The tiny acorn: voices from forests and deserts
Part 3. Vassalissa the Brave, a Lumberjack and Old Wooden Boats
Vassalisa the Brave and a lumberjack
I couldn't help but think of Vassilisa, the Russian fairytale heroine who wanders into the woods, questing for light, when I discovered the Russian Orthodox Church hidden in Cornucopia's birch forest. I doubt Vassalissa attended the church hidden on a stretch of land reminiscent of Russian countryside. Her church was probably the church of the sky and lake, trees and fields. Her church was the language of the forest and fields. Her church had to do with being chewed up by the wise woman or witch of the woods, Baba Yaga, and being spit out new.Â
The Russian temple sent me rocketing into nostalgia of the cold wintry nights I spent in the Russian countryside at age 19, in peasant lands where wise women, fools and saints are as real as farmers and fishermen. I know that the fishermen are here, and I have been meeting the farmers and lumberjacks by the handful. I have met a few mystics and earthy tree people too. Wisdom is modest in these northern woods. Kind of modest like one of the pine trees that bends funny in the wind. It hides and seems unassuming. The woods are a matryoshka, opening one doll at a time, revealing the next hidden treasure.Â
I met a lumberjack this weekend. He looked like the Russian Hell's Angels I met back at Sexton Fozd, a pink night club, in Moscow, 1992. He had a huge black beard, bald head and a black shirt. His suspenders were covered in giant skulls. We started talking about the woods. He used to be a logger in the U.P, not far from where I grew up. it was hard on him. His voice was childlike. He told me he now had schizophrenia, and how logging and welding was hard on him. He saw people get hurt real bad. He used to drink hard and now he takes care of himself. He has this tiny cabin, he said, up near Cornucopia, up near where that church hides in the forest, but his place is hidden on the bay, where he can swim by himself and just listen to the simple wonder of things.
old wooden boats
We found the old wooden boat in 'corny' as it is referred by locals, or Cornucopia--Wisconsin's Northern most fishing village. It was 20 below with the wind chill. It made me think a lot about the water, which is now covered in thick sheets of ice. We walked on the ice about 2 miles to the sea caves while the ice grumbled and moaned to our feet.
It is a strange sensation to walk on a lake while crackles and groans bellow from below. It sounded like an ancient ice giant, angry for having been captivated. The tiny bubbles frozen near the surface, a testament to suspended captivity.
There were three boats near the shore, old wooden ships like the one in the photo. I thought a lot about navigation. I thought alot about the ice and the wind and the cold northern textures that have seduced me. Crooked birch and knarled cedar pines, oak and icy lakes, red cliff walls and gigantic icycles.Â
The sun was brilliant. And that old wooden boat stayed with me all afternoon. I kept wondering what it must have been like navigating on a tiny wooden ship on lake superior. I wondered what stories must still be living inside of it. I wondered if they ever had any problems navigating on the windy days, the days when the waves lash and swell like the sea. How do we navigate this crazy change that we are currently inside of? How does one navigate change if one has a simple tiny wooden boat? I thought, at least I found the tiny wooden boat. There it was, all the way at the northern most edge of Wisconsin. And heck, it wasn't all by itself. There were two others. They were the humblest, most modest boats I had ever seen. And something about that, made them seem all the stronger to me.