The Treasure of Namakagon Read online

  Prologue

  May 18, 1966

  Early morning

  “It’s hard to throw away all these memories, Grandpa,” I whispered into the empty room.

  I dumped another wastebasket of his faded papers into the woodstove and struck a match. Almost a hundred years of records, receipts, memos, and other notes from the long-defunct Namakagon Timber Company were finally being put to rest. The cast iron woodstove in the old man’s workshop, once the lumber camp blacksmith shop, was perfect for the task. Two ladies from the church were on their way out to help. For now, though, the job was mine alone.

  My grandfather, Tor Loken, had passed away in his sleep on a frigid January night at the age of ninety-eight. Now, on this cheerful spring morning with birds singing and bees dancing across the lilac blossoms in the front yard, I faced the inevitable chore of cleaning out my grandfather’s home.

  This grand, old lumber camp lodge and all of my Grandpa’s land would be mine to protect just as the old Norwegian had done for so many decades. With my parents gone, I was next in line. It was my responsibility. I hoped I was up to the task.

  The bedroom had two closets. Grandma’s clothes hung in one. Neatly arranged by seasons, they remained untouched since her passing, three years earlier. I left that chore for the women from the church. In Grandpa’s closet hung several suits, an assortment of shirts and trousers, and, wedged against the wall at the far end, his red and black wool mackinaw. In the pocket, rolled up and wrinkled, was his old felt hat. I pulled the coat off the hanger and tried it on to find the elbows nearly worn through and the cuffs and collar threadbare. Stepping back, I looked into the mirror as I put on the hat. There, staring back at me was the spitting image of my grandfather, Tor Loken, when he was much younger, as strong as an ox, and the bullheaded boss of the once-thriving lumber camp.

  I gazed at the image in the mirror for a few seconds before reaching far into the closet, pulling out an old deer rifle. “Your first Winchester, Grandpa Tor,” I said softly. “I wonder how many men you fed with this back in the big timber days.” I opened the action, checked the chamber, and admired the rifle for a moment before putting it on the bed.

  Next from the closet came the double-barrel twelve-gauge Grandpa used when he took me partridge hunting. I was just a boy then. “Those were great days, Grandpa. I wish we could have one more hunt. You taught me so much.”

  Forcing back tears, I reached again into the corner of the closet, finding the old fellow’s Remington twenty-two pump, and, finally, his father’s walking stick, made for Great-grandpa Olaf by an Indian hermit who lived on the lake. He was the man who, according to the Ashland Daily Press, had paid for supplies using silver from a secret mine. The walking stick was made from ironwood, carefully whittled, top to bottom, by the steady hand and sharp knife of the old Indian chief. Images of birds and mammals wound around the shaft. A whitetail buck could be seen escaping from two wolves. A bear reached high for wild currants. A fisher chased a snowshoe hare. Ducks flushed from nearby cattails. An osprey carried a fish through the air as other animals looked on. The top of the stick was adorned with a bald eagle. Its tail feathers and head were inlaid with hand-tooled silver, now black with tarnish. I laid the stick, the shotgun, and the twenty-two on the bed next to my grandfather’s Winchester. They were all part of his life in the north woods. I would not let them go. I couldn’t.

  High on the closet shelf were two fedoras—hats I’d seen men wear in the old movies. “Rather dressy for you, aren’t they, Grandpa Tor?” They showed little wear. I could almost hear Grandma Rosie telling him to be sure to put on his Sunday hat for one of their rare trips to the Twin Ports. Once or twice each year, he would gas up the big Buick and drive the seventy-five miles to Superior, then cross the old wooden bridge to Duluth. Grandma would go straight to the Glass Block, the big Superior Street department store that featured the latest fashions. His preferred stop was the Captain’s Table, a downtown cafeteria where he could load up his tray with huge amounts of roast beef, pork, potatoes and gravy, carrots, squash, stew, baked beans, bread and coffee—lots of hot coffee. And pie! They served apple, peach, custard, blueberry, pumpkin, and cherry pie. Grandpa had to have one piece of each, always inviting comments from Grandma about making a public spectacle at these meals—meals not altogether different from those taken in the cook shanty of the old lumber camp decades before. The tough, old lumberjack remained thin—a wonder, considering how much food he could put away.

  I tossed the two hats and his three neckties into a cardboard box for the youngsters at Cable High School where they might be used in some future school play. Next, I pulled down a wrinkled shopping bag from the closet shelf, finding a pair of old work boots. I pulled them from the bag and flipped one over. The sole and heel were studded with small spikes. “Calked boots—these definitely go to the museum, Grandpa.”

  A battered, wooden box, its green paint worn thin with age, was the last item on the shelf. I took the box into the kitchen and placed it on the table. Inside were two buckskin pouches. They were dark with age, dried out, and cracked. In one was some old tobacco. “Grandpa, you didn’t smoke. So, why did you save this old tobacco pouch?”

