Road Trips

Thinking of road trips this morning but was sidetracked by a grocery trip. I guess that's the way the world goes round (thank you John Prine). Most of us like them, take them, and then wonder how the road home never seems as much fun as the one to adventure.

There's nothing like that 3:30 a.m. moment when you're ready to hit the road for your first trip to the Deep South after you've retired and you briefly awake to shift positions. Two eyes are staring in your face and asking, "Are you ready to get up?" Of course I grumbled and that's putting it mildly. A couple of minutes later I again grumbled, "What the hell, why not?" An hour later, the house shut down, Lois and I hit the road. There are few things as exciting as being on a road trip and watching a 24 below zero sunrise with better than a state's worth of pavement in your past.

My son and I have taken our share. In the early days he rode shotgun, but over years we shared the wheel. Thirty years ago it was the three hour jaunt to the cabin with fishing on our minds. Evolution led us to the Boundary Waters and finally to eight trips in northwest Manitoba. Those last trips, eight of them, are the ones I'll recall:

It's a bit over nine hundred miles to Cranberry Portage and a tad more to Snow Lake. Long, one-day drives taken after a half day of work, but the miles would fly by. Canoe on top and something over two hundred pounds of gear and food in the back. We'd leave around nine a.m. fueled by the knowledge a whole year had passed; a year I'd counted day by day. I loved our time together and where we chose to spend it.

We'd suffer though city traffic and get our road legs somewhere near St. Cloud, one eye on the pavement and the other on the canoe above. I was a beast on strapping down the boat and had built a dadoed a rack that'd allow us to pass a highballing semi at better than eighty miles per.

We'd roll the farmlands of Minnesota till the interstate dropped onto the near endless flat of the Red River Valley, once the glacial bed of a massive lake, all the while talking and listening to whatever music Allan chose to play—some hip-hop, a little Semisonics, a mix of R and B, the Beatles, and some John Prine. One time as we dove into our jumping off point I asked Allan to put on some wilderness, adventure music. He fired up Al Green. And we talked. We always talked, covering the gamut from God to Grapenuts.

We'd join with I-29 in Fargo and let it draw the Jeep directly north, a good direction, toward the border. Somehow, we'd manage to bumble ourselves through the inevitable questions. I'd always get the right answers to the wrong questions, or the wrong answers to the right ones, but never once did the latex gloves come out. The world needs more Canadians.

Across the border and past the Big Manitoba sign in front of the welcome station, the Red River would drift away and disappear into a tree line to our right, while the stark, concrete Highway 75 bee-lined toward Winnipeg passing though a few small towns along the way. Fast food in Winnipeg, bypassing the town on the Canadian version of a freeway, and less than an hour later we left the big city north-northwest on Highway 6. While still on the flats, the farms would disappear, the forests would close in, and curling rinks would replace bowling alleys.

By now we were passing through some of the most water infested land on the planet, swamp, bog, scruffy forest, and massive lakes to the east and west, the descendants of Lake Aggasiz. Once past the nearly non-existent town of St. Martin Junction, we left buildings behind for 225 miles. No demarcations of any kind till two hours later when we'd hang a left on Highway 60 and the world began to rise and fall for the first time in around 500 miles. The forest clamped down and closed us in like a corridor. At times the map would show we were passing within a mile of lakes the size of Leech and Mille Lacs but they remained unseen. All the while our conversation would play on against the background of music.

Conversation is universal and genetic. In one form or another, all forms of life communicate. It separates the living from the rocks. In the Army, particularly in Vietnam, us grunts had each other for entertainment. No radio, no television, no phone, nada. We talked of our pasts and our futures, our loves and our hates, and pissed and moaned all the time. But most of all, we worked together and shared what there was to share. If there is a good in war, it's the humanity on the ground and in the mud and rain and heat and death. Sharing time with my son in the silence of the road and then two weeks in the canoe and in camp, is one of the blessings of my life. We talked and listened to each other and read aloud, at many times with no one else within twenty miles. Treasured time.

Finally, we'd dead end at Highway 10 from the south and turn right toward our night in The Pas that now seemed only minutes away. Of course, it wasn't. Nothing in Northwest Manitoba is close by. The roads are long and towns are few. But we were on the verge. In the morning we'd draw on our woods clothes, grab breakfast, and hit the road once more knowing the government dock in Cranberry Portage and our doorway to the wilderness was only an hour away. 

Rods (part II - in progress)

      I believe the first rod I used was, like Superman, made of steel. Unlike Superman most of what I cast only flew about twenty feet and most of those traveled only as far as the snarl in the reel would allow. Oh well, I was seven years old and had all the time in the world to sit on that Lake Roosevelt dock, feet dangling in the water and work out the knots. I believe those were my first tests of patience and I probably failed them all. These days I still get the occasional snarl but always pack a backup supply of quality line and have learned to carry a knife to solve the unsolvable.

     Years passed, steel turned into fiberglass and casting reels became spin-cast, then spinning. More years passed and NASA gave us graphite. We bought land, built a cabin and when time loosened up I bought my first canoe and my son and I began to explore the nearby, out of the way lakes up north. When I went to buy rods my primary criteria was the price tag. No doubt they were dogs but I didn't care. Allan and I quickly evolved into pike and bass fisherman, mostly because that's what swam in the water we fished. That they were eager to snatch most anything thrown their way made it all the better.

