Back Again—For the moment

     Been awhile. Since the last entry I've organized and published two books. The second, Tales from Deadman Lake, covers the days from building the cabin through fishing trips in the area. She's not art but has a few good moments and a laugh or two.

     More than that side trip, I've been depressed by Allan and my last trip. We tried something new and it didn't pan out. The fishing was okay but not what I was hoping for. We caught our share of walleyes but most came from trolling with jigs and twister tails. Not my cup of tea. 'Course I don't drink tea so maybe that was the problem? 

     We did do several double-portage trips to a remote lake—that's funny; remote; hell we were on a fly-in lake, how much more remote do you need to get—and found better fishing. But like every lake on the planet, they weren't everywhere. And when were found them they didn't seem to like it any way besides a trolled jig and twister tail. So call it, we came, we fished, did okay and flew out.

     Anyhow, I'm putting the finishing touches on a book covering Allan and my canoe days in the Boundary Waters and Manitoba to include hand-drawn maps and photos. Could be a sign of old age that I'm deeper into remembering, way deeper, than doing. 

Learning the Water

     This is not an easy trip to describe. More than anything disappointment ruled. Yeah, the fishing was okay, even better than good by Minnesota standards, but sure not what I'd been hoping for. It could've been we were simply on water that'd been worked a lot over the years. The lakes of the far north aren't fertile in the least, so just maybe forty or more years had put a strain on the water. Could also be Allan and I aren't the hot-shot fisherman we'd thought we were. Whatever the reason, tIt's a guessing game pure and simple. Try this, try that, figure out what works but even then you're not sure if you're missing the boat. Those things happen when you're on new water. 

     Could also be we were out for the wrong fish. A perfect trip for us would've been a handful of pike running forty inches or more and enough walleyes to say we caught a few. Said it and wrote it many times, the two of us are pike fishermen to the bone. As it was, we were on walleye water. Oh yeah, we caught our share as the old time meat hunters used to say. For sure the numbers added up but none were real wall hangers. Okay, that's enough for pissing and moaning. Time to get back to the details.

     Once Hugh flew off at 8:30 we stood at the pinnacle of our trip; we were loading our gear into the cabin with the Canadian boonies right outside the door and waiting for us to come out and play. Brought back memories of Larry Gogal roaring off from Dow Lake in northwest Manitoba and leaving us to the silence of the forest. Only this time we weren't going to paddle off. Nope, we had us a roof over our heads instead of a tent. I honestly can't say which was better. However, having a cabin sure made it feel like we were cheating. Not traveling by the seat of our pants might've been a sign that wisdom had finally entered my life though I doubted it. Wisdom is a fickled thing.
     By 10:00 we were offloaded and ready to hit the way. I'd like to say I was excited but the boat motor hooked to the back of our boat had me a little nervous. Nervous hell, I was borderline terrified. Could be the reason I'd been a canoe man had to do with paddles never failing to start. For a brief time we'd had a boat and motor at the cabin and it'd been a nightmare pain in the ass and black hole for money. Before leaving home I'd YouTubed a video (Outboards for Dummies) on how to operate a 9.9 Mercury outboard. Even wrote down the steps. Seemed easy enough but I had my doubts. It was a simple three step process: pump it, set it, and pull the cord. Oddly enough it worked like a charm and never once had a problem.
     According to the Lodge's website the best walleye fishing was right off of our dock at the mouth of an incoming stream. Only problem was the low water levels. Somehow I figured eighteen inches of water wouldn't cut it for a fish that liked sixty-five degree water. The shallow water also had me paying close attention to the rocks strewn about. The idea of whacking the motor's prop held no appeal. As it turned out, the owners had already taken bimbos like me into consideration and installed a heavy duty prop guard. Good move.

