Next Year (and maybe fall)

     July 24, 2020. That's the date. Five of us will head nine hundred miles to Cranberry Portage in northwest Manitoba where we'll wait for Steve Japp to show up in the morning. Allan and I have been there before, my son-in-law Ryan, grandson Jakob and my nephew Brian haven't. Twenty-two years will have passed since Allan and I pushed our old Alumacraft onto First Cranberry Lake and paddled off into what has grown to be a tradition. What it'll be like next year is pure speculation. Hopefully the world will still be turning and the fish will be biting.
     The other day Brian emailed me with the idea of fall fishing at the cabin. Even though it appeals, I have my doubts. Too many unavoidable things are sucking up the calendar. At best fishing's maybe thing.

Ontario Trip - 2018

     I started this entry a while ago and finished it yesterday. The first half is repetition, sorry about that. Anyhow, this is the complete version (though I'll no doubt revise it over the coming months:

2018 - With Allan

    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 are walleyes, pike, and perch and I've packed for all three. However, our gear is simple, spinners, jigs, plastics, and half-a-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 back roads.

     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.

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 in the morning. Done that before and it's not as neat as you might think, especially when the alarm is set to six.

   

     There was a mural in the lobby. Kind’ve neat in a modern, primitive outdoorsy style. I'm not sure what it was supposed to mean but figure moose, fish, and dead trees had 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. Looking back on the last three years I’ve hit more than my share of hot weather in places that should be on the cool side even in summer. I’m not saying it’s global warming but I sure have sweat a lot.

     Anyhow, the word pike spawned a questioning look on the man's face, like no one 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’ve 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 of pike. They called them jackfish and figured they’re not even worthy to feed to dogs. We'd heard the same up in Northwest Manitoba also 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 eighteen-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 floatplane 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 held my attention. Not that I fear dying, more that I enjoy being alive. Between those dances with death, I peeked out the window at the lakes and woods passing below with hopes I wouldn’t be impaled should I jump before the little plane exploded from a twenty year old gas leak that’d not been thought important, scanning the dials on the dash hoping they were working, 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 were 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 taste at Taco John's. 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.

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 doubt it. Wisdom is a fickle thing and I’m always ready to season my life with a dash of stupidity.

     By 10:00 we were offloaded and ready to hit the water. I'd like to say I was excited but the outboard 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 horsepower 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 I never once had a problem.

     According to the Lodge's website the best walleye fishing was right off 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 metal prop guard. Good move.

Like I said, we were out for monster pike and began to scope the water for the little telltale spikes of flowering cabbage where the bad boys—actually bad girls—would be hanging out. Didn’t take but a couple of minutes till we were in pike heaven. Fifty casts later we had our twenty pounds spread over eight fish. Not good. An hour into the trip and I knew we were in trouble. When everyone said we were in walleye country maybe we should’ve listened? Oh well, time to learn a few new tricks.

By the evening after a squall line had moved through we’d pretty much given up on pike and hit South Optic with walleyes in mind. Think of a melting hourglass that’s in the process of exploding and that’s the general shape of our pair of lakes. The cabin was set  on Viking’s original site and there was little doubt the lakes had seen a hell of a lot of fisherman over the decades. It might have been fly-in water but it sure wasn’t virgin. Regardless, we hunkered down along a little chain of islands and caught us a few under the lowering sun. We jigged along the bottom and boated enough walleyes to get me thinking, “Oh yeah baby, we’ve got ‘er figured out now.” Yes, I am a fool.

Sunday was more of the same but we did check out the river egress. A hundred rod portage passed along a series of cascades touted as the fifty foot falls. We tromped through carpets of bunchberries and tiny, pink bell-shaped wild flowers known as twinflowers. At the bottom we found a battered Alumacraft canoe and three beat to hell paddles. A short cruise and second portage was supposed to take us to Glenn Lake where the lodge had stored a couple of boats and motors. We’d have checked it out but I was a little hesitant. Truth is I ran though my lost in the wilderness video in my head and said, “Maybe tomorrow.” Believe me what happens in that flick ain’t pretty. We shot a bunch of photos and headed back to the safety of a motor that worked.