     My experience told me longer rods cast farther than short ones and two piecers made more sense for our Boundary Waters, and later, Manitoba trips. And since the fish we targeted weren't finicky, I never once felt the need to pick up a Loomis rod in a tackle store. I'm sure they're close to being an act of God but they always felt like overkill when it came to bass and pike. High end rods seemed more like brain surgeons than hammer swingers to me. That I've always punched a clock and was an enlisted man grunt in Vietnam fit right in with the basic equipment we've always sported. Sensitivity was never as much a consideration as backbone and snapping the tip off a forty buck rod didn't hurt a whole lot.

     My favorite spinning rod that I'll never use but sure as heck would like to, is a nine foot lightweight. I don't recall why I bought it but there must've been a reason. I do remember rigging a spinning reel on a fly rod figuring I could really buggy whip tiny spinners a long, long way while sitting in a float tube. It did kind of work like I figured it would, but the way I hooked it on with zip strips, wasn't what you'd call comfortable. The nine foot spinning rod solved the problem, or at least I think it did seeing as how I've yet to use it. But there is hope for next year. Joining up a float tube, big walleyes and tiny Centre Lake in the backwoods of Manitoba comes to mind. Also, standing on the dock at the Elbow Lake Lodge with my grandson Jakob and bobber fishing for whatever came along, also perks me up. Though I tell myself to stop the nonsense, I'm already counting the days.

     Lastly, rods are simple tools that function as an extension of the arm. For years I've carried the image of tying into a wall hanger with nothing more than a lure, a line, and a sense of timing. Of course I'd wear leather gloves just in case it worked.

     

Rods - part I

      I suppose it's a sign of age when you rummage through your fishing poles and realize the new ones are twenty years old. I don't mind being old, figure the rods feel about the same and I sure don't feel a need to replace or add any rods that don't have the patina of use and decades of good times. Hell, that dirt on those cork handles didn't get there by itself. I like that dirt so much that I've sealed it over with layers on layers of sweat, grease, northern pike slime and a little blood—some fish, some mine. Call it a brotherhood of tool, fisherman and nature.

     Some rods are graphite, some are fiberglass and one old fly rod is a six-split bamboo that I'll never use. Simply knowing that after sixty years since I first heard of them, there's one in my rod basket. It's a decent cane rod from around 1950 that I found at an antique store a few years back. One of my pastimes is checking out vintage fly rods, both bamboo and fiberglass, on eBay and then ferreting out their histories and quality. Been doing it long enough to know what's a decent stick and what's trash. This rod was turned out by a bottom of the line company but was one of their best and compares favorably to a middling Heddon. I saw it on the shelf, turned the price tag, drew the rod from its bag, checked the model and quietly mumbled, "Holy crap, they don't know what this is." The spare tip has a crack near the tip top but everything else is fine. But regardless of quality, five years later it sits unfish.

     I have ten other fly rods that are a near even split between graphite and fiberglass. Five of the glass rods are from the '60s when they were state of the art. That's the thing about lesser rods, at some time in the past their material was state of the art. Can't say I ever was cutting edge but in my twenties I was a whole lot closer than I am today. So figure my rods and I to be a good match— some were pretty good back when I was also. Four were quality production rods and the fifth is a five buck, garage sale Shakespeare that was too good a deal to pass up. The one I like best is another garage sale find. That rod called for fifty cents up front and then twenty bucks more to strip and rebuild it from someone's bastardized attempt at making a top notch, fly rod blank into an ugly spinning rod. I don't mean to confuse you by writing these words and make it sound like it was an easy process and I'm a regular wizard at fine tuning fishing poles. Truth is it took a while, an internet search, a whole lot of cussing and finally an honest appraisal of "seen worse". My bumble fingers hated most every minute of the rebuild but I'd do it again if I stumbled on another rod of that quality (it's a Fisher fiberglass blank if you care to look it up). Don't ask me why, maybe I don't like myself? Or since I've retired I don't have enough to bitch about.

     The graphite fly rods vary from the sweet end to the uncastable. Oddly enough the clunker was built by a top of the line manufacturer and listed for four hundred dollars when new. I found it in the bargain room at Cabelas for forty cents on the dollar (do I ever pay full price?) She's a ten weight I bought to use as a pike rod but it doesn't come close to loading even with a ten weight line, no doubt that was why it was returned. Call it a nine foot pool cue. In the same bargain room I found a ten foot, eight weight that's proven to be great in a canoe. If was a halfway decent caster, all rods would be great canoe rods, but I'm not and doubt I'll ever be. Call me a buggy whipper.

     My problem is a lack of patience to properly learn a skill thousands have mastered, or as close to mastering as such a confounding tool will allow. Laying out a length of fly line without so much as a single unnecessary ripple on the water is close to art or at least a craft of the first order (keep in mind you can use craft but can only admire art). Even then it's a slower than molasses way of fishing. I don't spend a lot of time on the water these days and don't have the time to get all zen and accept the act of casting as an end in itself. I guess I've spent all of my life in the back of the boat making sure others have a shot at the fish of a lifetime. Call me an enabler. These days I only pick up the rod when I can put down the paddle or shut off the motor and when I do, there's not much enough to fiddle with a fly rod. 

     Enough for now; I'll continue in the next entry.

