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.