I was never one to run down to the lake and dive in. My tactic was always ease myself in to enjoy the pain a little at a time. Don’t know why, maybe I was born that way? Or maybe I learned it in my early years? Could be something happened way back when that bent my twig. However it happened, this trip was no different. However, I knew in my gut the lakes we were on were okay but were way too much like Minnesota lakes—the fish were hip to our tricks. Part of me knew Glenn Lake would be better, a lot better. Another part knew we were stretching our safety line by heading there and being dependent on an old seven horse Yamaha motor and my sketchy ability to run it. So we left the falls and did a repeat of Saturday, caught us a dozen walleyes by jigging and enjoyed each other’s company. Somewhere along the way Allan asked me if I had a plan. I think that was his way of saying we needed to head to Glenn but didn’t want to push it.

While this was going on I was revising Draftee for the eighth time with hopes of tightening the narrative, plugging the holes and re-assigning everyone in the story their real name. What I actually need is an actual editor but that’s not happening. Doesn’t matter a lot, I’ve no intention of pushing Draftee’s non-existent sales. At home I changed the intro, patted myself on the back and once again put it on the market. In the fall I entered it in the Minnesota Book Awards with no expectation other than an ounce of hope. Turned out there was little interest in a marginal memoir about a kid who ended up in the war in Vietnam. The world had moved on since those long ago days. That’s my take anyhow. This spring I got my five copies back without a comment.

We were down in Alabama when I got an email from lulu.com saying Carolyn Woolwine would like to speak with me. Shit. I’d been in Vietnam with Bobby Woolwine and he played a major role in part of Draftee.What came to mind was lawsuit. Five minutes after reading the email I called Mrs. Woolwine—might as well get it over with. Turned out she was concerned that I’d used Bobby’s real name without seeking permission. My sketchy research had said it was okay so long as you didn’t say anything bad about the person. Yeah, I was an amateur dealing with the real world. Truth is I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. 

I was a contrite as could be and offered to pull the book from publication. Carolyn said that wasn’t necessary. Bobby was at the VA hospital in Virginia suffering from advanced stages of dementia and had suffered from PTSD his whole life. She suggested I come pay him a visit and added she’d bought a few copies of my book for the family.

Over the days I gave it some serious thought, realized my story had invaded the private lives of others, withdrew Drafteefrom public distribution and wrote Mrs. Woolwine a letter explaining what I’d done. Over the next month I did revision nine and altered all the names. That’s the way she sits today.

Monday told us to explore farther. We passed the falls, this time with fishing gear. Broken thwart aside, the canoe didn’t leak as we s-curved our way to the second portage. Almost felt like a real Canadian fishing trip with a paddle in my hand. The second portage took us to the stashed boats and a boulder-lined pool at the base of the rapids. While I pondered the motors Allan dip-jigged the water and quickly began pulling up walleyes—fish in a barrel—as though we were briefly caught up in some wild, hard-to-believe, Canadian fishing tale from back in the plaid shirt days. Allan’s enthusiasm drew me in and I caught a couple. Al couldn’t leave it alone and pulled up fish after fish. I have no idea the exact number—like that mattered—but it was in the dozens.

Mostly I looked stared at the motors—I do this, then this, then the cord pulls loose. They sure had a used look. Years back I’d read small outboards weren’t much different than my lawnmower back home. Simple as simple could be. But I also had a hard time believing it’d all work out. All I could see was a hundred pulls on the starter cord and a whole lot of swearing. When the walleyes got tired of playing with Allan we headed back. That evening the fishing on the Optics slowed to a crawl. Can’t say that was the deciding factor but I knew we were heading back to the honey hole in the morning. Suck it up and give it a go.

