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.