     

     

Back, Tired, and Mulling it Over

     Considering all of the walleyes we caught, it was kind of disappointing as far as Canadian fishing trips go. Could be I expect too much even though I say it doesn't matter. And like all stories about flying into the bush, this one wrote itself. Yeah, it was a good time; hard for it not to be seeing as how it was with my son. We get along and Allan always throws new light on my way of seeing things. I like that. Gives me something to think about in the thirty seconds before I fall asleep.
     This was our first fly-in and also our first serious fishing trip in Ontario. The idea, once again, was big pike and enough walleyes to kill and eat a couple. Over the winter I tied thirty spiffy-looking, bucktail treble hooks. In the spring I turned them into spinners, both single and double bladed. All were what I'd call #6 size—big pike, small musky. For the walleyes we packed a couple of dozen jigs and a few bags of plastics. That was it, jigs and spinners. For gear we had a half dozen rods and reels, backup line, and a landing net big enough for a small submarine.
    Wasn't but an uneventful five hundred and forty mile drive. Over the ten hours the scenery changed from rush hour traffic to spruce, pine, rock, and lake but it still was a long drive. At seventy-one I don't handle half a day behind a windshield like I used to. Could be that I'm no longer as tall as I once was, my butt and head have grown uncomfortably close, and too much time on my backside can cause a headache. Could also be that the excitement level isn't what it once was. Adventure might still be calling but I don't hear like I used to. Good thing I was with my son and that's always a pleasure.
     Along the way Al spotted a dead moose in the ditch. To some that might not be a highlight but these days we take our interesting where we can. Who knows, there might even have been a treasure worth collecting among the bones? However, we were in a hurry to have fun and figured being slathered by rotting stink might not be worth rooting through the festering cadaver. We drove on, hell bent for Red Lake.
     The motel wasn't much but was clean and our room was far enough from the bar that we weren't serenaded at two a.m. Done that before and it's not as neat as you might think, especially where the alarm is set to six.

   
     This mural was in the lobby. I'm not sure what's it's supposed to mean but figure moose, fish, and dead trees have a lot to do with it. In fact, the moose looked something like the one Allan spied in the ditch, bones and all. Anyhow, I thought it was a pretty spiffy painting.
   
     Our check-in with Viking Outposts didn't take but a minute. Lacking anything better to do, we hung around to drill one of the owners on pike fishing Optic Lake where we were heading. Originally we'd signed up for Night Hawk but were told the water was too low. Seems they'd had a dry winter followed by a warm spring. The temperature had hit ninety-five the day before and our outlook was mid-eighties for the next week. Glad we'd brought short sleeves and sunscreen.
     Anyhow, the word pike spawned a questioning look on the man's face, like no on had ever asked him that before. He all but blurted out, "Who the hell in their right mind would come to this part of the world to fish pike? This is walleye country. Troll and jig, Yank. That's why the good Lord invented the 9.9 horse Mercury. Oh, we've got pike all right. In fact we've got way too many of those nasty little line snapping pricks."
     I suppose his words should have been a clue, but not for me. What the hell, this was Canada, there were big pike everywhere, even in flooded ditches. I know for a fact Canadians had no love for pike. They called them jackfish and figured them not even worthy to feed to dogs. We'd heard the same up in Northwest Manitoba and found the pike fishing to be excellent. As usual, I figured the locals who'd been fishing the lakes around us since they'd stepped out of diapers, had been missing the boat. We left, none the wiser. Learning the truth took a few days.
     We were limited to 150 pounds of food and gear each.  After finishing the paperwork in the morning Allan asked if the water at our outpost was filtered. A good question that he'd asked me several times and I'd given him the wrong answer each time. Roseanne, who handled the paperwork and money, simply said, "No." That changed things a bit. Though all our canoe trip drinking water had come straight from the lake, this time I had my doubts. Luckily, Viking had 18 liter jugs of potable water we could add to the dozen liters Allan had packed and we bought one. Didn't think we'd go through it all but we did.
     Once loaded, we squeezed into a little Cessna float plane piloted by the other owner, Hugh. Later we heard Hugh probably had more hours in a Cessna than any other pilot in Canada. Nice to know and our twenty minute flight went just like the man'd been doing it all his life.
     Don't know about you but every time I've been on a plane the takeoffs and landings always hold my attention. Not that I fear dying, more that I enjoy being alive. Between times, I peek out the window at the lakes and woods passing below, scanning the dials on the dash, and checking to see if the wings might be coming loose. Touch down is always a good thing.
     Another party and a stack of gear was waiting at the dock for our arrival. I asked how the fishing had been and received an 'awesome' for an answer. Like that told me a lot. There was a time awesome was used for a category five hurricane, a moon launch, or a massive forest fire. These days the word's used for everything from a volcano to how good the beans at Taco John's taste. Guess we're easily awed these days. So what they said told me they'd caught a few, maybe a lot, who knows? I figured Allan and I would find out on our own.
     While offloading Hugh gave us the lowdown on all we needed to know, "the cabin's up there, the water pump's at the end of the hose," and in ten words and two seconds, how to start the pump. Guess we'd figure it out on our own.
     We weren't expecting five star accommodations but our cabin was more than adequate. Had most everything we needed including moose antlers:

