanded,
“Where’re you
from?” Bill
swaggered,
then fizzled:
“What’s it to
you? St.
Paul.” All
these years
we’ve
remembered
that retort,
Tom, as if it
were happening
before him,
and I, as it
was told to
me, Bill’s
bravado. Then,
one Christmas,
a card arrived
from the
Underhills,
“Have you seen
Bill?” He had
left a party,
headed home to
St. Paul, then
turned up
missing.
“Please call
us if you hear
from him.” And
then, the next
year, a
Christmas card
with the same
request. And
then nothing
more.
Now, Tom has a
kingbird in
his sights. I
raise my
glasses to the
spot and fall
into the
rhythm of
birding,
scanning the
canopy,
zeroing in,
calling out
coordinates
then, finally,
looking in
tandem. We see
red-breasted
nuthatches
spiraling down
pine trees;
song and
chipping
sparrows; cat
birds, like
mockingbirds
in yarmulkes;
great blue
herons;
ring-billed
gulls and
cedar
waxwings; barn
swallows in
frenzied
flight; black
ducks with
chicks; an
immature bald
eagle and,
bright against
the foliage, a
scarlet
tanager. We
check each
bird against
the drawings
in our field
guide, confirm
its markings
and its range,
then press a
mental “Enter”
key to file it
away. In
birding, I
realize, much
of the
pleasure is
after the
fact—the
checking and
recording—as
Tom and I will
do tonight
over Summit
Ales, writing
in our
notebooks this
first “day’s
list” then
three day’s
hence our
consolidated
“trip lists”
and finally,
at home alone,
our now
enhanced “life
lists,” each
new bird
recorded in
the back of
our field
guides until
one day,
ideally, we’ll
have seen them
all. Birds,
unlike people,
require but
one sighting.
If we fail to
see the
chestnut-sided
warbler, if
every
chestnut-sided
warbler
vanished
suddenly from
the earth, Tom
would still
have it,
marked on his
life list,
written in
stone.
Our wanderings
have brought
us to the
faculty cabins
where we meet
two biologists
coming from
the dock. They
know of our
father and
tell us the
news: Jim
Underhill has
died. I
register the
details—cancer,
last
August—but am
jarred by the
symmetry. One
man, like my
father, is
from ASU; the
other, like
Jim, from the
U of M. They
could be our
own fathers,
thirty years
back, Bill’s
and ours, who
had stood on
this very
spot, speaking
in their
summer tongue,
a Latiny
jargon, as
we’d run by.
And strangely,
before these
men, Tom and I
remain faculty
kids, though
we’re ten
years their
seniors, at
home are
faculty
ourselves. In
the pause that
follows I ask
the
Minnesotan,
“Did they ever
find out what
happened to
Bill?” He
stares at me
blankly. “His
son,” I add,
“who vanished
in the
sixties.” “I’m
sorry,” he
answers, “I
hadn’t heard
about that.”
And I am truly
shocked—that
Bill’s story
had been
swallowed up
with him, his
slate wiped
clean,
especially
here at Lake
Itasca where
bends in park
roads play
back voices
and clerks see
visions of our
childhood
selves;
especially
now, with
Chandra’s
mystery
filling the
airwaves and
newsmen
dredging up
the long-cold
case—Jimmy
Hoffa, Etan
Patz, Amelia
Earhart,
Ambrose
Bierce—or the
merely cool:
Jill Behrman,
who went for a
bike ride in
May of 2000
and never came
back; Matthew
Pendergrast,
whose SUV,
clothes,
wallet, and
money turned
up last
December in an
Arkansas
swamp,
everything but
him. How,
then, could
Bill’s name
ring no bells,
not even in
the halls of
his father’s
department,
not even by
the shores of
this mnemonic
lake?
Feeling
awkward, we
change the
subject to one
as dear to us
as Bill and
warblers:
Cabin Four,
our old summer
home. It
appears to be
vacant; do
they think we
could go
inside? They
tell us what
we long to
hear: not only
is it vacant,
it’s unlocked.
It’s as if
they’d
announced an
extraordinary
sighting—the
red-cockaded
woodpecker,
the
coppery-tailed
trogon. We’re
off in a flash
to revisit
Cabin Four.
As the door
swings open,
whole decades
dissolve.
Inside it’s
still the
sixties, the
same log
walls,
fireplace,
tiny bathroom,
and
two-bedroom
loft where we
children
slept. It’s
all still
present, Jeff
sleepwalking
on the
balcony, our
father calling
out the
species as a
bird sounds
from the
thicket, the
boys at
midnight
throwing
pillows at an
errant bat,
our mother,
heading out
for groceries
in Park
Rapids. For
her, these
summers must
have felt like
golden times
that she could
bottle up and
carry with
her. In the
late seventies
she made a
cardboard
replica of
Cabin Four,
then built the
real thing
with my father
and anyone
who’d come to
help outside
Flagstaff,
Arizona, their
retirement
home.
Now, these
rooms
transport me
in space as
well as time.
As I gaze up
at the
balcony, I
feel both lake
and mountain
at my back;
upon turning
feel as likely
to see, black
before me, the
slopes of Mt.
Humphrey as
Itasca’s
shores. And my
children, I
think, who’ve
never seen
Itasca, but
summered in
Flagstaff,
would bask
here as I do,
in this
cabin’s glow,
pre-Vietnam,
early Beatles.