Next day we loaded gear and lunch, double-portaged, dipped the honey hole, rigged the boat, held our breath, pulled the cord twice, the motor came to life and we were off down a narrow, grassy, channel filled with prop crushing boulders. The sun was high, sky was blue, the motor buzzed lake an angry bumble bee and we headed three miles down lake in hopes of finding the spot marked on our cabin map. Once there we immediately fell into our tired, old routine of casting spinners and bouncing jigs. Nothing about our method felt right and it became obvious it’d take a while to find walleyes by fishing five thousand acres one cast at a time. I believe it was Allan who suggested we try trolling. If I were back home thinking about what to do that would’ve immediately come to mind. But out on the lake I was clueless. Allan’s suggestion seemed worth a try. We rigged a couple of jigs with twister tails and putt-putted the peninsula about twenty yards—oops, we were in Canada make that—twenty meters from shore. Desperation methods tend to be a waste of effort but not this time. We didn’t hammer ‘em but over the next couple of hours under a broiling mid-day sun with eagles sweating in the blue sky above we did hook up with a couple of dozen. Terrible walleye conditions but we did okay. What can I say but, “Thanks Allan.”

Wednesday bounced in armed with wind, rain and hail. In the evening we headed to South Optic to show off our trolling skills and caught a few. Wow! We were fishing just like Minnesotans. Can say I was thrilled trying a method that’d worked since the invention of the oar but what the hell, it’s never too late to be normal (but it hurt).

The longer I worked with the outboard the more confident I became. It wasn’t as versatile as a canoe and gave me chills when I’d hook up near a reef. Reeling in a fish and steering at the same time is a learned skill. As is taking the boat tight to shore to remove a tangled lure. But it’s not as earth shaking as I’d feared.

Thursday found us back on Glenn. By now the walleyes were hip to our dipping in the honey hole but the lake proper was still a giving lass. Not much to say, we caught fish, explored a little and learned a lot. As usual Allan caught more fish than me, even when we were trolling. That’s the way it’s supposed to go with sons and I no longer reminded him of why we were where we were and how it all started with a north shore trip back when he was twelve. All in all we slept well, got along as good as ever, had generally good weather and caught some fish. 

       Saturday morning we packed it up and were picked up by an aging de Havilland Beaver float plane. Classic. Again I feared for my life on the takeoffs and landings but gained the inspiration for a new introduction to Draftee.

Packing it Away

        It took four days. Back in camp nothing was packed wet but still I give the tent, bags etc. a few hours in sunshine before putting them away for the next time. And the next time will be someone else's. Another trip has it's appeal but that little voice of wisdom in my head says I'm solidly into the slide toward old age. I have too many weak links already and will have more in 2020. I pitched the old coffee pot, large fry pan and my beat to hell pot. Almost came to tears but it was time.                                   

     Next year will find me at the cabin working the backwaters of the national forest or up in Manitoba paying Steve Japp at the Elbow Lake Lodge a visit with a few relatives in tow. I've already fired off an e-mail to Steve giving him due warning and am already getting excited.

How Did it Go?

Sunday:

     The light show started around 2:30 in the morning. At times the flashes lit the tent like daylight and got me thinking about how close the big white pines were. The idea of being incinerated or crushed under a few tons of softwood held no appeal but I quickly fell back to sleep. In my mind sleep trumps death. Brian told me we had a solid downpour for a couple of hours. Gully washer. Around 5:30 the roaring winds said it was time to wake up. The tent ballooned and snapped like a wet towel against an eleven year old's backside in a game of lakeside high jinx, but held it's place and never shipped a drop. Thank you Ryan Kruse.

     While it was rippin' and snortin' outside we started stuffing gear away. We had a date at 11:00 with an ATV. This was no time to lallygag. Packing seems never ending. So much crap. A Conestoga wagon's worth to cram in three packs. By the time we crawled out to join the brightening gray the storm had all but passed.

     Brian made a fire and heated water for oatmeal. On Thursday my twenty year old Coleman stove had given up the ghost, blew the gasket under the main burner and made sounds like an arming hand grenade. That left us with a useless twenty pounds of metal box and gas but we had matches and a forest full of wood as backup. Birch bark, bone-dry spruce twigs and a small stack of match-ready aspen from an abandoned beaver lodge provided all the fuel we needed for eight meals.  

