Markers of Memory
Pastel Pond with Geese – Lilly Ramsey
Markers of Memory
Julia Burnette
And just like that, I’m here again, breathing in the sharp scent of pine as my eyes lift to the soft blue stretch of sky above. It has been six years since I last followed this uneven trail along the icy edges of Lake Superior, brushing my fingers against the birch trees with their curling strips of bark. The ground is still slick in places, though I walk it more steadily now. My grandfather lags behind, leaning on a poplar branch and carrying a limp I hadn’t noticed before. The crunch of gravel under my boots mixes with the distant cry of gulls, their sharp voices cutting through the stillness of the trees. A chill rides the air, and I pull my jacket tighter, realizing how this landscape feels both familiar and unfamiliar, as if the place I recall exists only in memory. Before we came, my uncle sent me blurry videos from that long-ago hike: a dirt-streaked ten-year-old with a crooked daisy crown tumbling down tangled hair, spinning with a joy that belonged only to childhood. My mother, who left Canada for the United States before I was born, always returned to this northern shore with my brother and me each summer, until the pandemic, health challenges, and family troubles stretched six years into silence, slipping away like water through my cupped hands.
The trail that once stretched endlessly now feels shorter, its obstacles less daunting than I remember. I step onto the shore and face the vast expanse of blue water. As a child, my mother told me tales of great ships that vanished in sudden storms, and I sang Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” without fully grasping its meaning. Now, as I watch the waves tumble against the shore, I can almost feel the fear of sailors drawn beneath the freezing surface. My grandfather bends carefully at the edge of the lake, steadying himself as his fingers skim the water. The sight tightens something in my chest, a reminder of how time is impossible to grasp onto. Yet even with all that has changed, I feel a thread that ties me to what was, a continuity that makes this shoreline part of who I am. It brings to mind a haunting passage I once read in Thomas Wolfe’s novel, that you can never truly go home again, that the place you remember is not there (Wolfe).
I turn from the water, and my gaze settles on the stones scattered across the shore. My hands fly to my chest. There they are. Dozens of small, wobbly towers rise from the rocks, some standing firmly while others tilt or crumble into loose piles. As a child, I marveled at these figures along remote Canadian highways and windswept lookouts, never fully grasping their meaning. I had forgotten them until this moment. Inukshuks. For generations, Inuit and other Indigenous peoples built them to mark travel routes, hunting grounds, and sacred places. They served as silent guides across vast, unmarked northern landscapes. Even now, they remain symbols of guidance, friendship, and survival. Many hikers pass by quickly, pausing for a photograph before moving on, but I linger, kneeling to rest my palm on a stone worn smooth by weather.
Building an inukshuk begins with a strong foundation. My grandfather is the first to remind me of this. I pick my way through the rocky ground, trying my hardest to find the smoothest, flattest one to build my own foundation upon. He lingers beside me, pressing the end of his poplar stick against a wide, flat stone half-buried in the sand beside me. “Start here,” he says, his voice low and steady, the same way it has always sounded when we walked the shoreline together years ago. I crouch beside him and brush away the grit with my fingers, feeling the cold weight of the stone before setting it upright. It sat perfectly even. Behind me, the waves ripple softly along the stones, and the air bites my cheeks, but his quiet nod tells me we are in the right place to begin building.
When I was younger, I thought of the inukshuks as silly piles of stones someone had stacked just to pass the time, going up to each tower and knocking them over, giggling with pride. Now, kneeling on the shore with my grandfather, I understand them differently. “They show the way,” he says, steadying a smaller stone in his hand before placing it gently on top of mine. His fingers move more slowly now, his balance less certain, yet his movements are passionate. I follow his example, choosing one stone at a time, testing, adjusting, beginning again when they topple. The work is slow, but in the silence between us, I feel the weight of his presence beside me. The tower begins to rise. Some stones sit easily, clicking together as though meant to fit, like waves settling into the rhythm of the shore. Others wobble and fall, scattering into the sand, and I groan in frustration. My grandfather chuckles softly, the sound carried off by the wind. “Patience,” he reminds me. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, just balanced.” His words settle into me as firmly as the stones themselves. I glance at him, noticing the curve of his shoulders in the cold and the way his hand grips the driftwood stick. I realize how much he has slowed since the summers of my childhood. Back then, he lifted me onto his shoulders when my legs grew tired, steady as the trees lining the trail. Now I watch him move carefully, testing each step before trusting it. The change presses on me, not with surprise but with the ache of seeing what will not last.
When the inukshuk finally stands, we both step back to admire it. The tower is uneven, leaning slightly into the wind, but it holds. My grandfather’s eyes crease with a smile, but I notice the tears gathering at their corners. He does not say a word, and I pretend not to see, letting the quiet hold what neither of us needs to explain. In that moment, the lake, the stones, and his presence combine into something I know I will carry with me long after we leave.
As we turn back toward the trail, I glance along the shoreline. Hundreds of other inukshuks rise from the rocks, some small and hidden between boulders, others tall and tilting against the sky. Each one feels like a story, silent but powerful, left by someone who passed through this place before us. They do not reveal names or faces, but they mark the presence of lives and moments now forever in the shoreline. I know that the next time I return, the lake will look different. Waves will have toppled many of the towers, and the ones that remain will lean in new directions. I may not find the exact inukshuk my grandfather and I built today, but perhaps I will. Either way, I will know it once stood, balanced carefully against time. And if I do, I will think of this memory, of the sound of his voice and the weight of the stones in my hands. Then I will gather new rocks and begin again, adding another story to the shore. Like the stones, I, too, am learning to stand, imperfect yet steady, carrying forward what he has taught me.
Works Cited
Wolfe, Thomas. You Can’t Go Home Again. Harper & Brothers, 1940.