   
   
     Ten minutes of offload and Hugh was gone. Quiet ruled the land. I've grown to love quiet and don't mind hearing my heartbeat at all. Says I'm alive and my hearing's not completely shot.

Packing

     After all these years I should be good at it but most every time we head off to the boonies I manage to forget something. That's why I start packing better than a week in advance. At the moment a pot of spaghetti sauce is simmering on the stove, all my clothes are packed, rods and tackle checked and double-checked, and the food's bought. But eating away in the back of my brain is the sure-fire knowledge I've forgotten something.
     On Friday, my son Allan and I are off to Red Lake, Ontario. Saturday morning we climb in a small floatplane and fly to a cabin on a river system that might or might not be good fishing. The scary part is the weather forecast. It's too good. Highs in the eighties every day, favorable winds, and no rain. Good reason to pack the sunscreen.
     We have a week to explore around seven hundred acres of the small chain of lakes that form the headwaters of the Nungesser River. There's walleyes, pike, and perch and I've packed for all three. However, our gear is simple, spinners, jigs, plastics, and a half-dozen rods and reels. Even packed the fly rod and am determined to use it a lot (we'll see).
     Also as usual, I've got the pre-trip jitters and get depressed that once again Allan and I are off to the woods. That usually lasts as long as it takes to start the car and back out of the garage. Then it's ten hours of conversation, music, and staring through the windshield as the world slowly changes from Interstate to backroads.
     You can bet I'll be the one behind the wheel when we cross the border, will misunderstand every question I'm asked, smile stupidly, and hope the guard has a sense of humor. Good thing Al has good ears.

The Eye of the Beholder

     In the last week or two I've watched a couple of big pike fly fishing videos. The one with a pair of Swedes—I recall it being on FLY TV and titled Shallow Water Monsters— was the best. They were a pair of amiable guys who sounded pretty much like you'd figure English speaking Swedes would sound. You know, pretty much like us Minnesotans. And they did catch some big like. A lot of big pike.
     Briefly they showed big, fluffy flies they were fishing and then upped the ante with a monstrosity of a jointed thing. Seems like when fly rod fishers go for pike and muskies they leave the number twenty-four midge hooks in the box. Don't know what they'd cost but figure them at south of ten bucks a pop. Way too rich for my blood.
     Anyhow, I recalled tying a few pike monstrosities a couple of years ago but had never used them. Rooted around for a few minutes, found the box, blew the dust off and checked them our. A few were not much bigger than bass-sized, most were around four inches and a couple were seriously hideous, eight inch, floating popper affairs. Damnation, they were not only ugly but absolutely perfect. There were even a few beaded, garishly colored, homemade lightweight versions of an inline spinner. Wow, I even got a little teary eyed looking at the mess I'd made of perfectly good material.
     They're packed and heading to Ontario with Allan and I. Best part is, if I don't catch anything it won't surprise or disappoint me in the least.

Never-ending Winter

     April 19th and the ground is still buried under seven inches of white. The ice normally sinks from the local lakes around the 10th and now looks to be at least two weeks away. Call that late, late. Figure the up north lakes at a week or so after. The Boundary Waters lakes I would most likely fish, another week after that. Not that big a deal, it's happened before. Back in '66 the ice came off the lakes my buddy Rod and I were fishing on Memorial Day, went a long way toward explaining our bad luck a week later.
     So what does a fisherman expecting at least three trips up north this year do? Oils reels and winds line of course. Yup, they're ready to go even if Mother Nature ain't.
     There is an upside. The small, fly-in lakes my son and I are off to in late June should be primed and ready for action. Yeah, hope springs even if spring doesn't. I've got a vision of those Nungesser River widenings and it tells me they fit me about right. All told, no more than eight hundred acres with the biggest at a spit over three. Even the name, Night Hawk Lake, draws me. Wrote an entry a few years back that'll be in Deadman Lake when it comes out titled, 'Small Lakes Fit Me Best'. Yup, where we'll be going could easily be fished by canoe. There's even what appears to be a mile and a half of navigable river that'd take us north into Nungesser Lake proper should we want to flounder on big water. But being a cheap bugger at heart, the extra cost for an additional flight is beyond my idea of affordable.
     All the spinners are wired up and done. Eight of them are even double bladed. Don't know if they'll work but we'll find out.
   