Same Old, Same Old

      Looks like we'll be heading up to Elbow Lake again, that is if the border's reopened. You'd think the world at large would give more thought to us fishermen. Guess you could say it's general lack of priorities. Who knows if the border will ever be open again? Oh well, if I'm going to miss out on a fishing trip I'd rather miss out on a great one than what we had this year.

     By the way, I did a lot of research about where to go that's closer to the Minnesota border. If you're looking for something that appears to be a solid cut above, check out Discovery Lake in Ontario. It's a drive and boat to affair with a handful of well designed log cabins on good looking water. That it's affordable is also a plus. On the other hand it might simply be a case of good writing and photography. 

No Free Lunch

     I've been thinking about next year since we got home from Voyageur's National Park. We're moving into a new world affecting where we might go and the possibilities are growing ever more limited. Questions arise. If the border opens, do we want to go to Canada? Are we up for the 900 mile drive to Grass River Park or would something closer to the border be better? The thing about 900 miles is the drive back; the excitement of what's up ahead is gone and the road home seems endless. Is the possibility of better fishing worth the effort required? The drive and a few other factors told me no and I sent off an e-mail canceling the Elbow lake trip we'd reserved better than a year ago. It hurt but felt right.

     Then there's the cost. Steve Japp at the Elbow Lake Lodge out of Cranberry Portage, Manitoba is more than generous and offers what I consider affordable, good, possibly great fishing. His rate is my benchmark. But that brings me back to the 900 mile drive. To get similar fishing calls for a Canadian fly-in and more than doubles the price. However there are a few, closer to the border alternatives that both intrigue and run about the same price. They're possibles. I won't say any more till we make up our minds.

     That brings us back to Minnesota, the cabin or the border lakes—closer, affordable but one thing's for sure; there's no way in hell we'd hit the border lakes in late July again. I don't need phenomenal fishing but without the possibility, what's the point in going? Last year's trip was a major disappointment. Finally there's the cabin and the dozen or more out of the way, quiet little lakes I've found over the decades that provide both good fishing and the comfortable feel of home water. For the moment I'm hung on the horns and at my age it's not the tolerable joy it once was.

     

Walleyes are Boring (part II)

     In short, we didn't know what we were doing. Not a problem. Years of fishing ignorance have taught me things would turn out as they were meant. I figured all we had to do was prep for everything, ask the lodge owner and other fishermen "what're they hitting on," they'd tell or sell us what we needed and we'd be set. Also, it was late July and all the walleye pros said the fish would be deep, maybe 25 to 30 feet down, and be hitting on leeches or night crawlers. Of course Al Lindner said plastics were every bit as effective. Somehow or other we'd figure it out. Regardless, I carried a range of stuff needed to get the bait down, a variety of trolling rigs and like I said, the resort would fill in the blanks. We were set, or as set as we could be.

     Of course, like most every fishing trip I'd been on it didn't work out that way. One side of the story said the warm water had driven the walleyes down earlier than usual and deeper than ever, 35-40 feet and a crapshoot of the first order. The other said they were in 6 to 8 feet of water and Namakan was the better lake to fish. Long story short, fishing deep seemed like way too much work and we generally  set to fishing like we always do with the idea if that didn't work we'd try something else. Over the days we caught a lot of small pike with only a couple topping five pounds. The few bigger fish only seemed interested in admiring my homemade spinners and checking our our boats. The bass were sparse and only Jakob caught one of size. Tough conditions. Finally, near the end of the week an old timer who'd been fishing the area for forty years simply said, "Half a night crawler on a quarter ounce trolling rig, single bead, no spinner, but a red hook seems to help. Troll slowly along the bay mouths just outside of the weed line where they just start rising from the bottom in eight feet of water." From his nightly stringer it looked like he was hooking up at about one every half hour or two per gallon of gas. Sit, drag a worm and putt-putt along. Not thrilling but it worked for us, enough to get a meal anyhow.

     I can fish that way but sure don't like it. On the upside, Voyageurs National Park is a beautiful pace to be, sit on your ass with a rod in your hand and watch the world go by. And being there with people you love adds the joy of sharing. With the right people a person can have a pretty good time even when the fishing sucks. The videos I'd seen gave me the feeling Voyageur Park is wilderness but from what I saw while we passed through, the lakes felt pretty civilized. It wasn't thick with boats but we rarely went more than a few minutes without seeing or hearing one. On the other hand our day on Shoepack Lake felt like the real deal. I should've known, solitude always goes hand-in-hand with sweat. My problem is being seventy-three. These days when I push the envelope, it pushes back. You spend most of your life becoming the man you want to be till you wake up one morning and realize you're not the man you used to be. There's a balance point somewhere but it's awfully small. These days I can get it done when necessary but my idea of necessary is ever-shrinking. I've heard that's normal.

     So what did we learn? I can't say about the others but when push comes to shove, bad fishing in northern Manitoba is a lot better than bad fishing along Minnesota's border lakes. And for me personally, if the Canadians will let us cross the border next year and if the others are interested, I'll give it a go. If not....

