Tamarack River Ghost (17 page)

“An Ode to the Tamarack River Ghost,” Oscar said quietly.

“Louder,” came a voice from the back of the tent.

Oscar began once more, this time louder: “An Ode to the Tamarack River Ghost.” He paused briefly, then continued.

But then what often happens when things are going well, when progress is being made, when celebration is in order—a turn of fate. An unexpected logjam develops, the river is plugged, the logs are stopped. A day that started with beauty and hope becomes one filled with agony and
sorrow. So today, and every year on this weekend, we celebrate the life of Mortimer Dunn, who died in this river. All that was found of him was his little wooden whistle, with the initials M.D. carved on it. The whistle washed up right here at Tamarack River Park. You can see it on display at the Trading Post in Tamarack Corners.

On this day we celebrate the Tamarack River Ghost, for Mortimer Dunn’s grave on the banks of this river stands empty. When the wind is down and the moon is up, his ghost is searching, searching, constantly searching for his empty grave. In the still of a moonlit night, we sometimes hear him; we hear his song. And we remember. We remember the Tamarack River Ghost.

Oscar made a slight bow, smiled, and returned to his seat. Everyone stood and clapped. Although he was eighty-six years old, Oscar Anderson’s voice was powerful and his presentation exemplary.

M.D.
, thought Josh. He immediately thought of the poem the paper had received.
M.D. stands for Mortimer Dunn. Is someone pretending to be the ghost of Mortimer Dunn? Why would anyone do that? But maybe there really is a ghost contacting the paper from the great beyond; wouldn’t that be something?
Josh shuddered a bit at the thought.

The members of the Willow River High School Band found their places on the little makeshift stage at the end of the tent. As they were doing so, people in the audience turned to each other, visited, commented on Oscar’s presentation, and waited for the band to get itself in order. There was no impatience, no sense of urgency. Winter was a time for slowing down, for doing things deliberately. People living in the valley knew this and appreciated it, for they, like rural and small-town people everywhere, were tuned to the cycle of the seasons. The band could take as long as it needed. It finally led off with a rousing rendition of “Old Man River” and followed with a series of river songs, another festival tradition: “Rolling Down the River,” “Cry Me a River,” “Down by the Riverside” (everyone in the audience joined in the clapping), a fun rendition of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” with various instruments taking turns playing the lead, and ending with “Michael Row the Boat Ashore.”

After the final piece, the audience clapped loudly, for the Willow River High School Band was in good form, giving its best performance people could remember. Just outside the big festival tent, bratwurst and chicken cooked on a long, charcoal-fired grill, and just beyond that, in a small three-sided tent, two men, bundled in long gray parkas with fur-edged hoods, served beer on a portable bar that stretched across the front of the tent. They also offered soft drinks, coffee, and hot chocolate.

When the concert finished, people filed out of the tent. Some walked around, looking at the various ice sculptures in progress. A half dozen artists chipped away at what were once fifty-pound hunks of clear ice, fashioning bears, penguins, eagles, pine trees, and other wintry creations. A small crowd gathered around Brittani Martin, including Ben Wesley, who had not seen any of his office manager’s creations before now. Brittani had been taking sculpting lessons at the university in Stevens Point and discovered she had a talent for making something out of something else— of making art, as her instructor had told her. For the past several weeks, after work and on weekends, she had practiced ice sculpting in preparation for the festival. Now, somewhat nervous with people watching, she slowly chipped away at the big block of ice in front of her. When they asked, she did not tell people what she was making.

“Figure it out,” she said proudly.

“It’s a rabbit,” a youngster wearing a big red parka said. “It’s not either a bunny,” his sister said. “I think it’s an igloo.”

As people continued watching, they slowly saw a wild rose emerging from the ice, its five petals and stem clearly visible.

“Remarkable work,” an older person said. “Remarkable work.”

Brittani smiled.

The afternoon events featured an axe-throwing contest, an event held every year since the first festival. Chair of this year’s throw was Don Happsit, barber at the Tamarack Corners Barber Shop. Promptly at 2:00 p.m., he took the microphone. “Those interested in watching the axe-throwing contest should gather at the west side of the park shelter, near the river’s edge.”

This longtime festival favorite attracted contestants from as far away as Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. This year, an even dozen contestants competed for the Golden Axe, an old logger’s axe painted gold, now faded after many years of being passed from winner to winner. The winners’ names and years were inscribed on the handle. Last year, Dan Burman won the contest, with Shotgun Slogum a close second. Most residents in the valley had little to do with Burman, and he liked it that way. He did things his way, including breaking a few game rules from time to time. Slogum, long-time vegetable grower in the valley and a bit of an eccentric, had little to do with Burman, although they had both been born and lived their entire lives in the valley.

Happsit continued his announcement after the contestants and a substantial audience had gathered. “The rules for the contest are these. Each contestant gets one practice throw and three throws at the target, which is exactly twenty feet away. Hitting the bull’s-eye is five points, the next ring four, and so on to the outer ring, which is one point. You must use a double-bitted axe with a blade edge no larger than six inches. Each axe handle must be at least two feet long but no longer than forty inches. An axe must weigh at least two and a half pounds. Are there any questions?”

The audience gathered a bit closer to watch as the contestants stretched, hefted their axes, and made throwing motions with their arms.

“Are we ready to begin?” asked Happsit as he motioned to the first contestant, selected by drawing the contestant’s name from a hat.

“Our first contestant is Freddy Jones, from Milwaukee. This is his first year competing for the Golden Axe Award. We’re ready when you are.”