     Leaving is hard but not as hard as it was when I had a job waiting for me in the morning. Besides, four days of pounding the water, carrying packs, the never ending tasks around camp, constantly sweating through my clothes and sleeping on the ground had worn me down. At seventy-two I'm not yet an old man but I'm close. Finally everything was packed, we walked the site picking up micro bits of litter and the load began. It was the food pack that did me in. My back was twisted when I hoisted it. Ping! Not a major torque but enough to let Brian know he'd have to load me on the portage. We left camp a half hour early.

     Most likely I'll never paddle a loaded canoe again but our exit will leave me remembering there was a time I could track a dead straight line. Sweet. We were trim and balanced, moving a solid four miles an hour and rarely switching sides. Paddling a canoe is a skill I wasn't born to. No one is. But after thousands of miles it'd grown to be a simple joy. I dislike the idea of having to say, "I remember when...", but I think that time has come.

     The portage proved no more than work. Pick it up, shut your mind off, watch your step, work. We paddled our last two and a half miles to the portage and tow. Tina was waiting. We slid dead center on the trailer at 11:00 on the dot. Ever the FedEx courier.

How Did It Go?

Thursday, Friday, Saturday:

     Woke up to some fog on Thursday (actually it was Friday but I'm way too lazy to wipe out the photo on the left. Guess I've moved into the realm of creative non-fiction). Not total white out but enough to do a little artsy-fartsy. Brian was sleeping in mainly 'cause I was up at 5:15. That's a little early for me but not my bladder. It's a fine bladder as bladder's go. Seeing as how it's the only one I have it was time to take the pressure off and keep the sleeping bag dry at the same time. These days that's my idea of a win-win. In the Boundary Waters video they make you watch even though you've seen it a couple of dozen times they make a big deal of leaving your scat in the latrine but say nothing about urine. So I use it to mark my territory. Keeps the bears off knowing there's a large carnivore with a sick sense of humor  roaming about. Bears are notorious for not liking puns, in particular plays on words. Not sure why since they lack any formal education. Could be its their sense of propriety, the dignity of being one of the lords of the forest and not wanting to have anything to do with scum from the Cities.
     Thursday's fog—the one not pictured above—was feathered wisps adrift on a near calm tarn (how's that for a nauseating image?). At the time I was way too tired to be that poetic. Mostly I was perched in my old Target folding chair bought for a canoe trip in the last century and hoping it wouldn't collapse when I nodded off. Our rain tarp was stretched over a humped slab and there was nary a place where all four legs could touch down at the same time. Brian's happy spot was about eight feet away. We said it was for comfort but it may have had more to do with smell. Seems odd to me that most animals smell okay even though they don't bathe regularly and humans generally stink. Read recently that when one of the Gemini capsules during the '60s was opened after fourteen days in space the rescuing crew vomited from the odor. I don't think ours was that bad.
       Our original intention was to take a couple of swims 'cause of the hot weather but we didn't. Pine Lake isn't deep and has an intense bog stain. As for water purity, that's good, bogs filter. But even after filtering it's still amber in tone. Color aside, what kept us out of the water was life in action. Our four days was a fertile time. I'd seen mayfly hatches before and thought they were generally cute and cause for happy levity as in, "What do you mean not tonight?" When your lifespan is measured in hours, mood has no place when it comes to procreation. We had three days of apocalyptic hatches. Clouds, myriads, flying examples of what a billion looks like. As the sun went down Brian and I floated on the never-ending glass and were transfixed by fleets of them—hatching, fluttering up and off the water, swarming and copulating, joined together in pairs, triads and orgies. Yeah, we were surrounded by an orgy of Mother Nature. It said in no uncertain terms that when it came to life on Earth people weren't but a spit in a frying pan. In the mornings—not break of dawn early—we'd paddle out on a sea of death. Dead larvae and spent flies spread like chunky peanut butter on a slice of rye bread. It was the larvae that drew my eye. The mayflies in the air are generally cute little buggers but their larval stage digs deep into ugly. And on the water, now well into rotting, they're not something you want to bathe in. No sir, scooping one up for a closer look was about all I could handle. Could be evolution and metamorphosis is all about tempering ugly so maintaining the species seems like a appealing thing.

