Chapter 6
The Great Makwaa
A thin, white wisp of smoke ascended straight into the cold, blue October, 1831, sky. It came from the campfire at Chief Namakagon’s lodge.
Slabs of venison hung high above the fire. The smoke would preserve the meat winter. Stretched over willow frames, two large deer hides hung in the white pine branches overhead, well out of reach of Namakagon’s dogs.
The chief had soaked the deer hides in a mix of salt, water, wood ash, and crushed acorns. He had scraped the hair from each hide. Now they would be smoked. During the cold winter nights ahead, the hides would be removed from their frames and softened by working in suet from the same deer. From these hides he would make a new shirt and moccasins, among other necessities.
Today, after tending to his dogs, he would hunt.
“For breakfast, my friends, you will feast on fresh venison.” He placed a birch basket of scraps before them. “Fill your stomachs, then spend your day guarding these hides. Keep the ravens away. In trade, I will hunt for more food to keep you fat and happy through the winter.” The dogs sat at attention until a wave of his hand sent them to their food. The hunter set out for the woods.
Later that day, Chief Namakagon, bow in hand, followed the tracks of a large bear through a dark cedar swamp. He had seen the bear from his canoe two days before, high on a ridge south of the lake. He hiked up the ridge. The sign left by the bruin was evidence he was feeding on fallen acorns. The bear would be spending these cold, November nights in its den, unlike earlier months when he slept in the open. The hunter needed to find that den.
The sign also told the chief this was a heavy bear. He left a good trail. It took the chief across a small stream, then through a stand of birch. Namakagon looked beyond the bare branches overhead. The sun was high. He had about six hours of daylight left. The bear’s trail rambled down the ridge, entering another swamp. Namakagon found the tracks were fresh and the trail well-worn. The bear's den was near.
“Where do you rest, my big friend?” whispered Namakagon. “How far will you lead me from my warm lodge?”
As the trail entered the swamp, balsams became so thick the chief could see only an arm’s length ahead. Slowly, stealthily, he followed the bear, each step carefully chosen. Reaching down, he pulled a handful of moss from the forest floor, stuffing it into his quiver to prevent the cedar shafts from announcing his approach. Silently, he followed the large tracks, and step-by-step they took him deeper and deeper into the dark balsam swamp. “Where, great makwaa, are you taking me?” the hunter whispered.
Broken ice now showed the way. Namakagon followed, the icy water coming up to his knees. The sign soon left the swamp, entering a stand of tall white pines. Looking far ahead, the chief saw a single, giant pine leaning against another, likely the result of a severe windstorm, he thought. Its roots were half-torn from the earth, forming a large mound of wood, moss and soil. From fifty steps away, Namakagon could see the bear's trail disappear under those roots. He had found the bear's winter den.
“Makwaa, you have taken me far into this forest,” he whispered, “but now, if Gitchee Manitou allows, I might have you. Yes, you and I shall meet.”
But the slight breeze from the southwest was not in his favor. Although he was sure the bear lay in his den, the hunter turned and quietly walked away. He would wait for a better time.
The hunter explored the ridges to the east, finding a longer but drier route back to the lake. The sweet aroma of fall filled the crisp, clean air as he returned to the small bay where he had left his canoe. Strong, steady strokes from Namakagon’s paddle soon brought him to his lodge.
Chief Namakagon rose before dawn. He stepped from his birch lodge to find the air cold and the sky ablaze with northern lights drifting in brightly colored waves above the night-blackened lake. They filled the sky above his camp, drifting and dancing so close he felt they almost reached the tops of the pines surrounding his lodge. To the south, the stars were bright.
“Makwaa, did you stay in your den tonight? Are you lying there, staring up at these beautiful heavens the spirits have painted for us? Or have you taken another trip to the oaks to fill your belly with acorns before the snows?” His dogs stared at him, looking confused. He stood in silence and in awe of the brilliant colors floating above him. “There is only one way for me to know, makwaa.” He reached for his bow and quiver.
Namakagon placed four thin, green, maple logs on the glowing embers of the fire outside his lodge. “My friends” he said to his dogs, “this will keep the smoke flowing across our venison until I return. I need you two to keep the crows and ravens away for one more day.”
He walked down to the shore to find twenty feet of ice ringing the lake. The hunter stepped one foot into the canoe and grasped the gunnels tightly. With the other foot, he gave a good push, sliding across ice that cracked, snapped, and yielded under the weight of his craft. A push on his paddle and he drifted into quiet water. With one stroke he turned the canoe. Namakagon looked back toward the eastern sky to see the faintest glow of early morning light. He paddled south and soon stepped again onto the shore of the quiet bay.
