The Ghost of Tripping Beaver
My father, The Chief, was always looking for ways to have fun in the outdoors. It didnt matter if it was back yard camping trips, bonfires, or canoe excursions at the local millpond; the outdoors was our playground. We were always doing something that involved the outdoors
its who we are.
Now, when I speak of this in the past tense, Im not trying to imply that The Chief has passed on to the spirit world. The Chief is alive, well, and still the adventurous one despite the decrepitness of his 60 years of age. Its just that hes slowed down a little in his twilight years. He seems to focus more on his other personality, the globetrotting tourist, than he does his role as The Chief. His outdoor skills are slipping because of it and hes resorting to the very things that he used to ridicule me about.
Take my use of rental cabins for instance. When Beef, Wally and I go north for extended salmon fishing trips, we rent a cabin. Why fumble around with a tent when all you want to do is sleep, eat and fish? The cabin is excellent at providing a haven for sleeping and eating, without all the inconveniences of a tent. I love camping
but lets face it, camping time is one thing and fishing time is another. Time spent setting up and taking down a camp is time subtracted from fishing. Its all about priorities! The Chief would crack jokes about our choice of shelter and would frequently question our
uh
manhood, until a couple of years ago, that is.
Wed invited him to join us several times and he always had some excuse not to. Finally, my mother intervened and forced him into his vehicle and he found himself knocking on the door of our cabin.
Im expected to stay in this? he questioned. This is hardly suitable for a world traveler like myself!
Yeah, but its good enough for The Chief, I said. The Chief doesnt mind a little squalor!
I just got back from England chaps, The Chief stated. Im not feeling like The Chief yet.
It didnt take long for him to revert back to his outdoor loving persona. By the end of his stay, hed stopped bad mouthing the cabin and started complimenting its convenience.
This isnt so bad, He complimented. Are you going to get a bigger one for next year?
Next year? I asked.
Yeah, next year, he answered. I wouldnt miss this for the world! Heck, I might even bring up a couple of my buddies.
He never would have enjoyed a cabin a few years ago. If it wasnt a canvas, mountain man, wall tent or a homemade teepee, then he didnt want any part of it. The Chief has definitely gotten softer as the years creep up on him!
Back when I was younger, The Chief was always building some sort of Indian lodging. Longhouses, stick huts and teepees were a mandatory part of our camping experiences. No one could build a teepee like The Chief. Hed been building them since he was a kid and his knowledge grew to such a point that even Sitting Bull would be hard pressed to build a better shelter! Whenever The Chief bought a new batch of canvas, a new teepee was to be erected.
When I was just eight years old, The Chief came home one day with his old white truck loaded with two things: a new canoe and a batch of canvas. I grinned from ear to ear when he pulled into the driveway because his new acquisitions meant that a camping and canoeing trip was on the immediate horizon.
Like her? The Chief asked as he pointed out the new canoe. Were going to break her in this weekend!
Can Beef come along? I asked.
Of course! The Chief answered. Tell him to bring his sleeping bag. I figure well float down the Muskegon and camp along shore. You guys can do a little fishing while I do some grouse hunting.
We gonna build a teepee or sleep in a tent? I questioned.
Teepee! What do you think the canvas is for? The Chief said, smiling.
The very next weekend, we loaded the old truck with the necessary equipment and set forth toward the Muskegon River. Beef had recently been battling a severe soar throat and it took some coaxing for his grandmother, who he lived with next door to us, to let him out of the house. To ease his sore throat, shed mixed up a bottle of some old fashioned throat tonic. The tonic, which was in a fruit juice bottle, consisted of various, numbing, ingredients and had as much power as liquid novocaine. Hed gargle with that every once in a while and his mouth and throat would be completely numb for hours. He didnt say much on the way to the river and it was probably for the best. The Chief used to get very irritated during long drives and having Beef and I in the same vehicle usually didnt help matters. Beefs numb mouth prohibited us from engaging in our usual arguments and verbal highjinks and The Chief was still in a pleasant mood when we got to the river.
With two eight year olds in a canoe, The Chiefs mood had started to get a bit foul. I dont know what he was fretting about, it was completely accidental that his beer spilled and we almost tipped over. The weekend we chose for this trip was during a mid-autumn warm spell. Bugs and other creatures took the opportunity during the warm period to tend to last minute business before they went into winter hibernation. A large dragonfly decided to keep landing on the back of my neck and it was very irritating. I didnt realize it was a dragonfly at first and thought it was Beef messing around as he sat behind me on one of the coolers.
Knock it off, Beef! I said, swatting at the air behind me.
Knock what off? he answered. The novocaine concoction had worn off and he was speaking normally. The Dragonfly buzzed my neck again.
That! I shouted. My swatting behind me caused the canoe to start rocking.
Settle down! My father barked as the canoe rocked in the swift current. Youre going to tip us over!
Tell Beef to knock it off, I whined. The dragonfly made another pass.