  Pitching it into the wastebasket, I untied the second, larger pouch. Out came a strange assortment of items including an odd-shaped, tarnished, silver ring that almost matched the silver wristband Grandpa gave me years ago—the one I always wear. I also found an old pocketknife with one broken blade, a battered silver pocket watch, an old gold medal. Next, a short length of light blue ribbon and an old tintype photograph of a man and a woman holding an infant. The man was tall with broad shoulders. He sported a large mustache and a wide, endearing smile. I flipped the photo over to find 1867 scratched into the metal. “So, Grandpa Tor, who is this?” I stared at the image of the young couple. Then, as though my grandfather were whispering in my ear, it came to me. “Why, this is you, isn’t it, Grandpa! You with Great-grandpa Olaf and his wife, just after they came to America. This must have been taken well before your pa came to Wisconsin to build his lumber camp.” I put the photograph on the table, quickly picking it up again when I realized this was the only photo I had ever seen of my great-grandmother.

  “Great-grandma Karina. You are the one who died in that Ohio train wreck—or was it Indiana? I just don’t remember any more.”

  I stared at the attractive, young woman in the photo trying in vain to recall some of the old stories I’d heard from my grandfather and his brother, my Great-uncle Ingman. “Oh, Karina, there are so many things I don’t know about you and Olaf and your little boy—my Grandpa Tor. Your lives, your experiences, I know almost nothing about you. Here it is, ninety-eight years after this picture was taken, and I know so little of your life back then. Sure wish I knew more. Too late now,” I said, “your stories—all lost and gone.”

  After studying the photo for a few seconds, I returned it to the table. In the bottom of the green box, tied together with white cotton cord, were two bundles of what looked like old, black and white, college theme books.

  “More records from the lumber camp, Grandpa?” Before the words left my mouth I saw these were something else. The first book said “The Chief and Me by Tor I. Loken. 1938”.

  I opened the book. From inside the front cover fell a sheet of age-browned paper. It was a bill from a grocer in Morse, Wisconsin. “Morse?” I said, remembering the once large, busy lumber town had declined to a few, small houses among many over-grown foundations and abandoned homes. Its depot and sidings were gone, as was the enormous sawmill and planing mill. Gone, too, were the many stores and taverns, the bank, the huge hotels, and boarding houses. Like so many other large, lively timber-trade boomtowns that prospered in northern Wisconsin toward the end of the nineteenth century, Morse was now little more than a ghost town.

  The date on the bill was September 29, 1884. Edges crumbling, I handled the bill carefully as I read the list out loud. “One barrel pork at six dollars and fifty cents; O
ne barrel beef at four-fifty; Fifty pounds prunes at six cents per pound; Twenty-four fifths Old Crow at thirty-five cents each; Two-hundred pounds beet sugar at five cents per pound; Six-hundred pounds flour at two cents per pound; Twenty-five pounds tobacco at thirty per pound; Three pair wool drawers at one dollar each; Three pair suspenders at fifty cents each; Three pair shoes at a dollar-twenty-five …” The list went on with “Paid in full” marked at the bottom. “Odd you’d keep this old invoice all this time, Grandpa Tor.”

  As I was about to put it into the box for the historical museum, I turned the receipt over. There, on the back, in pencil, was what looked like a map. The faded lines and discolored paper made it hard to decipher. In time, I made out Lake Namakagon and the old Namakagon Lumber Camp where I now stood. I made out Jackson, Diamond, and Crystal Lakes, above. To the left were East Lake and nine-mile-long Lake Owen. A dotted line ran north beyond Lake Namakagon. “This line must be the old Indian trail leading north to Madeline Island, right Grandpa?” The log walls and hewn timber rafters absorbed my words as I studied the sketch. An X marked an island and another X lay well to the north, beyond Atkins and Marengo Lakes. Other notes on the bottom of the map were too worn and faded to read.

  I heard a car pull in and the slamming of two car doors. Laying the old receipt on the table next to the photograph, I said, “The ladies from the church are here to help, Grandpa. I guess I’d better stop talking to you now. First thing you know they’ll be hauling me away, too!”

  I opened the door saying, “Come in, come in. Thank you for coming all this way.”

  One of the two ladies placed a large pan of cornbread on the table next to the photograph. I poured them each a cup of coffee and offered some instructions on what to take, what to leave, and what to burn. Eager to satisfy my curiosity, I went back to the black and white theme books.

  The women began boxing and removing kitchen items for the upcoming church bazaar. Knowing I would be well out of their way, I retreated to the main room of the lodge, theme books in hand. I settled into Grandpa’s well-worn easy chair near the fireplace, the old gentleman’s favorite reading spot. I opened the first book again. The handwriting was Grandma Rosie’s. I kicked off my shoes and put my feet up on Grandpa’s footstool to read their words.

  *

  The Chief and Me

  by Tor I. Loken. 1938