Walleyes are Boring (Part I)

    I knew deep in my bones that things would play out like they did but being a fisherman, and I suppose that includes me, is to be an optimist hoping against hope that your best days are right around the corner even when you figure they aren't. 'You never know' is always on your mind Those magical days always come as a rare surprise and a gift but once in a while they do come.  You can try to force them but that's foolishness. When it comes to fishing you're always the visiting team. Of course knowing what you're doing helps, as does experience and being on the right water at the right time. But a little luck trumps them all.     

     Looking back on our week I'd have to say we were on the right water. Kabetogema and Namakan are both killer good when you hit it right. Our problem was being set for northern Manitoba when late July is prime time and instead finding ourselves five hundred miles farther south where water temperatures in the high seventies put the fish in the doldrums. Another was our location. Simply put, we took  the only cabin that was available and found ourselves close to an hour boating time from prime water. We spent near as much time going to and from as we did wetting a line. Live and learn.

     And we were ignorant. About the only thing we knew for sure was that we knew nothing about the fifty thousand acres we were attempting to fish. That's a lot of water to figure out. I did a lot of reading and video watching but not a one was shot during late July. And few of those went into any detail about tackle and methods; 'Fishing Lake Namakan for Dummies' was what I needed and what I got was 'watch me catch a bunch of fish' videos. I suppose we could've dropped four hundred bucks and hired a guide. Smart people would've—I'll leave it at that. So it was bring all you've got, try what you think might work and if that doesn't, try something else. And we did but it didn't seem to matter much.

     My son Allan and I are pike fishermen who occasionally stumble on a few walleyes. When we do, we'll change tactics and play with the easier grabbing pickerel—yes we are multi-lingual and also speak Canadian—for a few minutes. And if we're on bass water, we'll play that game also. As it turned out my grandson Jakob fit seamlessly into our scheme; he's a caster not a troller. And top that off with him being the only human being I know who's caught a couple of gar and has the photos to prove it. So I figured we'd do our usual, cast for pike and bass and if we turned a few walleyes, good for us.

Shoepack

Dead man walking. If not today then surely sometime this week. Really, how long does it take for fatigue to do in a seventy-three year old fool? 

Today was Sunday, a day for adventure, or at least what adds up to adventure in the twenty-first century that doesn’t involve wearing a mask into a bank. But that was the idea and honestly it pretty much worked out that way. We are staying in a barebones cabin in a lodge(?) that calls itself a resort—not sure the difference or if either one fits—on the Ash River Trail just south of Lake Kabetogema no more than a Paul Bunyan sized spit from Canada. As I’ve written before, we were supposed to be in northern Manitoba hammering big pike and walleyes but for a variety of reasons, most pretty darned good ones, the Canadians did’t want us on their side of the border even if we had pockets spilling over with money. Honestly, if I were Canadian I’d think long and hard about letting my kind go anywhere where the maple leaf flies. Makes my day that even in the north woods Grouch Marx lives on. So we’re here, barebones and all, close but no banana.

Up before seven this morning, not exactly the crack of dawn but from what I’ve read, dawn’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve never been one to hit the water when the fog rises in wisps from warmed lake water and causes even a hardcore and hungover fisherman to get teary-eyed and whisper, “Gosh darn that’s pretty.” I’d spent a lifetime of starting work in the dark and since then have learned the joy of taking my time over a bowl of cereal with the sun peeking through the window. 

But like I said, today was a day for adventure—a brief breakfast, a rapid load and we were trolling down the slower than hell, no-wake river out front about a minute after nine under a clear blue sky. How’s that for fast? I blame the other’s for our sloth. Out of deference to decrepitude they let me set the pace. Not an easy thing to do when I’m always trailing behind and hoping not to trip.

Once on the big lake we cranked it open, or as open as twenty-five rented horses will crank. Kabetogema and Namakan call for paying attention to the map. Most of the reefs and rocks are fairly well marked—usually not a problem and I'll say no more, but the fleet of islands on these water confuses me no end. Thank God the others still have their wits and sense of direction. Put pavement under me and all is well but water’s a slippery thing, always moving and way too organic for a city boy. Top that off with all the shorelines looking the same whether they’re island or mainland and it’s downright confusing.

A little over an hour later we'd run out of lake and idled down. The access looked just like the picture between my ears except for the dock my memory had somehow added. to reality. Given enough time my memory does a fine job of editing the picture—bluebirds, rainbows, attractive others and whatnot. Thankfully it hadn’t painted in a Dairy Queen the still carried cherries. The disappointment would’ve been a killer. We pulled in, tied off and began. Offloads always take longer than expected and I expected that. Expecting the unexpected is sometimes confused with wisdom. Consider where we were; try to splash a little wisdom on the canvas and it runs off like it’d never been there in the first place. Real wisdom is turning down the third mai tai before you try to get behind the wheel of the police cruiser by climbing on the cop’s lap. You have haul the crap out of the boat, double-check to discover what you’d left back at the cabin, BS for a couple of minutes about nothing of consequence, take pictures of the map on the post and a few of each other looking expeditious, load up, make sure nothing you’d actually remembered was left on the ground and finally hit the trail.

