It had been thirteen days since the chief left Sault Ste. Marie and those disturbing visions. That terrible dream of his dear friends trapped in their burning home haunted him, as did the image of being in chains before the gallows. Paddling westward along the south shore of Gitchee Gumi, he steadily distanced himself from the nightmare.
He found his way to LaPointe on the island named by the French as Magdalene, then, later changed to Madeline. The weary traveler was welcomed into the lodge of one of the elders. The weather had turned cold and the warm fire felt good. A late fall storm had blown in. Snow squalls danced across Chequamegon Bay from the small settlement called Bayport to the Apostle Islands and beyond.
His host, Old Bear, told many stories about this western corner of Lake Superior. Many French fur traders had come and gone. Many of his people provided beaver pelts and other furs for the French and later for the English. But the beaver were almost gone now, having been all but trapped out and their hides shipped to Europe where they were made into top hats for gentlemen.
Old Bear wore his gray hair in a single long braid. His shirt and pants were made from the hide of a moose. Around his neck hung a string of bear teeth and a shiny, diamond-shaped silver ornament. The two men shared tobacco. Old Bear told the chief of a nearby lake teaming with fish and wild game and surrounded by dark forests of tall white pine.
“This lake has many sturgeon,” said Old Bear, “and muskellunge and other fishes. There are small streams that bring water to the lake and a fast river leaving it. This river will take you through the waters we know as Pac-wa-wong. There you will find plenty of menoomin and a small village of our Ojibwe brothers. You will find many friends there, and, though it is past time to harvest rice now, my friends at Pac-wa-wong will give you rice for the winter. If you travel south, you will come to what the French call Lac Courte Oreilles, a large Ojibwe village. Speak my name and you will be welcome.”
“The lake you spoke of, what do you call it?”
“Namakagon,” replied Old Bear, “the place of the sturgeon.”
Snow, wind, and rain continued through the night. By noon the sun shone brightly against a cold, blue sky. A stiff, north wind helped push their canoes southward across Chequamegon Bay. The chief and Old Bear and two of Old Bear’s dogs, worked their way up a stream. They portaged, paddled, and portaged again. At sundown, with only hours to go, they chose to complete their journey to the lake rather than make camp along the way.
“My lodge waits for us there,” said Old Bear. “It will be dark before we rest, but inside it will be warm and dry through the night.”
Canoes overhead and dogs in the lead, they continued on the trail, a trail deeply worn by the feet of countless thousands of travelers who had crossed it for centuries. As the first stars appeared, the chief gazed at the heavens. Two bright stars stood out against the darkening, blue sky.
“Two stars,” said the chief, recalling his vision. “Wenebojo told me to watch for these, but I did not know if I was being fooled or if he was showing me the way.”
“Wenebojo, yes. You never know with him.”
“You have seen his tricks?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Many times he has played his games on Chequamegon Bay and in our forests and streams. Let us hope he is not watching us now, waiting to play his pranks.”
The air grew colder. Old Bear and the chief slid their canoes into the waters of Lake Namakagon as a half-moon appeared above the eastern shore. The dogs jumped into Old Bear’s canoe. The men paddled across a bay and down a channel to the main body of the lake. Now, as they crossed the still, black waters, they passed a small island and soon came ashore on a long, wide beach. Both dogs jumped from the canoe.
The moon illuminated a small, birch lodge beneath the sheltering limbs of large white pines. The travelers, fatigued from their trek, pulled their canoes onto the beach. Turning back toward the lake, the chief saw another island. Reflected in the mirror-like waters, now, were thousands of bright stars.
“Old Bear, look,” he said pointing down at the lake's glass-like surface. “Two shining stars in a sparkling sky, and I among them. These islands are the two shining stars in the sparkling sky of the lake. This was my vision. This is the place I shall call home.”
“Yes,” said Old Bear. “I have long known this water would one day be the home of a chief from far away. This will be a good place for you. My lodge will keep you warm and dry through the winter. The lake, the forest will give you plenty of food and wood for your fire. This will be a good home.”
“Yes, Old Bear, this will be a good home.”
“Then you must take the name of this lake. All will know you as Chief Namakagon.”
“Namakagon,” said the chief. “Namakagon. It is a good name. Yes. This is the place I will make my home. And I shall take the name Namakagon.”
Soon, a fire warmed the lodge, and the travelers shared smoked venison and many stories. Then, flanked by the dogs, they curled up under their robes, sleeping soundly.
The next afternoon, hoping to fill the need for winter venison, Old Bear and Chief Namakagon traveled north to a place where two swamps merged. The chief concealed himself near a deeply carved deer trail. The wind was in his face. Far behind, well out of sight, Old Bear softly grunted into a birch bark call, mimicking the sounds of a rutting buck. Old Bear called, waited, called again. The old hunter broke a dead branch from a nearby pine. Hiding between balsams, he scraped the branch against an oak, mimicking the sound of a buck marking a tree with his antlers. He grunted again, then waited in silence.
Chief Namakagon saw something move far down the trail. It vanished into the brush and boughs of evergreens. Old Bear grunted softly again and up the trail came a fine buck, head down and ears back in a posture of challenge. As the deer passed behind a large pine, Namakagon raised his bow, drawing the arrow. When the buck was no more than six steps away, Namakagon released.
The feathered, cedar shaft flashed through the air, then through the deer’s heavy chest, planting itself deep in a spruce on the far side of the trail. The buck spun and vanished beyond the balsams.
Namakagon knelt, whispering words of thanks to the Earth Mother before tracking his quarry. Soon the dressed buck was hanging near the lodge.