     On the left, in the photo that's not there, is Brian holding up one of the few fish we didn't eat. We'd have not eaten more but we didn't catch many. It wasn't for lack of trying. Nope, we worked the water hard, paddled every yard of shore, most of the islands and a couple of miles of the in-between. Pine's noted for its good fishing and the DNR's nettings say it's in the upper one percent of the Boundary Waters. We trolled and casted; threw spinners, plugs and jigs. I don't use live bait, seems like cheating. And these days not catching is no big deal for me. Simply perched in the aft seat, back throbbing, butt cheeks aflame where the tailbone section hits the caning and arms aching from the never-ending paddling is enough for me. Could be I'm a sadist.

     Truth is, I like being on the water drowning in quiet. I love quiet. My hearing's not too sharp these days and easily loses conversation in background noise. In the Boundary Waters I can hear bird twitter and ripples tickling the shore rocks. The whirlpool made by Brian's paddle stroke as it passes the stern shushes in harmony with the creaking of the the cane and ash seats. Most of each day found the lake glassed and the trees silent. Occasionally an assault by a gentle breeze would ripple the water, set us moaning in relief and the pines whispering thanks.
    Brian and I always wear our life jackets knowing we're both capable of momentary stupidity. Couple that with our waning grace and a wish for a longer life, we're willing to sweat for safety and Lordy did we sweat. At least I did. A mid-day paddle had my shirt dripping. We drank a lot of water, close to a gallon each, every day. Even then we dehydrated. I occasionally lusted for a washtub of beer on ice. I'd sit in the tub and pour down the first knowing the second would send me off to another world where I'd giggle about how fun it was to stumble on the uneven ground and fall in the water to join my dead mayfly buddies.
     Blue surrounding the amber below under high thin clouds, we'd paddle and fish for hours. Brian was constantly at it. The man has a God given work ethic when it comes to continued frustration. I tire of the game easily. These days I'm content to keep us slowly putzing along while Brian works the shoreline. Once in a while we'd catch a gentle drift, I'd scull to control our position and throw a few casts. The shorelines were a mixture of grey-black volcanic stones from basketball to Volkswagen-sized. All were white-striped several times near the waterline. Changing high water marks was my guess. Occasionally we'd come on what passes for an escarpment in the western Boundary Waters; their thirty foot high, jagged black faces were few and far between—nothing like the three hundred footers over by Superior. But scene was pleasant, mesmerizing and always speaking to us in shades of green from hilltop to the waterline. Even when we weren't listening, nature carried on a conversation with our souls. Could be that's why a man's willing to put up with a few days of physical discomfort. There's always a lot going on even when you're busy doing the meaningless.
     We saw others rarely. That was fine with me and no doubt with them also. Eagles riding thermals, a walleye exploding clear of the water for no apparent reason—never saw that before—an eagle diving to scoop a fish from a sunken island, alpenglow on the forest near sunset—the trees lit like neon and all was coupled with never-ending conversation. Some meaningful, most bordering on idiotic (sorry Brian, sometimes I don't know when to shut up).

     

How Did it Go?

Wednesday:

     Brian drove in at 5:50. Right on time. Threw a few last minute things in the car—I almost forgot Fluffykins my teddy bear, can't sleep without the cuddly little guy—and drove off at six on the dot with hopes of not running into problems with the other DOT since road construction is in full swing. Smooth sailing. The forecast was for sun, warmth bordering on heat and light winds. Turned out Lonnie Johnson, our chauffeur to the edge of the wilderness, had no other plans than the two of us that morning and we met up a half hour early. Extra half hours are good especially when I'm on the back end of the trip. I still plan like my body's forty-five but at seventy-two humping heavy loads over portages takes longer. Longer?—that's funny—it takes lots longer! Roots, stones and mud call to my possible broken hip and whisper of weeks doing nursing home rehab. That's no way to end a wilderness canoe trip. The gear was thrown aboard, the canoe strapped at right angles to the pontoons and we were off. 

     The plan originally called for being dropped off at the north end of Lake Vermilion, paddling a short length of Trout Creek and portaging around the falls. We'd clear our nostrils on the shore, pitch the shit in the canoe and paddle off to adventure and rip-snortin' fishing. Real men enter the wilderness with clear eyes fixed on the horizon and packs on their backs. However, on the boat ride I asked Lonnie how much it would cost for a tow across the portage? "Thirty-five bucks." There was a time in my life when I'd never have asked that question. This time I never gave my answer a moment's thought, "Let's do it." My name is Mark and I'm a weak old man.

