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.