Somehow, I didn’t think of this as a portage. Not sure why. Maybe because we weren’t sleeping in a tent or had enough black fly bites? Regardless, it was a long carry, 1.8 miles or 576 rods (look up the history of the rod, it’s a real hoot and a true educational experience. Says a lot about where we've come from). And like all portages this one took way longer than planned. Call me a city boy who thinks an hour’s meander on concrete equals 4 miles but should know better (see many previous entries entitled "Crapped in the Woods") In the Mekong Delta during the monsoon it took the company the better part of a sunrise to sunset day to cover 6 miles. Here in the park, the rocks, roots, muck, skinny assed boardwalks, deadfall, mf’n mosquitoes and flies, skinny assed bridges and constantly uneven terrain slow a body down. Also consider that all portage trails start out with a steep uphill climb and never come down, both ways (you have a problem with that take it up with Einstein).

About ten minutes into our stroll Allan, in the lead, rushed back excited as all get-out. As he described it, he’d heard a pounding off to his right like a horse, Clydesdale size, thundering through the woods. A couple of seconds later a swamp buck sporting a ten or twelve point, summer velvet rack crossed his path in full gallop mode. I know, deer don’t gallop, they bound, but this one was full-bore, can’t go any faster like its life depended on it. A second later, also pedal to the metal, was a near as big timber wolf in hot pursuit. About now Allan was growing a little uneasy. Why not? Lois and I had hammered Little Red Riding Hood into his five year old brain while we were snuggling him into bed almost as many times as he'd made me read The Berenstain Bears Pillage a Campsite. He knew wolves weren’t to be trusted and had an indescriminate sweet tooth for flesh. A glance into the woods on his right turned up a second wolf that was giving him the stink eye. A little thought told Allan there probably were more where that one came from. Call it a moment of reflection on the precious nature of life. Of course Allan told the story better and a whole lot more excitedly.

The following miles were nowhere near as entertaining and slowly evolved into a classic portage slog. You think you’re holding the pace but are slowing down at a pretty even clip and at least fourteen “a couple more minutes ought to do ‘er” are required before you’re actually there. Finally we were standing on the shore of three quarter mile long Little Shoepack Lake and just like at the beginning of the trail, we stood around shooting the breeze and doing everything possible that really didn’t need doing before tackling the snag in our plans—five people, a fair amount of gear and only one canoe. A couple of days earlier the park ranger left me a set of keys for the paddle locker and stout canoe chain. Thankfully both worked. There was a second canoe but it was reserved for some kind of research crew. I tried the keys anyhow. Of course their’s was pristine and our's had a definite patina.

Before setting out from the resort I’d been pretty adamant that the old man, that being me, was no way in hell going to exert himself any more than necessary. Experience told me if I returned home in a near death state, Lois would finish the job. However, in my mind taking it easy didn’t include canoeing. To this day I remain a canoeing demon (so long as the paddle is less than a couple of miles). It took me better than forty years to hone one of the few skills in my arsenal but I can track a dead straight line while at the same time allowing for the curvature of the planet. But on the shore of Little Shoepack my blank stare and slight drool had the others thinking otherwise. Not good, but as it turned out I’m glad they made me hang back with Jakob and the gear. 

First load over was four men in a two man canoe with one of them at the helm. Their path up lake nicely reflected the portage, a little bit too much here and there but generally in the right direction.  Oh well, in half an hour they’d be back. No sweat.

Time passed slowly while we waited. As usual and fitting my Northern European heritage, I counted the ever-dragging minutes one by one and Jakob found a need to clean the lakeshore. For a solid half hour the latent beaver gene in his DNA came to the fore and he started flinging every hoistable rock and log into the lake like he was building a dam. I was truly impressed. I vaguely remembered having his level of energy but that was in another millennium. Forty minutes later a pair of canoe men returned.

It seems they hit a snag at the far end. The Park Service website said there was a single rowboat on Shoepack. The idea of five people fishing from one fifteen foot boat was terrifying; torn ears and missing eyes were a certainty. The solution was portaging the canoe. However, lake levels were down a foot or so and reaching the usual landing called for three people climbing out in a thicket and the other to pole the canoe through fifty yards of bog, pull it over a beaver dam and then stand up to pole another fifty yards in three-inch deep water. The only solution was for Allan to get out of the boat and drag it through. Outside of crotch deep muck and water, he said it was no sweat. Glad it wasn’t me.

I took the helm on the return until we hit the bog. Not having been a captain and lacking a desire to get my feet wet, I abandoned ship and, once again Allan took over. The portage into Shoepack was short but called for a bit of bushwhacking, bog slogging and a rock dance at the pair of stream crossings. Lunch was eaten alongside the rowboat. Slow fishing told us to pack ham sandwiches rather than count on a traditional shore lunch.

Everything I’d read and the videos I’d watched said most anyone could catch muskies on Shoepack. The lake is thick with them, way over populated and they’re about as lure-shy as pike. I don’t know what the others were thinking but I still had my doubts. Seeing as how I don’t handle disappointment well, I’ve made it a habit to sprinkle a little doubt on my cereal each morning before wandering out into the real world. I used to mix it in with my orange juice but sometimes it’d clot and was hard to swallow. Some would say I’m a pessimist; I simply accept my Scandinavian genetics. We expect the worst, prepare for it and if what I find doesn’t involve too much blood or pain, say a prayer of thanks.

Brian and I teamed up in the canoe. About all I can say is, “Sorry Brian.” We covered a lot of shoreline and threw a lot of spinners. Right off I got a boil at the boat that scared me. Wow, musky follow. A few casts later, another follow. That was it. Nada. No fish for us.