Nail Polish

     Back home and it's time to paint the blades. The idea is to replicate a Mepps #5 red and white without getting too cute and violating any copyright or patent laws. Don't know if that's a consideration but figure the Mepps has caught a whole lot more fish than a Picasso so I best be careful.
     The idea is to head to our closest drug store with a blade in hand - I bought a bunch of white ones -  and match up the Mepps red with an appropriate nail polish. Truth is I figure Mepps tried their best to duplicate the color of fish blood. Seems fish like an easy meal and will go for the wounded figuring they'd be easier to catch. I don't know that for fact but then I know little for fact and somehow have managed to survive. Call ignorance and imagined truth my guiding principles of life.
     My first lure paintings were done with tape and spray paint. Not perfect but solidly okay. Then one day I came upon a one buck rack of closeout nail polish and the lightbulb lit. Looked like paint, was durable in water (even said so on the rack) and best of all, had a paint brush right in the bottle. I bought a half dozen. Turned out most offended me but not so the one called Ruby Pumps. Wow! A rich red with tiny sparkly flecks, three coats sure did look pretty on a spinner blade. Even caught fish. What more could an outdoorsman want?

New Water

     Yes, lakes I'm familiar with have their charm. Something like visiting old friends. Mostly they're comfortable but every once in a while will throw in a new twist I didn't see coming. Maybe even an angle that changes my outlook on a place I've been to dozens of times. Truth is, even though I think I know what I'm doing, I really don't. Never the same river twice also seems to fit for lakes.
     Old friends aside, I have to admit I like new water. It's exciting standing on the shore and looking out on a world fresh with possibility. There have been a few times when that feeling struck me hard. Two in particular, East Pike Lake in the Boundary Waters in '66 and South Stocking in the Chippewa National Forest close to thirty years later. Those two moments filled me with a tingling, gut feeling. It's a feeling that still hangs on as I sit here at the keyboard. Both lakes live in my head as changing points. East Pike planted the seed and South Stocking provided the first fruit. Yes sir, it was a long time coming.
     That morning on South Stocking led to an exploration of what grew to be my home water and eventually to numerous, wilderness canoe trips with my son and a few others. None were great undertakings but a few led us more than three days off the beaten path in the Manitoba bush. Both my son Allan and I found a little bit of ourselves on each of our paddles over the horizon. Even the tough times were good times.
     Come this summer the two of us are off on another adventure, just Allan and I. And we'll be on new water where we'll wet a line to see what truth can be found beneath the waves. New water is always out there, somewhere, waiting for a man to come visit. It's also inside patiently biding its time, holding onto unrealized truth. In my life I've come to fish both ways, inward and out. Can't say which is better. And no, it's not a religious thing, at least not in an organized religion kind of way. Call it more of a oneness with a few big pike thrown in as a bonus.


   

New Day

     At the moment Draftee is finally cleaned up about as good as I can get it and Deadman Lake is sitting on the sidelines where it can mellow out for a month. Once both are done and published I can move on to the trips to the Boundary Waters and Canada. What I'll write from then on is a good question.
     For the moment there are three fishing trips, maybe four, ready to go for next summer and early fall. A while back I wrote an entry, at least I think I did, called Never Enough Time. Damnation that's true. Figured that'd be a thing of the past when I retired, guess it's not. At age seventy-one the window's still open but is getting harder to squeeze through. Suppose I'll keep climbing in the canoe till I can't.
     The lake Allan and I will fly to in late June is not all that big. Figure the little chain in Ontario at 5-600 acres but big enough to hold a few fish of size. Also small enough to get a grip on how to fish it. The main body, Night Hawk Lake, is close to the same size as the unnamed one I wrote up in Between Thought and the Treetops. Hadn't made that mental connection when I signed on the dotted line. So, once again it's a combination of good and bad; wish it was bigger but at the same time I'm glad it's not. Story of life in a nut shell.

