Frost Lake became Justin’s best place.
He had intended to day-trip there and return to his base camp in the evening, and he did. He decided to return the next day, with one hastily packed Duluth pack and enough provisions to stay overnight.
He left early on the second day, before full light, so that he would have all day to explore the place.
There were only two campsites on the lake. One was at the southernmost point, close to the end of the last small portage. Justin had been relieved to find the day before that, as he had guessed, the majority of these mini-portages were under water and did not require either walking and/or carrying.
What had looked like six portages had been reduced to two. The larger of the two was the last one, which was still only twelve rods long. From the start of it he could see Frost Lake beckoning through a dark patch of tall hemlock trees.
With his Duluth pack on his back, his life jacket/kneeling pad strapped to the seat, and his paddle wedged firmly into the side of the boat, Justin picked up his canoe, flipped it up and onto his shoulders, and began to walk two hundred feet up and down a gentle hill, over a dense bed of needles.
It was over before it began. He was at the site of the first Frost Lake campsite.
It looked as unimpressive today as it had the previous day.
He would be moving on. Right after he had moved his bowels.
As far as wilderness man Justin Everly was concerned, camping came with one major downside. He could easily live with bugs and dirt and long portages and longer solitude. But he could kill for a clean bathroom and a toilet that flushed.
Instead of these luxuries, Justin was obliged to patronize the thunderbox, a hole in the ground with a vaguely toilet-shaped box and seat situated on top. Each active campsite had one.
The problem for Justin was that the abandoned/decommissioned sites that he favored had thunderboxes in a sorry state of evolution—or devolution. So, he chose to do his crapping on the run, using active campsites like rest stops, picking when he could use the more popular ones and then swiftly moving on.
But there were some instances where he could not be so choosy. On the edge of Frost Lake, at the conclusion of an absurdly easy portage, nature called.
The path away from the campsite toward the thunderbox went uphill and was demarcated by the rotted remains of an old paddle propped against a tree and crowned with a roll of toilet paper sealed tight and dry in a Ziploc bag. This was expected camping procedure. What was unexpected was the thoughtful addition of a red disposable lighter and a rolled joint secreted inside the bag.
What also bucked tradition was the presence of a small rucksack lying against another nearby tree. Justin took the plastic bag and its contents up the path to the makeshift toilet.
He also took the rucksack.
As custom dictated, he laid the paddle on the ground across the path to indicate both occupation and the desire for privacy.
At the end of the path, he sat down with his swim shorts around his ankles and fired up the joint. The view was unexpectedly far and the weed was both fresh and of exceptional quality.
From where he sat, he could see beyond the hemlocks an example of the controlled burns that took place each spring. A section of nearby woodland was mostly charred stumps standing like gravestones, garnished with only the sparsest of new forest greenery.
He had exhausted the views from his throne. There was no longer any refuge from his curiosity.
He opened the rucksack.
Inside was yet another large Ziploc bag to add to his stash. Inside the large Ziploc bag was a handgun.
Had Ruger GP100 not been clearly visible on the side, Justin would have been unable to identify what he held in his hand. It looked brand new. Justin knew enough to recognize that the gun was a revolver. It was surprisingly small and heavy. Justin’s hand wasn’t especially big. The wooden handle fitted cozily inside it.
Justin opened the cylinder and found exactly what he expected to find. He removed the bullets without daring to breathe and then carefully closed it. Once it was closed he looked for a safety catch on the gun. There didn’t appear to be one. He put the bullets inside the bag.
Then he made himself breathe again.
Justin felt a little sick. Whether it was finding a loaded gun, or the fact that he hadn’t smoked decent weed in a while, he was unable to say.
He and his friend Dylan had shot sporting clays with the church kids once. He’d had fun, and he’d shot well for a first-timer, he was told. It had been a cold spring day. They had drunk hot chocolate with little marshmallows in paper cups afterwards. He’d never gone back.
In the days following the trip, several church parents had questioned the appropriateness of a church-sanctioned shooting activity. Not the parents of the kids who had attended the shoot; those parents had all signed permission slips. Justin had, as usual, forged his father’s signature.
Justin finished the joint and walked back toward the campsite and the lake. He lifted the paddle from the ground and replaced it against the tree.
He was still holding the gun and the lighter and the toilet paper and two Ziploc bags.
He put the gun inside the bag with the bullets, and the toilet paper and the lighter in the other bag, before placing that bag back on the top of the paddle for the next patron. He opened his Duluth pack, placed the Ziploc with the gun and the bullets inside, and closed it up.
Had he forgotten something? He looked around, then waited until it came to him: He’d left the rucksack at the thunderbox.
He considered his options. He’d taken everything that was inside it. He could leave it where it was. He could put it back where he’d found it. Or he could take it with him. He made up his mind quickly.
Justin considered himself an expert in assessing the amount of use portages and campsites received. The short portage to Frost Lake was rarely frequented, as was the first campsite. Given the beauty of the lake, Justin was surprised, but, as he considered the remoteness and the paucity of campsites, he was less surprised.
And yet this remote spot boasted a handy bag with weed and toilet paper provided. Plus, a shiny new weapon.
At that moment Justin arrived back at the facilities. The rucksack was right where he left it. He picked it up and looked inside. As he had thought, there was nothing else inside. The bag looked new. He thought for a split second of leaving some money inside it for the gun, and he almost laughed out loud.
That weed had been strong.
He decided to take the rucksack.
Justin noticed that the path to the thunderbox went a little way past it, and this he followed for as far as it went, perhaps another fifty feet or so, when it abruptly came to an end.
Another thing that Justin was rapidly becoming expert at was sensing, mostly with the aid of his nose, the presence of recent death. He sensed it at the end of the path, and when he considered whether to explore more, to determine the natural (or otherwise) source, or to take off, he chose the latter.
With the empty rucksack safely secreted in his pack, newly armed and unexpectedly stoned, Justin Everly set sail across Frost Lake, away from the smell of death and his own shit.
The second campsite was situated near the midpoint of the lake, on the western shore. There was a spit of sand running perpendicular to the coastline, with a wooden table and two rows of bench seats constructed in one solid piece and anchored into the outstretched sand. Further inland, beyond the sand spit, stood a raised rock outcrop, with a fire pit plainly visible near the summit.
There were three trees on the rock; all pines in raggedy condition.
Justin had been to the site yesterday. There was a stronger breeze on the water today. There would be an even stiffer breeze up there. And there would be few insects. He had brought a tent, but he weighed sleeping out on the rock tonight. It would grow cold fast, but he had his toasty sleeping bag to zip up in.
It was the prettiest place on the prettiest lake, and he had it all to himself.