Our approach to Bemidji had been
invested with special interest as the first unmistakable landmark in
our lonely wanderings, and as the home of one man--a half-breed--the
only human being who has a home above Cass Lake. We found his hut, but
not himself, at the river's outlet. The lodge is neatly built of bark.
It was surrounded by good patches of corn, potatoes, wheat, beans and
wild raspberries. There is a stable for a horse and a cow, and all
about were the conventional traps of a civilized biped who lives upon a
blending of wit, woodcraft and industry. We greatly wished to see this
hermit, whose nearest neighbors are thirty miles away. His dog welcomed
us with all the passion of canine hunger and days of isolation, but the
master was gone to Leech Lake, as we afterward found from his Cass Lake
neighbors. The wind favored a sail across the lake--a welcome variation
from our hitherto entirely muscular propulsion--so we rigged our spars
and canvas, drifted smoothly out into the trough of the lively but not
angry waves, and swept swiftly across the clear, bright little sea. The
white caps dashed over our decks and a few sharp puffs half careened
our little ships, but the crossing was safely and quickly made.
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