Isn’t this place great?

Sep 10

Fourty years ago there lived a black lab that swallowed a raw moose heart whole.

My dad witnessed this Granite Hill legend, and he loves to tell the story. To show his captivated audience how big a moose heart is, my Dad holds up both his calloused hands like he’s gripping a football sideways; he mimics the dog regurgitating – gagging and bobbing his head back and forth like a seagull trying to swallow half a peanut butter sandwich. He phantom vomits it onto the dock in a saliva-lathered mess, then squeezes it tenderly, indicating the puncture marks where the dog made one or two attempts at chewing; then he leans forward and laughs with gleeful disgust.

For decades, Granite Hill Lodge sank into the history of my Dad’s life. He became a father, worked hard and grew old. After raising four kids, becoming a grandfather, and going through a divorce, he’s got into the habit of undertaking a sacred northern pilgrimage to this camp each spring and fall. Loaded with enthusiasm, he piles his fishing rods, power tools, and groceries into his white passenger van and makes the ten hour drive up to White River; he transfers it all into a float plane which flies him to Granite Hill Lodge and he spends the following couple of weeks helping out, drinking beer, and basking in nostalgia.

In a lot of ways, my Dad and I are different from one another. When I work, I keep one foot on the gas and another on the brakes and tap frenetically between the two – eventually making my way to the finish line in a zig-zagged path which dots its way from one unrelated task to another. Dad’s calm and calculated, moving slowly and efficiently to complete tasks with masterful intelligence.

When my wife and I bought our first home, my Dad agreed to replace the outdated handrail in our front entrance. As he worked, every step was orchestrated and not a single step wasted; he’d slide his tape measure across the finish-grade poplar, flip a pencil from behind his ear and mark a tiny line. In a flurry of sawdust and noise, each spindle was cut and then walked carefully through the front entrance and set with glue and nails into its final resting place. I blinked twice, and the railing was finished, perfect.

Growing up with my Dad, it was rare to see him light up with either excitement or anger; he was the strong and constant, quietly available to lift our burdens regardless of the burdens he carried himself.

Being up here with my Dad I can see he’s really happy. With bright eyes, he turns to me and says