Why Did My Version of Hemingway’s Nick Adams Mean More Than Tracing His Exact Footsteps?

In Ernest Hemingway’s “The Big Two-Hearted River”, his autobiographical character Nick Adams returns to the Seney area of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula as a veteran of World War One. He was seeking solace and healing from the traumas of war through camping and trout fishing.

I recall being enamored with the rugged, simple adventures of Nick when I first read the story of his crew venturing through the burned-out logging town through the woods and fern-covered riverbanks into the swift, cold stream, and later, into the swamp. A second read a few years later left me with an understanding that there was more going on in the story, but it wasn’t until now that I began to appreciate what Nick’s journey along the Big Two Hearted was actually about. I had not suffered the physical wounds of battle like Nick, but I had come close enough.

With apologies to Ernest, I set up camp in a rustic campsite alongside the short story’s namesake river, The Big Two Hearted, which is just north of Seney. While it wasn’t The Fox River, which most believe to be the actual setting Hemingway’s alter ego and his friends fished in the story I decided it was close enough. I also liked that it also gave me direct access to Lake Superior, gichi-gimi in Anishinaabe, the great un-salted lake I had spent many childhood afternoons playing in with my siblings only after stage one hypothermia set in.

A small tent, a cooler, a trout rod, and some lures I bought from an outfitter along the way. Not as basic as Nick’s camp, and in some way probably less sophisticated than his, too. Instead of waders I brought a kayak, which I let rest on the roof of my Jeep like a silly plastic rainbow top hat.

My first attempt at mimicking Nick was an idyllic early Fall morning. Chilly, but the birdsong and light wind amongst the trees still heavy with summer leaves gave voice to the setting in just the right way. As I headed upstream for what I was sure to be a day about which I would tell my own tales the hint of a silver canoe caught the light that was still struggling to burn off the morning fog. Concerned I was paddling into someone’s early morning honey hole I maneuvered my kayak close to riverbank just in time for my first catch of the day. It was no monster trout. I looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of the wry smile of an old timer paddling his canoe downriver, already having had his turn with the trout.

I spent a long morning and early afternoon in pursuit of the many trout I could see in deep pools, mocking my amateurish attempts to give them a free ride back to camp. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t caught one. I had lost time in the way I had hoped, and that made me happy.

The next afternoon brought the change in weather the Great Lakes are well known for. Cold, sideways-driving rain. While disappointed, I took solace in knowing that Hemingway didn’t write his masterpiece short stories direct from a journal while cold and wet, huddled in small tent, shooing off mosquitoes or horseflies, or both. No, he wrote the Big Two Hearted River in Paris. Probably on warm sunny days while sipping a warm drink in from a comfortable café seat after a restful night in a comfortable bed. With that thought, I chuckled to myself about having learned my first lesson from Nick and, with a smile and a chuckle to myself, packed up my wet gear and drove my Jeep with its silly top hat to the nearest hotel.

While his journey of healing from the horrors of war may have started in the rural Upper Peninsula of Michigan, he continued it across the ocean and along the streets of Boulevard Saint-Germain. I suppose in some way, these Field Notes are part of my journey. I am no Hemingway, that’s for certain. I’m a lot more like Nick, who knew instinctively that the returning to the outdoors, to a place you know but that is always changing, is what helps you find your way back to your own nature.