Freddy, in his early twenties, tall and muscular, wore a jaunty French voyageur-style cap and a plaid wool shirt. He stepped up to the line, hefted his axe, pulled his arm back, and tossed it hard.

“Whack.” The axe stuck into a pine tree alongside the target. He had completely missed.

“Remember folks, each contestant gets one practice throw, so Freddy’s miss doesn’t count.”

Freddy retrieved his axe, hefted it once more, spit on the handle, pulled his arm back, and tossed it. “Whack.” The axe stuck the target firmly in the blue ring, for four points. With a big smile on his face, he walked up to the thirty-six-inch target, firmly attached to pine boards, and retrieved his axe. After two more tries, he’d earned twelve points, a respectable score, especially for a newcomer.

Each contestant in turn threw his axe, once for practice, and three that counted. Burman achieved a perfect score—all three tosses stuck firmly in the bull’s-eye. Two contestants later, Shotgun Slogum did the same thing. The crowd swelled to watch these two competitors, both experienced and both previous winners, do another round to break the tie. A tossed coin determined that Slogum should go first. All four of his tosses, including the practice toss, landed in the bull’s eye. Burman, a serious look on his face, and his reputation as the best valley axe thrower at stake, faced the target, carefully hefted his axe, and threw it hard. He drove nearly the entire blade of his axe into the bull’s-eye. Same for tosses two and three. But something happened with the fourth toss. Something broke his concentration. No one really knew what it was—a baby crying in the audience, a snowmobiler making a practice run down the river in preparation for Sunday’s snowmobile race, loud laughter coming from the beer tent. Anyway, the fourth toss landed in the four-point ring, and Shotgun Slogum was declared winner of the Golden Axe.

Slogum came forward to retrieve the award, smiling, but not broadly. He was not one to show much emotion, especially when he was being recognized for something.

“Thank you,” he said quietly when he received the trophy axe. He turned to walk away, and there stood Dan Burman, directly in front of him.

“Congratulations,” said Burman as he extended his hand to Slogum.

“Thank you,” Slogum said.

The two men parted, neither saying another word to each other.

Sunday, Josh stopped by Natalie’s cabin a little after 12:30, and they drove on toward the Tamarack River Valley. A few flakes of snow gently struck the windshield of the Ford Ranger as they drove on.

“Looks like a few flurries,” Josh said. “A little snow shouldn’t stop anything at the festival.”

“Surely not the snowmobile races,” said Natalie. “They’d race in a blizzard. They’re a tough bunch of guys.”

The falling snow increased in intensity soon after they arrived at the park. They walked by the now snow-covered ice sculptures and the equally snow-covered artists, who were standing by their creations to answer questions and talk. Josh and Natalie chatted for a bit with Brittani.

“This is really nice work,” said Natalie as she looked carefully at the wild rose, its edges now covered with freshly fallen snow.

“Thank you,” Brittani said, smiling.

The snow continued falling as they walked among the other sculptures, waiting for the snowmobile races, scheduled to begin at 2:00 p.m. on the river. The wind had come up a little, blowing swirls of snow across the parking lot and making it difficult to see any distance. By the time of the snowmobile races, it had become impossible to see across the frozen river. The announcer’s voice, sometimes lost in the wind and swirl of snow, began giving instructions for the race, a straight-away half-mile course. Over the wind, Josh and Natalie heard the first group of racers revving their engines and then tearing down the river, the sound of the machines soon lost in the storm. No one could see them. The race watchers soon drifted off toward their cars, now covered with three inches of snow, with more on the way, from the looks of the sky and the feel of the wind. Josh and Natalie found shelter in the big festival tent, its canvas roof beginning to sag a bit from the accumulating snow. A few others were there as well, waiting for the snow to let up so they could watch the rest of the races, which continued without pause. Josh bought paper cups of hot chocolate from the beer tent, where coffee and hot chocolate had become far more popular than Wisconsin’s famous craft beers.

The snow did not ease but continued falling, even harder. The wind, now from the northwest, swirled the snow about the park, festival tent, beer tent, and park shelter. The ice sculptures were nearly buried when Josh and Natalie headed for Josh’s red pickup, which, fortunately, had four-wheel drive.

“Still game for dinner?” asked Josh as they both brushed snow from the truck’s windshield.

“I’m starved,” answered Natalie.

“Might be a little tricky driving back to Willow River, even if it is only fifteen miles.”

“So, what kind of a truck is this, anyway?” she said, smiling. Both knew that she was comparing his little red pickup to her much larger one.

Soon they were seated at a table in Christo’s, near a window facing the Tamarack River, which gave them an opportunity to watch what had become a blizzard, with snow blowing down the river in walls of white, the river sometimes disappearing into the storm.

“I love blizzards,” said Natalie as she gazed out the window. She wore a cherry-red knitted sweater, and her blonde hair hung loose on her shoulders. “It’s like we are sitting inside the storm and looking out.” Her brown eyes sparkled as she talked.

“A good old-fashioned blizzard makes the world slow down. Reminds us that we aren’t in control of things as much as we think we are,” said Josh.

Costandina came by with menus. “Prime rib is the special,” she said. “With all the trimmings.” They agreed on the special and, while they waited for their food, shared a bottle of merlot. They looked out the window and watched melting snow make little rivers down the glass. They could hear the wind tearing around the corner of the restaurant, swirling the snow, piling it up in drifts. For a long time, neither said anything.

“Any thoughts on the new hog farm coming here to the valley?” Josh asked, breaking the silence.