Up the ridge, through the forest, and toward the distant white pine stand he trekked in the pre-dawn light. When he approached the leaning white pine, he silently moved parallel to the trail until nearing the balsams where he had stood the day before. Namakagon leaned his bow against one of small trees and pulled his knife from its sheath. He cut two short balsams, placing them in front of him to form a blind. Next, he picked up a dead pine branch from the forest floor. The hunter walked the nine steps from his blind to the bear trail, taking care not to step on the trail. The northern lights faded now, chased by the increasing glow in the eastern sky.
“I will give your tongue a special pleasure, great makwaa,” the hunter whispered. He pulled a piece of venison tallow from the small buckskin pouch he carried over his shoulder and attached the tallow to the pine branch, then reached high, hanging the baited branch above the trail.
An owl called from a nearby pine.
“Not for you, Owl,” he whispered, “nor your enemy, the raven.”
Back in his blind Namakagon chose the straightest of the seven arrows in his quiver. He knelt on one knee with his bow in his left hand, the arrow lying across a balsam branch in front of him. He reached down to confirm his knife was in place, ready to be drawn quickly. Then, he waited.
The soft morning light brought songs from the birds. A red squirrel came from its nighttime hiding place, scurrying up one of the giant pines and onto a limb. The quiet of the morning was broken by its chattering.
“Little squirrel,” Namakagon whispered, “are you trying to alert your neighbor, the big makwaa? Bizaan! Bizaan! “Leave, little red squirrel—or are you really Wenebojo in one of your clever disguises?”
Soon other red squirrels replied from other distant pine limbs. “Now you have done it, red squirrel. You must be Wenebojo. You have awakened the whole forest!” A pair of blue jays added their screechy calls to the scolding chatters of the squirrel above him.
An eagle flew above the treetops, heading for the lake to find a fish for its morning meal. Crows, angry to see the eagle so near, cried out warning calls. The woods came alive with the sounds and sights of animals beginning another day. Surrounded by all this noise, Namakagon waited silently as frost formed all around him.
“Where are you, Makwaa?” he whispered. “This cold morning air urges me to move along. How long I can kneel here before I must take its advice?”
Namakagon heard something coming down the trail. He reached for the cedar shaft on the balsam branch before him, fixing the arrow’s nock onto the bowstring. Shifting his weight slightly, he readied for the shot. A slight breeze drifted up from the swamp below. From under the balsams came a large fisher. It loped down the trail, stopping only to inspect leaves, twigs, and old animal tracks left behind. Namakagon relaxed.
“You there, Ojiig!” he wanted to s
hout. “Go away! This is no time to linger here.”
When the fisher neared the branch holding the tallow, it stopped to sniff the air, then sat back on its rump and stretched, seeking out the source of the scent. Its eyes locked on the bait.
“Ojiig, go now! This small feast is not meant for you.”
The fisher crouched, paused, then sprang high into the air, almost reaching the tallow. It landed on all fours and looked back at the prize. Again the fisher crouched low to the ground, as if it were winding a great internal spring. Up it flew, again almost achieving its goal.
“Leave, rascal, before you spoil my hunt!” Namakagon felt like shouting. He contemplated sending an arrow toward the animal to scare it away.
The fisher gave up its attempt to reach the delicious smelling prize by jumping. It now circled the trunk of a nearby pine. Digging its claws into the rough bark, the agile animal climbed. Chief Namakagon watched as the fisher, now in the wrong tree, looked below at its breakfast. The ojiig hung on the side of the tree for a long moment. Suddenly, it sprang through the air, missing the bait by several feet and tumbling across the forest floor.
Namakagon could not contain his laughter. The fisher heard him and stood on his haunches, looking for the source of the slight noise. It sniffed the leaves and thick bed of pine needles on the forest floor. When his nose met the spot where Namakagon’s moccasin had touched the earth an hour before, the fisher spun around and raced back up the trail. It quickly disappeared into the balsams. The chief relaxed, waiting in silence again.
As time passed, the hunter’s muscles became stiff and sore from the cold. “Could it be, Makwaa, you are fast asleep in your den? There is no snow. You should be filling your belly for the long winter sleep. Perhaps I should leave. I, like others in the forest, must prepare for winter.”
Still kneeling, he picked up his arrow and began to slide it into his deerskin quiver when he heard a faint sound. He pulled the arrow out again, nocking it onto the bowstring. The hunter waited. More soft sounds came from the trail.
“Are you Ojiig, the fisher, again? Are you another wandering animal? A deer? A raccoon? Or could you be the great bear? Maybe you are just Wenebojo, tricking me into shivering here for a few more minutes.” Namakagon closely watched the trail where it wound its way into the balsam swamp. “Come, show me what you are,” he wanted to shout.
The hunter heard the soft swishing of balsam boughs rubbing on fur. Then, not fifty steps off, lumbering toward the hunter, sniffing the still morning air, came his quarry. His thick, black coat glistened in the morning sun. The bear's large paws made almost no sound as they carried him down the trail, closer, closer, and closer to the hunter.
On this quiet, frosty morning in the tall pines south of the lake that now shared his name, Chief Namakagon and this great makwaa were about to meet.