Im not doing anything! Beef shouted. I grabbed my fishing pole and swung it behind me in an attempt to whack Beef. He saw it coming and ducked to one side. The canoe then tipped to that side. My father barked some more. Since Beef ducked, the tip of my rod went over his head and connected with The Chiefs hand
the one holding the beer. He dropped the beer and it landed in his lap. The dragonfly flew away when The Chiefs barrage of foul language filled the tranquil air. He was always getting wound up over little things like that
Thats the thing about The Chief, you can tell when hes angry by the amount of cursing he adds to a sentence. He never, ever, swears during casual conversation, but when hes mad
watch out! Being a student of the Indian culture, he once boasted that he knew how to speak Indian but
it was usually just phrases he heard in a movie. The Pottowattomi were the band of Indians that used to live in the area of Hillsdale county, therefore if The Chief did know any Indian language it wouldve had to have been pottowattomese. I later deduced that he learned his lingo from a renegade band known as the "Profanitee" tribe. When he was angered he would revert to that lingo and I discovered, at my expense, that he was quite fluent in profanitese.
My father grew tired of our escapades and quickly located a spot in the woods for setting up camp.
He searched high and low for the best teepee poles possible and erected the frame of our shelter. A large tripod stood 15 feet in the air and he filled in the gaps with several other slender poles. Beef and I watched as he pieced together the dark brown canvas and adjusted the flap that would allow the smoke to escape from the campfire inside. In no time at all, he had it constructed and we laid out our bedding and started the fire. It was one of the finest teepees hed ever built. The Chief sat back on a log, opened a can of Coke (no beer this time, he was getting ready to hunt) and admired the shelter as it blended nicely with the surrounding forest. You could almost picture the adjacent Indian village and the activity that accompanied it. Beef and I grabbed our trusty Zebco 202s and headed toward the river.
Stay right in this area! The Chief advised. Dont go wandering off. Im going to try and flush some grouse from that thicket back there.
Beef and I stood on the riverbank, baited our hooks with thick leaf worms, and tossed them into the rusty current. That kind of life is wonderful, no matter if youre eight or 80. We managed to get a few decent sized brown trout and threw them on the bank to have for dinner that night. At that stage of our fishing careers decent sized meant anything that was bigger than the worm! Our young ears had never heard of catch and release. The Chief was apparently flushing some grouse since we heard a couple of gunshots boom forth from the thicket. This was turning into one of those camping trips that you remember for a lifetime!
Long attention spans are not programmed into boys our age and Beef and I soon grew tired of fishing. We started skipping rocks across the water and began searching the banks for frogs, crayfish and other aquatic creatures. To fuel our creative urges, we attempted to build crude Indian devices. I took a rather limber stick, tied a piece of kite string from one end to another, and had my own homemade version of a bow. Since I had the bow, I needed arrows. The bank we were playing on was loaded with sand stone so I began looking for pieces that resembled arrowheads. Beef found a piece that looked like a tomahawk blade and he tied it to a forked stick. I had the bow, he had the tomahawk, heck, we were pretty mean looking little Indians! I found several rocks that looked like arrowheads and I started scraping them against other rocks to sharpen the points
and I did a mighty fine job of it, I might add. Next, I took a roll of electrical tape out of my little tackle box and taped the arrowheads onto several straight sticks Id gathered. I notched the ends out so theyd fit in my bowstring. The whole set up didnt look half-bad! Beef was trying to scalp a tree with his new tomahawk and I drew back my bow and aimed toward an old stump. The bow had more power than I thought and the arrow soared right over the stump and into the bushes behind it.
Help! Im under attack! a voice cried out from the bushes.
Beef and I walked through the bushes and saw an elderly gentleman tossing a fly rod from the bank of the river. He had long gray hair tied into a ponytail and a slight wisp of a beard. His kind old eyes lit up when we emerged from the bushes.
Ill give you your arrow back if you promise not to scalp me! The gentleman joked, eyeballing Beefs tomahawk.
Nah, we wont scalp ya! Beef said. You dont seem mean.
Names Orville, he said, Orville Lightfeather, whats yours?
We introduced ourselves and proudly told him that we were eight years old
almost grown up!
Lightfeathers a weird last name, I said. Whered you get that?
Its Chippewa, he answered. Im half Indian.
Whoa! A real live Indian? Cool! Wed never met one before! The Chief was the only Indian Id ever met and he was really just a white man who thought he was an Indian who thought he was a globetrotting playboy (although my mother would chuckle at the latter portion of that statement). We told Mr. Lightfeather about our teepee.
I saw it, he said, and what a fine teepee it is.
The Chief came walking up the bank with four grouse stuffed in his game pouch. He introduced himself to Mr. Lightfeather and they began talking about the teepee. Soon after, Mr. Lightfeather invited us to his camp for dinner. We accepted.
Mr. Lightfeather was retired and hed been camped in the area for a couple of weeks. His campsite was made up of a large wall tent and he had a big fire pit with cooking utensils scattered about. What a life, I thought. I couldnt wait to be retired so I could spend as much time in the outdoors as I wanted.
If youre an Indian, wheres your teepee? Beef asked. His sore throat was acting up again and his voice was hoarse. He removed the fruit juice bottle from his jacket, took a gargle of his grandmas homemade novocaine throat tonic and didnt say anything else for quite a while after that.