     At the dock on the north side of Vermilion we were met by Lonnie's daughter Tina sporting long sleeves, earrings and hip boots. We loaded the canoe on her trailer, packed the boat for travel and climbed aboard for the ATV haul. Have to tell you I'd never before done a portage while sitting in a canoe. Seemed almost immoral. There are many ways of being immoral in life and a few of those call for jail time or eternal punishment if you're bent along those lines. This time it was a combination of weird, cool and a little giggly. The four minute drive done, Tina backed us onto Trout Lake, unhitched the boat and we were off in a flail of random paddling.
      I hadn't been on a wilderness trip for a couple of years and it showed. Load balance can be critical in a canoe. You should ride level with the bow up just a tad and we were a little nose heavy. Makes steering more work than necessary. Up at the cabin I often canoe-fished with a partner who outweighed me by the size of a German Shepherd (the dog not Klaus Biedermeier). When I dug too deep we'd spin like a top. On Trout Lake, being out of balance and practice we zigzagged a tad at first till the rust wore off. Compound that with the distraction of the surrounding beauty and it was all I could do to head in the right direction.
       Maps are good but at times I have a problem with scale. That micro dot on the map sure can't be the island over there. Hell, the real one's a hundred yards long not some lone rock. Truth is, where we were heading could've been solved by telling me the portage is in the back of the first mile-long bay on our right. Wasn't but a right-left-right course spread over two and a half miles. Three minutes with paddles in our hands and we were up to our usual four miles an hour and heading pretty much die straight. Brian and I weigh the same and that helps a lot.
      Our paddles are home made. Over the years I've gone kind've nuts building them. Who needs eighteen canoe paddles? No two of them look exactly the same—I'm not big on quality control—but this batch of three shared material—old growth redwood from a garage sale, walnut from a discarded FedEx wall plaque, leftover radiata pine from a previous project, aromatic cedar and a little birch I'd chainsawed and worked into few boards years ago. Outside of the pine it all carries meaning in the form of story and a little blood. Over the years I've shed blood across a fair amount of the country and a little in Asia—none of it intentional unless I was in a doctor's office. As for the stories you could fertilize the better part of a section of farmland with my words. It's what I do and best of all it's organic.
       Thirty-five minutes followed by a little back stretching and underwear peeling got us to the offload. It takes a few minutes to pull near two hundred pounds out of a canoe. Part of that has to do with easing your way into accepting what comes next. I'd read this portage wasn't a bear, just long—call it two hundred-seventy rods or a couple of hundred yards shy of a mile. Like most portages it went uphill for quite a while, rolled for a while then stumbled downhill for a hell of a lot less than it went up even though the two lakes are at the same elevation. No doubt about it, maps lie. This trail was typical for the Boundary Waters—a myriad of foot trippers, bunch berries, hazel brush,  a little alder, blueberries waiting on late July for fruit, neat little green mosses that called for a man to pause and snap an artsy photo but only a fool'd stop to do some dumb-assed stunt like that, dappled sunlight broken by a canopy of pines (white, red and jack), aspen and birch. Moose maple everywhere waiting for fall to explode blaze red. Finally the last thirty rods was a mild struggle through a thicket a woody brush that grabbed our legs and tried to drag us down like we were in some kind of ancient Greek saga. I know that's an exaggeration but I was pooped, gimpy-legged and fog headed by that point. Struck me so funny I laughed aloud. Misery makes me laugh, not sure why.
       Brian carried the canoe, the cooler and the biggest pack. Thank you Brian. Even with the lighter stuff it was still sixty pounds a trip—about the same as I carried in Vietnam. If I wasn't so damned cheap we could cut the load another thirty pounds. Once on the water we found the first two sites occupied. No surprise there. Next stop was on a peninsula we came to call the boot. The map told us where it was, the lake said to look elsewhere. The fourth site was the charm, a narrow rock peninsula with an excellent landing and level tent pad open to the breezes—so perfect it seemed weird no one was there. An hour later the tent was up, rain tarp strung and dinner sizzled in the pan under a hot sun.
