My relationship with my Father was somewhat complicated and rather short lived. One night, before I could rightly be called a man, he went to bed and never woke up.
Fortunately, I had my Uncle Marvin. Though we didn’t see each other every day, he looked out for me, provided guidance, and helped foster my love for the outdoors.
My mom’s sister met Marvin when she was away at college in Plattsburgh, NY. She was getting a teaching degree, and by most accounts, he was mostly running amok, framing houses and drinking beer. She was able to civilize him just enough that he was able to obtain a teaching degree of his own. He went on to become a shop teacher — the only one I know that was able to retain all 10 of his fingers.
Marvin was a man’s man. He loved his wife, loved his kids, and treated everyone he met with respect. He served as a shining example of what a Father could be.
But he was so much more than that to me. He was a larger-than-life figure that went on big adventures I wanted to participate in. He went on horseback elk hunts in the Montana backcountry, canoed deep into Canadian wilderness in pursuit of walleyes, and drove across the Badlands chasing turkeys and sleeping under the stars.
Growing up surrounded mostly by concrete, my interests in the outdoors often made me feel like a bit of an outlier, but talking with him made me feel less alone. Marvin taught me about all the birds, animals, and fish that I loved. He told me stories of the big 6×6 bull whose bugles were so powerful it almost knocked him off his feet before his .270 could find its mark. I was in awe of those canoe trips and their seemingly endless supply of hungry walleye. And the play by play of the South Dakota thunder chickens was better than any ball game on the radio.
Marvin bought me my first fly tying vise, and taught me how to fool fish with things I created. He also taught me more practical things, like how to frame a wall, miter a corner, and construct a dowel joint stronger than any mechanical fastener. These skills let me maintain the home that my wife and child deserve.
He was a bit of a car guy too, constantly tinkering with a 3-window Chevy coupe that he fitted with a crate motor and open headers. Through his teachings, I was able to understand the basic components of an automobile, and what I needed to do to keep them functional. I learned how to figure out what those weird squeaks coming from my truck were, and how to fix them.
Though he was larger than life, he was still mortal. Marvin got cancer; it attacked him in his stomach. But he was a tough man, and he managed to beat it. After that, he doubled down on life, going on even bigger adventures. He pushed further into the backcountry, staying longer, and really drinking life up.
But as cancer is wont to do, it came back. This time, it had spread using his lymphatic fluid. Marvin continued fighting, hard. After 10 years, the disease eventually took him from us. The world would never be the same.
After he passed, my Aunt gave me his truck, which let me go on adventures with Marvin. It was a late 90s F150 with a camper top, a manual transmission, mud tires and just the right amount of rust — perfect for exploring. That truck took me on all kinds of adventures, ushering me up and down the East coast. I like to think Marvin’s spirit was there, riding shotgun.
It served as a hotel at Montauk, letting me sleep on the beach and rise before the sun to catch stripers. It pulled boats, large and small. It ate up miles on rutted two-tracks and the open highway alike.
One time, I heard a rumor of the last remaining pocket of Arctic char in the lower 48. It was in Maine, just this side of Canada. I loaded up the truck, grabbed a buddy and headed North. About 7 hours into the 14 drive the headliner, the fabric covering on the ceiling, fell onto our heads. To remedy the situation, my buddy dug a couple of flies out of his box, and shoved them into the ceiling.
This started a tradition, in which everyone that rode in my truck stuck a couple of flies of their own in the headliner. Eventually, the ceiling was completely covered in flies. I think Marvin would have approved.
I held onto that truck longer than I should have because it was his. One of its last long trips was to propose to my then girlfriend on an island on a lake that straddled the New Hampshire/Maine border. On the way up the starter gave out, and I had to park the truck on hills and let the clutch out and pop it into gear to get it started for the remainder of the journey. I’m happy to report that the proposal went better the trip, and she said yes despite it raining on us for almost the entirety of the five days we spent camping on that island.
After we returned home, I fixed the starter. But shortly after, I heard a squeak from the brakes. When I pulled the wheel off to check, I could see through the framerail. A lifetime of beach driving and Northeast road salt had taken its toll, and it had rusted away. I had to let it go, but Marvin would be proud. I got 267,000 miles out of a gas Ford, mostly thanks to things he taught me.
Though the truck is gone. Marvin still visits me. I don’t dream much, but his is one of the only voices I recognize when I do. He checks in to see how I’m doing from time to time. I tell him about my family, the adventures I’ve been on and the fish I’ve caught. He responds with his characteristic belly laugh, and the ‘well alright’ he always gave as a sign of approval.
A couple years ago, I had the good fortune of going on an epic Alaska road trip with my wife and son, a trip Marvin would have loved. We covered 1,500 miles of open road in two weeks, camping along the way and drinking up all that land of the Midnight Sun had to offer.
One of our stops was at Horseshoe Lake at Denali National Park. In case you’re unfamiliar, Horseshoe Lake is stunningly clear. You can hike to a vantage over the crystalline water, and just take it all in. It’s truly gorgeous.
“Hey!”
As we were leaving, I heard someone whisper-yell in an almost familiar voice. As I turned to look at the man that was attempting to get my attention, I stopped in my tracks. Standing before me was the spitting image of Uncle Marvin, before the chemo took his signature ponytail. I was visibly shaken by his appearance; so much so that my wife was worried about my response.
“There’s a moose up ahead. You’d better be careful.”
Even from beyond, Marvin was still looking out for me.
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I learned a lot from Uncle Marvin. So let’s hear it for all the Dads, Uncles, and anyone else that helped along the way. Thank you for all that you’ve done.