On the other hand Allan, Jakob and Ryan started hooting right off the bat. Over the next couple of hours they'd each boated a unique Shoepack muskie. Honestly, I was a happy man and if Brian had found one also it would’ve been perfect. That’s the deal, on new water you can only make your best guess. Experience helps but nowhere near as much as a little luck. As for us, the rowboat went to the right and the canoe, the left. On the other hand the canoe was easy to maneuver and the rowboat was a painful slug in the wind, so in one sense it all balanced out. Call it a ten hour day, close to eight of it full of sweat. Were three muskies worth it? Oh yeah they were.
The return was more of the same but Brian handled the canoe slog.

        

     

Mini-Muskies

     Is that an oxymoron? Though it sounds that way, it isn't. After being puzzled for a couple of weeks about how to reserve a boat on Shoepack Lake in the park's interior, the lightbulb finally lit and I fired off an e-mail to Voyageur Park headquarters asking them if I needed a camping permit to fish the lake. I use e-mail a lot, even when a phone call would be quicker. Call me a Minnesotan with a heavy dose of Swede that I know for sure there's only one kind of answer and that one's always on the dark side. Watch an Ingmar Bergman movie and you'll know what I mean. An e-mail is rarely answered right away, particularly when it's as interesting and confused as the one's I usually send, and gives me a few more hours to savor my foolish hopes. However, this time the ranger wrote back this morning with a simple, "yah sure, you betcha," and I was off and running.

     Shoepack Lake has it's own strain of muskies and it's thick with them. Rumor and a half dozen videos I've watched says they're almost easy to catch. We'll see about that. Their only drawback is being a little short on size, around two feet is normal and thirty inches is a wall hanger. But they are muskies, look like them and fight like them. Think long, skinny smallmouth bass with big teeth and evil eyes. 

     To get there we have to take a half hour boat ride, hike 2 1/2 miles, unlock and paddle a canoe across Little Shoepack Lake (it's smaller than Shoepack), hike another half mile to the stored rowboat and we're there. Problem is there are five of us and if anyone is using the campsite on Shoepack they have till noon to vacate so figure they won't get back to the access on Little Shoepack till one or so. I'll leave it at that—logistics sinks another dagger and twists it ever so painfully. Oh well, we'll figure it out.

Fly Rod

     Better than a year ago my son stumbled on an old fiberglass fly rod at some sort of sale. Knowing I like those kind of things he gave me a call. Turned out it was a Johnson Profile 600, 8 1/2 foot, 8 weight from the early 60s, Allan worked out a deal on it and come Christmas it became mine. Good present. It's size says it's suited more for bass and pike than small stream trout. That's okay, I'm not much of a trout fisherman anyhow. 

     In most ways it's a clean rod. There was a loosening thread on the ferrule but I carefully worked it into place, laid on a few coats of varnish and she's as fishable as the day it came from the store. Back when it was made the Profile was a pretty spiffy rod, near the top of the line for a rod builder, Phillipson, known for its quality. The 600 is one step down from their gold-plated 800 but shares the same blank, not a problem for someone who's allergic to gold anyway. A year and a half has passed  since that Christmas and I still haven't used it, or any other fly rod for that matter. Call it the irony of being old enough to own something you'd like to have had twenty years ago and now the effort to sling a feathered hook sounds a little challenging.

     Anyhow, my intention is to change that when we're up on the Canadian border. There's a world of smallmouth bass swimming in the rocks along the shores of Namakan Lake and I wouldn't mind hooking up with a few. Actually, one would be nice. If for some odd reason I tied into a wall hanger pike, that'd be okay also. And if the pike proved too much for the rod, all things considered, it'd be a better way to go than being snapped off in a car door.

A Funny Thing

     There are layers of truth in life that are rarely brought up when planning a fishing trip. If you're like me you get caught up in the usual rigamarole of gear and food once the basics of where and when are settled, and personal feelings get left to the side. But this is an unusual time with considerations that six months ago were stuck on the other side of the planet but now must be talked about. A week ago I began to run a fever, not a high one but it stuck around for three days. Throw in body aches and if it was last year I'd say I had the flu or one of those things that hits, lays you low for a few days and then you're back at the routine. But not this year. I doubt I have covid-19 but will be tested today and should have the results by the end of next week. Anyhow, a series of e-mails and phone calls followed with the idea we all lay our feelings on the line and not let the thought of the fish we may or may not catch cloud the issue. At the moment we're all in, depending of course on how my testing goes.

     The odd thing is, at 73 the idea of not going isn't the end of the world feeling it once was. Possibly that's because I'm still dragging ass and pretty much low on caring about anything. But I know for a fact that the others are hot for the trip and once we hit the road I'll feed off their energy. I once wrote about the last wilderness canoe trip my son and I took in Manitoba, "Allan was nice enough to let me steer the canoe but I knew who was moving the boat." That's the thing about old age, so long as your brain and dreams are alive and you have a few young bodies nearby, you can still get it done. 

Walleye Weirdness

     Can't say I've ever been a walleye fisherman though I've stumbled on a few over the years. On our Canadian trips my son and I would use them as a go-to when we'd lost too much blood to pike. More often we'd accidentally hook one of the dumber ones, think, "There could be walleyes here," and if we were ambitious, switch to a jig and twister tail. Of course last year's trip to Ontario found us on walleye lakes and after we'd accepted the fact big pike weren't in the cards, we lowered ourselves to trolling. 

