Schoolcraft State Park, MN--Henry Schoolcraft, for those of you who haven't been paying attention to every word I've written, was the upstanding gentleman who discovered (i.e. was led by his Ojibwe brother-in-law to) the source of the Mississippi--which, by the way, for a variety of geological and ecological reasons should by all rights be high in the Rockies, as the Loser Miss. should really have taken the name of the Missouri but by a few historical accidents is thought to be a continuation of the Upper Miss. instead (two asides: first, that all these names would naturally be different if they were more accurate but presumably you all know what I'm talking about; and second, the main historical accident, which I find fascinating, is that settlers moving west to the Mississippi wanted a nice clear longitudinal border, and that the Missouri's path led into the Great Unknown). So Mr. Schoolcraft, having been to the Headwaters a few times before on expeditions led by other white men ("led" obviously used loosely) whose names are scattered around these parts, named the source and is memorialized with surprising scarcity, given his historical significance. He was also, reports indicate, a halfway-decent human being as far as Indian relations went (ha), which was, needless to say (ed.: so why are you saying it?), pretty rare. But enough historical bollywash.
We seem to have entered Mosquito Lands (no commentators, so far as I know, have yet acknowledged that while we whites did certainly steal this land from the Indians they, in turn, most definitely had thieved it themselves, from the mosquitoes) after a run of good luck as far a pests are concerned. Eve mentioned this morning that she felt like something changed overnight, that she's adjusted to the fact that this is what her life will be like for four months. Kayak, read, write, camp, post, sleep, drive, explore.
Sat here for a few minutes thinking about what to write next. (I'm writing extensively in a journal and just typing it up quickly when we go to cafes.) All I could come up with was either polemical odds and ends or these stupid "reflections" (read: depressive cliches, i.e. "why do we dread the future?"). I'm very tired despite sleeping very extensively. We're like old people: bed by ten, up at seven. Yet I don't think, up until maybe a few minutes ago, this inerascible fatigue had affected either of the two things I'm trying to do on this trip--kayak and write. I'm just really tired in the downtime (and there is plenty of it) and perk up immediately when my mind or body or both are called into action. But I'm not actively thinking, at least not creatively, all the time--reflecting is of course a different beast altogether. Then again, maybe it's just because I've been reading Orwell and WCW (we do a lot of reading, and probably would even if we weren't all so bookish) and, love them as I might, neither is the most imaginative writer. They solve puzzles but don't often create them. And where's my damn editor? I miss him.
Someone had left a fire just barely going in the fire pit. It just flared up and I dumped water all over it. It felt good, having that kind of power, creating sound and steam where there was none.
Haven't showered in about a week and have worn pretty much the same clothes for even longer. Smell not too bad, considering, but flies beg to differ. (Ed.: see what you mean re: Orwell.)
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