      Brian called my scrambled mess bangers and mash, probably 'cause he's half Irish and doesn't know any better. It's actually more of a fried glop that could be better called 'four of each,' potato patties, eggs and wienies (skin on). Whack it, dice it, scramble it and crisp it a little. Would've added a sprinkling of salt and pepper but I forgot them. Better that than the tent. Didn't matter how I slopped it together, we were hungry as stoners with a fresh bag of corn chips.
       On the way in Lonnie Johnson said the party before us had hammered the walleyes, even kept count with a clicker. Now who the hell carries a clicker counter into the Boundary Waters? There's something wrong about that. It's much better to use my method, guess and exaggerate. My fictitious Uncle Emil would question any attempt at numbers when it comes to fishing, "You're either catching a few or you're not. It all works out right, you get enough for a meal or two." That's just my way of saying we always pack more than enough food. Anyhow, Pine Lakes a tad over eight hundred acres, has a double handful of islands and a slew of bays and points. The DNR's lake finder said we were on prime fishing water but it turned out Mother Nature said we weren't.
       Lord knows I'm not a good fisherman. My skill involves doing the research and driving the miles with the hope of finding fish that are dumber than me.  And it ain't easy. Us upright bipeds that wear hats think we're God's gift to the world and are smarter than anything else. We're not. I got my degree in Humanities and that sums us up as a species. We know more than any other living thing but it's spread thin. When it becomes specific, like trying to fool an individual fish, they've got us beat by a nautical mile. So you catch fifty walleyes in a day. Wow. How many simply spit on your yellow headed ball jig with a hand-tied, marabou and tinsel tail as you paddled by talking about Lord knows what gibberish that passes as canoe banter? A whole lot is the way I see it.
       In short, we didn't catch a lot. Brian did snag the only bluegill I've ever seen in the Boundary Waters—on a number two spinner no less—and it was better than a hand long. Made me think about the Republican Presidential debates of 2016. Would've been fun to see that sunny fly up on stage while the discussions on manhood were spewed back and forth. But a colorful, pan-sized bluegill deserved a better fate than up there with those idiots so I'm glad it didn't happen. However, while I'm sitting here pecking away, I've got a smirk on my face.
       The bugs weren't bad at all. No mosquitoes, black, deer or horse flies. Only saw a single no-see-um but it might not've been one since we saw it. Then at sunset it all changed. Made a man appreciate biomass. For sure we weren't alone anymore. We had two types of spray and a Thermacell thingy. The Thermacell have proved effective on a previous trip but not this time. Our chemical efforts were a waste of technology. The first wave of mosquitoes sucked up the spray, the second licked our skin clean and the third came in for the kill. The ladies were out for our blood so they could procreate. Like every form of life it's all about sex and survival. A cruder man would say we were totally f***ed but I won't. We had no choice but to run for the tent.
       

Itching

     Whether or not I survived will be determined by the next few days.  My muscles are gimpy and I itch. Outside of the poor fishing, massive mayfly hatch, lack of wind, high temperatures, full sun, full fledged storm on the last night, the Coleman stove proving useless after blowing a gasket under the main burner (cheap Chinese crap), learning that no amount of bug spray or high-tech Thermacell could keep the mosquitoes off of our faces after sunset and forgetting to slather ourselves with bug dope on our last, after the storm and the little bastards were eating me alive and in general pissing me off portage, we had a good time. This morning it hurts to type and I don't have enough energy to brush my teeth. I scratch a lot and it feels wonderful. You know you're no longer youthful and spritely when you have to drag a sixty pound pack onto a stump and then crawl on your knees so you can slide your arms through the straps. There's little in life like swatting mosquitoes on the back of your head with a canoe paddle 'cause there's no way in hell you're gonna put the gear down and go through the loading routine again. Like I said, we had a good time. I always enjoy myself when I'm with Brian. We think differently in a lot of ways but it doesn't matter. Blood is thicker than Deepwoods Off.