     I've never found trolling to be the same as fishing. The difference lies in being skunked. Over the years I've learned there are many ways to not catch fish and that includes using bait. I've considered wearing rubber waders in the shallows to electro shock bass like the DNR when they do a fish count but that's way too equipment heavy for my tastes. The thing about casting lures or winging flies with the long rod is even if you're skunked, you're at least honing a skill that'll come in handy when the stars line up.

     However, this year walleyes are a priority. My nephew has a thing for them and my son-in-law and grandson have never caught one, so it'd be nice to catch enough to kill and eat. We'll probably be trolling and as I said, that's not a skill. To get around the lack I'm tying my own walleye spinner rigs—never done that before—so I'm learning a new skill. They're the real deal tied from what I had on hand. There won't be a lot of color variety but since I like red and white and that's what I had, that's what they are. Throw in jigs and divers and if we don't catch 'em I can always blame the lack on it being summer when walleyes take it easy. If anyone gets huffy I'll blame covid-19, the Canadians or our simple minded President for closing the border just to keep us away from fishing heaven up in northern Manitoba.

Manning Up

     Hadn't heard the above phrase till a lady from Iowa laid it on me a few years back. When I use the the words they flow over an ironic tongue in my cheek. Though I've done a lot of stuff real Men do, I can't say I've ever thought of myself as a Man. When I think of someone who was a Man I think of the John Wayne types who never walked the walk; all ego and mouth but no action. My fictitious Uncle Emil would've laughed at the notion. He fought in the good war, worked from one end of his life to the other, stayed happily married to one woman, built his own cabin and generally treated everyone with respect. But think of himself as a Man? He'd of said, "Nope I'm just a booger who likes the feel of a hammer or paddle in my hand while surrounded by nature's quiet."

     Anyhow, one of the upsides of Voyageur's National Park is the opportunity to hit the backcountry with the idea of scaring a few bass and pike. In an effort to keep invasive species out of the few lakes off the main drag, the Park Service requires that you reserve and only use the canoes they have stashed back there. A good idea and not a problem. At the moment there's nothing open on Shoepack Lake with its muskies so we're heading up the Locator chain. Seeing as how I fear missing out on a good thing I've already pulled the trigger on a single day even though the weather's a total mystery. I guess it's a case of life in the big city spawning fears of crowds in the wilderness.

Preparing

   The last time I organized a fishing trip for more than two people was 1995 and it was a sure fire fiasco. Pretty much everything about it stunk. The frozen Boundary Waters sent us elsewhere to find bad fishing and we spent as much time killing time as being skunked. There'll be five of us this year, four adults and a fourteen year old, and I'm deep into delegating food planning. I'll handle two main meals and the others will provide the rest. We'll each eat what we consider normal for breakfast since normal gets the bowels moving and at seventy-three, moving bowels are an asset.

    As for fishing gear I've come up with a sure-fire plan—tell Cabelas I want three each of everything. Anyhow, that's what it feels like. Back in the canoe days weight was a big deal. This time, if we can fit it in two SUVs, it can come.

    More later....

      

Plan 7b Subsection IX - Evolution in the North Woods

    Yes, our plans have changed once again and a simple question did it, "Wouldn't it make more sense for an old fool to sleep in a cabin on a bed than in a tent atop a slab of bedrock?" I believe the question was directed my way. A part of me thought the questioner was an ignorant fool who didn't know what a splendid specimen of mankind I remain even though I fart every time I rise from a chair. Unfortunately it was my son who asked. Outside of my 14 year old grandson, all of us heading to the border next month have back problems that can pay a visit with no forewarning. Cripples don't make good campers. A single phone call solved the bed problem and a half-dozen others. Call it another of life's demons that can be driven off by throwing money at it—and not much money at that. So now we have a bare-boned cabin with all the conveniences of 1956, plus internet.

     Yesterday the Canadians said they still didn't want any of our kind crossing the border till at least July 21. No sweat, we weren't going to anyhow. Our only remaining problem is finding fish in mid-summer. A little research told me it's a crapshoot. Some say do this, some say do that. Our solution is to be ready for anything, hope the wind isn't up, and pack enough food and beer. 

     Just came back from three days at the cabin with a good friend. We played and canoe-fished like we were still in our thirties and now my body once again tells me chairs are wonderful. 

Old Man Fishing

      My days in a canoe are not over but they sure aren't what they used to be, but at 73, what is? The highlight of my advancing age is being able to make fun of myself in ways that would've been embarrassing twenty years ago and not caring much what anyone thinks. A second is still being flexible enough to listen to the possibility of change even if it first pisses me off no end. Like I said in my last post, I live in South Minneapolis. Yesterday it was announced by a veto-proof majority of our city council that they were going to defund the police department. Yup, that set me off. Then today I spoke with my council person and learned their plan is nowhere near as bad as it sounds. It'll take a year or so with a lot of input from all sides and finally it'll be voted on in the 2021 city ballot—or hopefully it will.