I dont know much about teepee building, Mr. Lightfeather explained. I only know a few Indian tales that my grandfather once told me.
The smell of sizzling trout and grouse was heavenly. Mr. Lightfeather threw in some fried potatoes and corn on the cob. It was probably one of the best dinners Ive ever had. As it got darker, some ominous storm clouds appeared on the horizon. As with any of our adventures in the outdoors, the threat of rain has followed Beef and I no matter where we go or what we do!
Once it was dark, we sat around the campfire. The Chief tried to pick Mr. Lightfeather's brain for any Indian knowledge he had. They were enjoying a number of adult beverages
and getting quite inebriated in the process. Beef and I toasted marshmallows. The Chief got into the spirit of things by rolling up a handkerchief and tying it around his head like a headband. He stuffed a bunch of tail feathers from the grouse hed shot into the headband and sat there with a pretty cool looking imitation of an Indian headdress.
Let me tell you a little tale, Mr. Lightfeather said. All ears turned to attention and the old man started telling his story.
Theres power in these woods, he began, a power that well never understand. A long time ago when the natives ruled this land, a brave by the name of Tripping Beaver was famous throughout the entire Chippewa nation. Tripping Beaver was strong and feared nothing, but he was also a bit clumsy. Thats how he came about his name; he was constantly tripping over something. His brothers, Hairy Beaver and Gnawing Beaver, would always pick on him no matter what he did. If he was chasing game, hed end up tripping over some log or rock and the game would get away! For all his strength, Tripping Beaver was only known for his clumsiness. This angered him something fierce. He couldnt stand being ridiculed.
Did he kill everyone who picked on him? I asked.
Nope, wasnt his style! Mr. Lightfeather continued. Tripping Beaver decided to set out on his own and create a nation that didnt pick on him. He wanted to be a chief and that wasnt about to happen
living where he was living that is. He loaded his canoe, said goodbye to his brothers, and started down this very river right behind us.
Was it a birch bark canoe? The Chief inquired. He was always asking questions like that.
Yep
built it himself! Mr. Lightfeather said. He didnt know where he was going, but he knew that this river had to lead somewhere. He canoed for a couple days, and when he came around the bend back there, he saw a deer by the riverbank. Now ol Tripping Beaver was feeling a little hungry, you see, so he got out his bow and shot the deer! Whack
direct hit! And the deer fled into the woods. Tripping Beaver pulled up to shore and followed the blood trail into the forest. Just as he was coming up on where the deer had laid down, he tripped over a big old log
mightve been that one right there, who knows, but this time it was a nasty fall. Tripping Beaver tried to get back up but his leg was broke and twisted like a pretzel. He couldnt walk and just kinda laid there
until it got so cold that he couldnt take it anymore. He cried the old Chippewa war cry and died right then and there!
Died? we all asked, swallowing hard. I clutched my bow and arrows, Beef tightened his hands around his tomahawk and The Chief chuckled at our nervousness and took a few more swigs of his beer.
Dead as a door knob! Mr. Lightfeather went on. But his spirit didnt die with him. You see this forest belongs to Tripping Beaver now, and he swore vengeance on anyone who settles here! His spirit wanders around looking for trespassers. Since he was all alone, he didnt receive a proper Indian burial. Now hes doomed to haunt this forest until the end of time! An old trapper saw him once
just once, mind you. You never get to see Tripping Beavers ghost a second time. He finishes the job right quick! Sometimes, when hes mad, you can hear his war cry in the wind. Heck, hes probably watching us at this very moment!
The wind started rushing through the trees and the sky came alive with the sound of thunder. I felt a slight chill and it gave me goosebumps.
Storms here, Mr. Lightfeather said amidst flashes of lightening, or maybe its ol Tripping Beaver! What was that? Did you see something moving by that tree over there?
Beef and I were terrified. The Chief finished his last beer and said that it was time to hit the sack.
A few raindrops were hitting the ground and the thunder rumbled like the sound of war drums as we scurried back toward the teepee. Well, Beef and I scurried that is; The Chief was a little slow from his drinking activities. His grouse feather headdress added a little comic effect to his staggering.
Hurry up, Pop! I yelled behind me. The ghost of Tripping Beaver might get us!
Theres no ghost out here, my father said, that was just an old Indian tale!
Well, Im ready for Tripping Beaver if he wants to come and gets us! Beef stated. He swung his tomahawk in the air in a mock display of bravado. Ill whack him in the head and then you shoot him with an arrow! Thatll take care of that ghost!
How ya gonna whack a ghost? I asked. Theyre just air. My arrow will go right through like hes not even there! Dont you pay attention to the movies?
Uh
youre right, Beef said. I hope that old ghost dont think were trying to settle here!
Mr. Tripping Beaver, sir? I cried out. Were just camping here. Well be gone tomorrow so
you just stay away, ok?
We picked up our pace considerably and made it back to the teepee just as the sprinkles of rain escalated to a torrential down pour.
