Chapter Seventeen: Boscoe and Toby Go Up North

when toby and i lived in duluth, it was no big deal to go up the shore. we did it all the time. i'd open the hatchback of my rusty grey toyota and toby would jump in and we'd drive to brighton beach, or knife river, or gooseberry. we'd hike for a couple hours, or he'd go swimming (awkwardly, staying close to shore), and then we'd go home. we never stayed overnight, or ate at betty's pies, or bought moccasins and agates. those things were for tourists.

i got a warning for speeding coming back from gooseberry one time; i like to think that toby's big smile is what melted the state trooper's heart.

once toby went with me when i was doing a story in Hovland for minnesota monthly; he stayed in the car while i interviewed the indian fisherman, and then we hiked at the kadunce river on our way home.

but after we moved to the cities, trips up the shore became rare. they had to be planned. we had to take time off work. (by "we" here i mean doug and me; toby never took a day off in his life.) we had to rent a cabin. we had to drive for five hours.

going up north is vital. it's our week of silence, of reading for hours, of being in the woods every day. we go in the oddball seasons when there aren't liable to be many other hikers; it's easier to let the dogs off the leash in late april when it's too late for skiing and the hiking trails are slick with mud and snow. or early november, when it's 27 degrees and blustery. (no bugs, though.) once we went in early december; there was no snow, but the afternoons were so short that we had to be out of the woods by about 3:30.


toby was well used to the trails. but after we added boscoe to the family, i worried. (i tend to worry.) would he run off? would he get trampled by a moose? would he fall over a cliff? would he get lost?

doug thought i was a little nutty. "he'll stay close," he said. "he'll watch, and he'll do what toby does."

yeah, but there's so much to smell.... so many chipmunks to chase... a dog can be gone before you know it and not know how to find his way back.

so i vowed to keep boscoe on the leash the whole time we were hiking. i think you're supposed to do this anyway, but it's pretty hard to do. the superior hiking trail is fairly rugged in some spots--steep and rocky, following rivers and climbing to high open areas that offer vistas of lake superior.


i kept my vow for the first ten minutes or so of the first hike of the first day. i wrapped the end of boscoe's leather leash around my hand and started up the trail. boscoe, pretty well-behaved on a leash in the city, was insane in the woods. the piney smells. the rushing river. the chattering chipmunks and squirrels. the fact that toby was off-leash. he pulled me to the left. he pulled me straight ahead. he tried to dash down toward the river. i plodded forward, yanking him, muttering, slipping. finally, as we started up the steep trail that rose out of the gorge, i gave up. if he was going over the edge, i was damned if he was going to drag me with him.

i unhooked him, and he zipped off up the path. i trudged along, able to swing my arms freely and go at my own pace. i quit worrying; i liked this too much. whatever happens, happens. (when i'm not worrying, i can be fatalistic.) within minutes, the three of them--boscoe, toby and doug--were out of sight. i had the woods to myself. at the top of the hill, the trail flattened out into a fragrant path through pine trees and carpeted with red-brown needles. the kadunce roiled and foamed far below. a nuthatch hopped, head down, along a tree trunk. a woodpecker drilled for insects.

far up the trail, i saw movement. a triangle face. blond hair. big smile. toby. he had doubled-back to check on me. our eyes met, he gave a little nod, and then turned and loped on up the trail. a half-hour or so later, there he was again. that triangle face far ahead through the trees, waiting, watching, making sure i was ok. and then, when our eyes met and he knew i was fine, he turned and trotted off.

for the rest of his life, on every hike, toby did this. hiked up ahead with the boys, but doubled-back to check on the girl. it was one of the things i missed about him the most after he died--that golden triangular face, almost the same color as the fallen leaves, suddenly appearing up the trail, keeping me safe.

doug said that was the mantra that toby taught boscoe late at night in the cabin up north in front of the fire:

remember, it's not how far up the trail you go that matters. it's how many times you double back.