      Fine and dandy, time to move onto more important issues like fishing the border lakes. Like I hinted, the canoes will remain in the shed. I still paddle and fish from them but only on the small, backwater lakes by our cabin. Of course that won't happen unless I share blood with you or if we've known each other for at least three decades. Standards like those cuts out the riffraff.
      What excites me about this year's trip to Lake Namakan is the chance to put a tingle of adventure in three men and one fourteen year old, and with a little luck, the fish of a lifetime on the end of one of their lines. Pretty much all of our ducks are in line. About all there's left to do is conjure up with a food list and bring it to life. Six weeks to go so there's no hurry.
      As usual, I was a little slow on accepting reality, this time on how much gas to carry for the motors. I asked people how much and consulted charts. What they told me was simply don't short yourself but don't go overboard. The simple solution would be to make a mid-week, fifteen mile run back to the lodge for more gas and ice. Only an idiot wouldn't have realized that from the get-go. That I didn't comes as no surprise. For the moment I'll leave at that and go rest my brain.

George Floyd

     I live in South Minneapolis pretty much midway between 38th and Chicago where George Floyd was killed and the several miles of Lake Street that's been burned and looted during the protests and riots. Top that off with covid-19 and it hasn't been real uplifting around here. Things are finally mellowing a bit and those into burning and looting have gone wherever it is such people go. We're still running a nighttime curfew and have grown used to military helicopters passing overhead—sounds a little like my days in Vietnam.

      Yesterday I spoke with the owner of the Elbow Lake Lodge in Northern Manitoba and learned our party was the last group to cancel. Even though we've only spent a week together Steve and I have become friends, that is if you can call someone who's read three of my books and will still talk to me, a friend. He's sixty years old these days and runs a one man operation on a first class lake. Last year he bought new motors for his boats, put a new coat of paint on all his buildings, rebuilt his docks, installed all new appliances in his cabins, split a season's worth of firewood, and that's the icing on top of handling fishing parties of five to eight sports. In 2020 the entire operation will sit empty—strikes me like he's had a year of his life stolen. Even if the border does open, Manitoba will not allow non-residents to travel north of 53 degrees. 

      A week ago I got on the stick and set up a plan B that should hopefully be a decent substitute. The five of us will spend a week camping on classic, Lake Namakan in Voyageur's National Park about a water mile from the Canadian border. The logistics of such a trip is challenging. We needed to rent two boats with motors, reserve one of the few remaining open campsites, and then go through all the usual rigamarole of food and gear. I believe we have everything we need so long as we coordinate but history tells me we'll have doubles of a few things and be short on others. I have my hopes we'll nail it for once but have learned to accept the inevitable. Then there's me at age seventy-three, the man who'd said he'd never do anything as stupid as camping in the boonies ever again. I suppose there's an upside to old men sleeping on the ground and with luck I'll write about it in a couple of months. Interestingly,  this year's trip has evolved into something both exciting and affordable. The best part is I haven't gotten too old to obsess.

Consternation

     Covid-19 is a problem in many ways. There are five of us with hopes of heading to Manitoba in late July. All of us are still up for it but what will the US and Canada be thinking at the time? At the moment the border is still closed. Beyond that, even if it's open in July will we be required to quarantine for two weeks? If so, how will that affect out of country fishermen? As restrictions in the US loosen will there be a spike in cases? If the border opens and all the current restrictions are still in effect, will we be forced to travel in four cars or become outlaws on the lam for good fishing?. Would we want to do that? Oh well, I suppose the only logical thing will be to take it as it comes and not worry about it.

     On the upside, outside of food and clothing I'm ready to go. No matter what, we've got eighty-seven days for things to mellow out. If it doesn't, so be it. There's always the cabin and the backwaters I've discovered over the last thirty-nine years—not what I'm looking for but better than nothing.

     I haven't posted much in the last year but am still writing—editing might be a better word. One more time to make sure all the 't's are crossed and Between Thought and the Treetops will be as finished as it'll ever be. This time I'll publish in a trade paperback format to cut the price. Not that it matters, I write for enjoyment. At seventy-three the thrill of life's not gone but sure as hell is a whole lot mellower than it used to be.

Float Tube

     A couple of weeks ago my son brought up an interesting idea about our Manitoba trip this year. Back in our canoe days we'd done the ugly double-portage into Claw Lake off of Elbow Lake in Grass River Provincial Park. It was one of those things you do once in a lifetime and enjoy every minute of but figure you'll never do it again. I'm seventy-two these days and know for sure my swamp portage days are over. However, between Claw and Elbow there's an eighty acre widening in the connecting stream named Centre Lake. Back in '02 it was no more than a ten minute break between the carries. Because of its size we never gave fishing it a thought. However, the egress on Claw was stacked up with big pike and the stream's entrance onto Elbow had even bigger pike with a few fair-sized walleyes in the mix.

     While talking with Steve Japp of the Elbow Lake Lodge this winter I learned he's cleared the portage into Centre and a few of his sports have boated some big walleyes on the little lake. When my son heard this he began to daydream and came up with a rip-snorting idea—float tubes. I happen to own one, know their limitations and also know they're a hoot to fish from. Allan's birthday is today; lacking a better idea for a present, I did a little Internet shopping and he now has one of his own. By the time we head north this summer we'll be geared up with waders, flippers and belly boats with the idea of being towed around by a few wall hangers. That's the hope anyway. I don't know if many have belly-boated on lakes that are forty miles, and a mile-long, swamp portage from the nearest road before and don't much care but the thought puts a tingle in an old man's spine.