Tackle Box

       Don't know if I have the guts but do like the idea of a pared down tackle box for the upcoming fly-in to Ontario:

       1 dozen, homemade, red and white spinners (big pike size only).
       1/2 dozen quarter ounce jigs.
       1/2 dozen eighth ounce jigs.
       1 sleeve of two inch twister tails.
       1 sleeve of three inch twister tails.
       Snap swivels.
       Back-up line.
       Jaw spreader and needle nose pliers.

       That should do it and outside of the needle nose and jaw spreader, will all fit in a small plastic box plus a one quart zip lock bag.

Summer 2018

       Looks like three trips are in the offing for this summer. The first's in late June will be a fly-in to northwest Ontario with my son Allan. The second, a Boundary Waters trip, should come about in late July with my grandson Jakob and my son-in-law Ryan. Finally, a fall Boundary Waters trip with my nephew Brian. Been nigh on two years since we shared a canoe. He's still iffy but has a taste for cold water fattened walleye and we both know where they live. More later.

Lure Building

     After Allan and my last trip to Manitoba I realized that after better than forty hours on the water we'd only used one type of lure, an in-line spinner. And of those a red and white blade was the most successful. We caught nothing but pike and walleyes but what the hell, that's all that swam in the water of Elbow Lake. So why not next time only pack a dozen red and whites each plus snap swivels and backup line? Sounds foolish to show up at the float plane with all our lures in a hip pocket but I sure do like the idea.
     So, yesterday I ordered enough parts to tie up and assemble thirty spinners between pike and musky sized. All will have red and white blades with trebles heavily dressed in red and white or yellow and white buck tail. That's it, keepin' it simple.

What's the Point?

     Call me an ebay, voyeur junkie. Can't help it, I just like to look. Mostly my personal porn consists of vintage fiberglass fly rods. Admittedly bamboo has more mystique to it but not for me. Besides the price for a decent rod being out of my league, I simply can't see myself in the solo canoe waving a fancy asian, grass stick back and forth. Don't know why but I just can't.
     Fiberglass however, would be in my price range if I had a price range. Also carries the weight of nostalgia since I grew up on glass, both spinning and fly rods. Its action tends to be slow and forgiving and Lord knows I need forgiveness. A couple of years back I broke down and bought a couple on ebay. Both were of quality though neither was off-the-wall exotic. And I do love things and people with an aura about them. So, over the years when I need a fix, I fire up ebay, scout what's available and occasionally find a rod that calls to me. Most are from the '50s and tend to look like they were rarely used. Untouched is neat but a little palm sweat on the cork has more appeal.
     A couple of years ago I wrote a coming-of-age novel. In it my fictitious Uncle Emil owns a single fly rod, a three piece, eight and a half foot Shakespeare. Not a great rod by any means but it fit the man. Wouldn't mind owning one myself. Don't need the sock nor the tube, just the rod.
     To name a few of the others, Conolon's Royal Javelin, Browning rods from the '60s and most any Phillipson. However, the Phillipsons tend to be pricy and those selling them know it.
     Last summer, while he and his family were vacationing on the north shore of Lake Superior, my son came on a couple of fiberglass fly rods at a consignment store. One was a South Bend of no interest, the other was a Johnson Profile 600 Phillipson in excellent shape. The Phillipson is for all practical purposes, as good a production fiberglass rod as has been made. Doesn't have the gold plating of the 800 but shares the same blank. The price was reasonable but since I had no use for another rod, particularly one I wasn't worthy of, our conversation went no further.
     Well, come Christmas, guess what I got? The rod needs a revarnish of the ferrule windings but that's about it. Still has part of the tag on the handle but the cork is slightly soiled. Yeah, it's a rod I would have lusted on line, said to myself, "That'd be a fine one to own," then passed on to other listings.
     So, now I own one of my icons. Hardly seems worth looking at ebay any more and truth is, I don't. Guess there's no point, eh?