JOKE

By the time we crossed the Canadian border into Minnesota, intending to drive the rest of the way to the east coast through the states, I was completely recovered.

But as we sped south through the wilderness, I was suddenly seized by the notion that I wanted to visit one of the lakes I’d fished at with my father as a child. I no longer remembered their names, but began to comb the upper quarter of a Minnesota map, anyway, hoping that if I saw one of them again, I would. Land of 10,000 lakes—and they were all on that map, I concluded after a couple of hours. It was only when I finally threw it down in frustration, feeling utterly defeated, that Meryl picked it up. Of the first three names she reeled off, I recognized two!

Soon we were bouncing along a dirt road headed deep into the woods. Eventually we came to a fork in the road with a sign that pointed one way to Lake Owen, the other to Lake Radison. For no particular reason, at least none I can explain, I chose the left-hand road. I’d known all along that it was unlikely there would be a vacancy—fishermen reserved the cabins as early as February.

Incredibly, when we got to the lodge, the keeper announced they’d just had a cancellation—and pointed to a cabin on the hill. The first thing I did when I went inside was grab a bucket and trot down the hill toward the water pump. Walking toward me on the road was a red-haired man. As I approached, he stared at me without recognition. “Dad?” I said incredulously.

Back at the cabin with my pail of water, I found my knees wobbling and couldn’t get over the notion that Someone up there was laughing at us, enjoying a little joke at our expense. My father and I had arrived within five minutes of one another, had adjacent cabins—and this was the only weekend of the entire summer he had planned to be there. We were estranged at the time, not having exchanged letters in…well, I don’t remember how long.

He had two male friends with him—and we all spent the next couple of days getting acquainted—and reacquainted.