It’s been an
eventful day,
despite that
gap on our
morning
list—the
chestnut-sided
warbler—its
slot more than
filled by
Cabin Four.
And the next
days continue
true to form.
In the
graveyard
through a
light rain, we
see
white-breasted
nuthatches,
eastern wood
peewees, downy
woodpeckers,
chimney
swifts, a
yellow
warbler, an
American
redstart, a
red-shafted
flicker, a
black-capped
chickadee, and
a red-eyed
vireo. Down a
lonely back
road toward
the Loonsong B
& B, we
pick up ticks,
and a
rose-breasted
grosbeak,
then, yellow
through the
high grass, an
American
goldfinch. By
an old cabin
in the park,
Tom calls out
a bird I’ve
never seen,
the
Blackburnian
warbler, as he
does so
recalling the
words of our
father who
said of some
naturalist,
Tom forgets
who, “He saw
the
Blackburnian
warbler, and
it changed his
life.” Tom
repeats the
quote. And in
its cadence I
too hear my
father’s
voice, “Bring
the glasses to
your eyes,” a
birding
fundamental,
while sensing
how feeble my
memories are,
how sparse,
compared to
Tom’s, which
form a rich,
dense foliage
through which
we peer. For
three days in
fact, as much
as looking
I’ve been
listening to
the voices
that Tom
replays: the
cashier’s, my
father’s,
Bill’s, and
even Jim’s.
Our last
summer at
Itasca, after
Bill’s
disappearance,
Tom remembers
asking Jim if
they’d heard
from him and
his chilling
reply, “We
don’t expect
to be hearing
from Bill,”
hope, like
some lost
lure, sunk in
the profundal
ooze.
Our time
running out
here, we
wander down to
the dock at
dusk and watch
the fireflies
floating
through the
cattails. A
loon calls
from across
the lake,
haunting and
distant. I
remember the
summer before
when, sleeping
on the roof of
the Flagstaff
house, I awoke
to coyote
cries in no
way dog-like,
impossibly
high-pitched,
wild and
manic, “like
laughter,” I
had thought
then, “almost
like loons.”
And as I tell
Tom this
story, the
loon sounds
again, but
this time I’m
hearing
coyotes; then
unmistakably
it’s the loon,
until Tom
solves the
mystery: it’s
both coyotes
and a loon,
the dog pack
answering the
lonely call,
our two Cabin
Fours
distilled into
sound.
Sunday morning
at the Douglas
Lodge, our
last buttery
breakfast
consumed, our
bags
half-packed,
we decide to
spend our
final hour
here birding
in a leafy
grove just
beyond the
dining room.
As I’m zeroing
in on a
yellow-bellied
sapsucker, Tom
cries, “There
it is. That’s
it. The
chestnut-sided
warbler.” And
for five slow
minutes it
lingers in our
view, weaving
in and out of
leaves, but
staying in one
tree,
perfectly in
focus, at one
point,
obligingly,
hopping onto a
leafless
branch and
turning to
expose its
chestnut
streak. This
is just too
much, I think,
this plum of a
sighting, here
at the
eleventh hour,
life, as it
often does,
mirroring art:
loose ends
tied up; in
the final
chapter,
quests
fulfilled. And
were this trip
a text, I know
what would
follow: our
warbler
sighted,
Chandra would
be found, as a
necessary
adjunct to its
design. But
this is life,
where all is
random, this
sighting mere
coincidence,
its timing
pure
irrelevance,
on this July
day, in these
Minnesota
woods, on this
small blue
planet
hurtling
through space.
Walking back
to our room
with Tom, I
think of
Chandra, and I
think of Bill,
of open ends
and hanging
threads, of
mystery and
hope and faith
and the wisdom
sometimes of
letting go.
But there’s
something
bothering me,
one thing I
have to know.
I wonder all
the way
through the
car ride to
the airport,
and all
through the
plane ride
back to New
Orleans,
through the
parking garage
and the car
ride home,
through the
piled-up
papers and the
wagging dog.
Once inside I
boot up my
computer and
punch in the
words,
“Minneapolis
Star,” select
“Archives,”
“Obituaries,”
“August,
2000,” “James
Underhill.”
Then I skim
through the
praises of
colleagues,
“an exemplary
role model,”
“an avid
gardener,” “a
first-class
guy,” and
those of Mary,
a daughter
whom I don’t
recall: “sharp
wit and
banter,”
“warm,
generous and
compassionate,”
“We’d call him
our
Renaissance
man.” But what
I really want
will be below.
I scroll to
the bottom and
find what I
feared I
would: “In
addition to
his daughter,
survivors
include his
wife, Anne of
St. Paul, and
another
daughter,
Sarah Holm of
Radisson,
Wisconsin.”
How could no
one have
thought to,
have needed
to, write Bill
down?
It’s late, but
I’m wide
awake. I file
away my
document and
print up a
copy to send
to Tom. Then I
walk the dog,
sift through
the mail,
peruse the
headlines, and
turn on CNN.
Unpacking my
field guide, I
flip to the
back and look
up my two new
birds, the
chestnut-sided
warbler and
the warbler
that changed a
man’s life.
With my
blackest pen,
in my finest
hand, I write
them both
down.
Cabin
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