The Wake

Some say that God lives in Ely, Minnesota, way up near the “Arrowhead,” not too far from the Canadian border. It’s a charming town of about 3,700 people nestled in the sprawling Superior National Forest, a mess of evergreens, bluffs, lakes and streams. Ely is the gateway to the Boundary Waters, a pristine, unspoiled wilderness.

I went to Ely in January and I saw God.

Two friends and I hiked through the pines, trudging through fresh boot tracks and following cross-country ski trails. We joked around while hiking, plotting out how we might befriend a hibernating bear (after a tense initial standoff). Our hypothetical relationship with this bear, “Bitey,” grew in detail as we plowed deeper into the woods. By the time we came to rest on the shore of a frozen pond, we had already decided that our imaginary bear encounter (which had, predictably, blossomed into a feature-length screenplay) would end in tragedy, with one of us mercy-killing Bitey.

The January air was unusually warm and we stood on the lakeshore, debating whether to venture onto the slushy ice. The real world seemed a thousand miles away. We hadn’t seen any signs of life during our nature walk and didn’t much expect to.

But then God walked across the ice.

It didn’t occur to me at first that the Creator stood out there on the lake. In fact, I thought we had merely spotted another hiker, out for adventure on a balmy afternoon. The figure emerged from the distant shoreline, about a quarter-mile away, and ventured onto the ice. It didn’t move differently than a human; it just seemed like God had taken human form in an attempt to make Himself known to us.

We drank our beers in silence, watching God cross to one shore and back again, melting into the woods.

If God lives outside Ely, then Satan tends bar downtown, showing up for duty in early November and leaving by April, pouring watery tap beer for snowmobilers and community-college students. He listens to his patrons try their best at karoke, emulating George Strait or Charlie Daniels. I’d like to think the devil smiled when he heard me channeling Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender” in the corner of a bar. But he didn’t seem that impressed, solemnly mixing me a whiskey sour when I redeemed my free drink ticket.

Satan cruises Ely’s snow-choked streets after closing time on his black Arctic Cat snowmobile. He guns the engine, feeling 750 cubic centimeters trembling between his muscular legs. Legend has it that God banished him from the forest long ago for reasons unknown; now, Satan patrols the sleepy town on these long, winter nights, forever trapped in solitary confinement. He moves among the darkened canoe-outfitter shops, sneaks between the drunken drivers. And when spring stumbles into Ely, all bleary-eyed and clumsy, the devil high-tails it north outta town, screaming away on the county’s last quarter-inch of powder.

I’m told Ely comes alive with the summer, when sunlight glistens on the water and the forest stirs with wildlife. I wish I could believe it.

But a town caught in an eternal battle between good and evil can never truly thrive, can it?

Nick Neaton is a staff writer for The Wake and welcomes comments at office@wakenews.org.