“Tomorrow I return to LaPointe,” said Old Bear as the men prepared their dinner.
Chief Namakagon skewered a piece of tenderloin with his knife and held it over the small fire. “I don’t know how to repay you, my friend. You have given me a wonderful gift by leading me here. I will forever be in your debt.”
“No,” said Old Bear, “you owe me nothing. I have long known you would come. This lodge is my gift to you. I have enjoyed much time here, but I am old and will not see this lake again. You will live here in my place. My time has passed. It is your time now.”
“Old Bear, you have many seasons left.”
“No. You are wrong. I have seen in my dreams that I will not enjoy the warm days of summer again.”
The two friends sat in silence before Old Bear spoke again. “Namakagon, my people, those who came here long before us, had another gift from this land.” He removed a small buckskin pouch from his belt and shook a piece of glittering metal into Namakagon’s hand.
“For many, many years, my people used this metal for decorations. When the French and the English saw it, they wanted us to trade it for their goods. They called it silver and tried their best to learn where it came from. But Gitchee Manitou told us to not share it with them. He said they would take it all away and scar the land. I am the last to know where it is found. I must pass this knowledge to you.”
“But, why should I be told of this place?”
“Namakagon, my dreams told me you would come and you would choose to live on this lake. My visions told me you would keep sacred the knowledge of our gifts from Mother Earth. My friend, I do not wish to burden you with this great responsibility, but the spirits have talked to me. We have no say in this. Tomorrow, before we part, I will show you the
way to this place where we find silver.”
“Old Bear, you have bestowed upon me the gift of this home. You have graced me with your friendship. And now, you have honored me with your trust. I will protect these with all my heart, as I do all gifts from Mother Earth.”
The following morning, Old Bear and Namakagon canoed north, far up a narrow stream until brush and windfalls blocked their way. They portaged to a small lake, crossed it, and portaged again, this time skirting a pond. There, they left their canoes and crossed another creek. The terrain was changing. Steep ridges with rocky outcroppings now framed the narrow trail.
“We are near,” said Old Bear. “Come,” he said, leading away from the creek and up a narrow gorge. An eagle flew just above the trees along the trail. They continued up the gorge. “The eagle guides us, Namakagon.” Tall white pines stood as sentinels above them. Deep in the pines they saw a large bear. It stood, watching them as they moved down the trail, a white, diamond-shaped blaze on its chest.
“Look,” said Namakagon, “the makwaa carries the same sign as you, my friend—the shape of a diamond, there on his chest. Were I superstitious, I would say this might be the work of Wenebojo.”
The old man grinned as the bear ambled off. “This is the place.”
The chief looked, but saw no silver, no cave, nothing unusual. Old Bear pushed aside the branches of a small balsam tree to reveal a large, knee-high flat rock with an opening under it. He knelt, raised his hands to the rock face, and whispered a prayer. The old man then dropped to his belly and wiggled through the small opening. Chief Namakagon followed.
Slowly, the dark interior of the cave began to take form. Old Bear used a flint and steel to ignite some tinder and birch bark he carried. Each time he struck the steel and flint, light from the spark bounced off the cave walls, reflecting countless veins of metal. The spark finally took. The tinder began to glow. Old Bear blew life into the coals and the birch bark flamed brightly.
Namakagon looked into the tall, narrow cavern. Light from the flame reached far into the cave, reflecting off more and more metal protruding from the walls. He reached above his head, grasped a piece of the silver and, bending it back and forth, broke it off. He scraped it with his knife, then rubbed it on his deerskin-clad thigh. It glittered and glistened when Namakagon held it near the flame. He stared far into the cave to see more and more silver.
“This is a wonderful gift from Gitchee Manitou,” said Old Bear. “You see why it must be protected.”
“Yes. This secret must be kept. Count on me, Old Bear.”
Outside the cave again, the two men made their way back to the creek and Namakagon’s canoe where they said their farewells.
“Take this, it is yours now,” said Old Bear as he removed the diamond-shaped silver ornament from his shirt. The old man lifted his canoe over his head and started up the north trail toward Lake Superior. His dogs sat by Namakagon’s feet.
“Old Bear, wait. Your dogs!” shouted the chief.
The old man stopped. Without turning, he said, “I raised them for you, my friend. They are your dogs now. You will need them to pull your sled, find your game, make you smile. Watch over them. They are good companions.”
Moments later, Old Bear disappeared beyond a bend in the trail.
Chief Namakagon returned to his new home on the shore of the lake that provided his new name.
The sun was low in the sky as he came ashore and carried his canoe over the sand onto the grassy forest floor. His dogs followed him into his lodge.
The chief removed one of the buckskin pouches from his belt. He opened it, pulling out the long, slender piece of silver. Namakagon bent it into an oval shape, polished it, and then placed it on his wrist. He squeezed it together, forming a wristband, then studied it, turning his hand from palm down to palm up and back again.
This sole resident of the lake stepped out of the birch lodge. His two dogs ran down to the sun-warmed beach, freshly decorated with bright autumn leaves. Far out in the bay, the late afternoon sunlight sparkled off gentle waves.
He wondered if he would see his friend, Old Bear, again in this life. Namakagon’s thoughts then drifted to his former homes and the people he left. They, too, were friends he might never again meet in this life. He gazed at the small island to the west, realizing the visions sent to him by Wenebojo, along with the prophecies of Old Bear, meant he, Chief Namakagon, had much more to do with his life. He knew, too, Lake Namakagon was where he was meant to be.